Page 23 of Beautiful Villain
By the time we finished, Enzo and Larry were carrying bags and boxes out to the car like overworked elves.We had enough clothes and shoes to dress a small soccer team.Possibly a reserve bench, too.
For one surreal moment, I felt like I’d wandered into my own real-life version ofPretty Woman.Except Gianni was younger than the rich guy, significantly more dangerous, and I was very aware that I was broader in the hips than Julia Roberts had ever been.
We escaped to a nearby café for lunch—something simple and quiet, because apparently even mob bosses needed carbohydrates.We settled at a small table, the Tuscan sun warm against my skin, espresso arriving before I’d even finished sitting down.
I took a sip of coffee and watched the people drift past—locals, tourists, couples holding hands like there love was new and fresh and all-consuming.
Gianni watched me watching them.
And I wondered, not for the first time, how I’d ended up here, drinking espresso in Tuscany with a man who could end lives with a word, and feeling… oddly taken care of.
Which felt dangerous in an entirely different way.
“So,” he said once the silence turned uncomfortable, “you and Archie Popovich.”
I flinched.I’d managed—barely—to push him out of my head, and Gianni had just dragged him back into the room.
“Can you not say his name?”I asked.“Please.”
He didn’t soften or apologise.“What were you thinking—leaving him at the altar like that?Did you have a death wish?”
“No,” I said calmly.“I executed an escape plan with far more confidence than competence.Poorly executed, but heartfelt.”
His jaw tightened.“Probably not one of your better decisions.”
“In this case,” I said, “there wasn’t much decision involved.”
Something shifted in his expression.Recognition, maybe.Or experience.
“Ah,” he said quietly.“One of those.”
The way he said it—flat, knowing—made something in me unravel.I looked out the window, watching the road blur past, letting the movement buy me a second to decide how much truth I could afford to give him.
“My stepfather arranged the marriage,” I said.“To cover his gambling debts.”
I felt the recalibration before I saw it—the slight turn of his body, the way his attention locked fully onto me now.When I glanced back, he was studying me like I’d just changed the rules mid-game.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly.“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“And he’s your stepfather,” he repeated, like the words didn’t sit right in his mouth.
“My mother died when I was fifteen,” I said.“She and George had been married less than a year.I didn’t have anyone else.And he was… generous enough not to throw me out of the house.”
The wordgeneroustasted bitter.
“And your father?”
“Died when I was too young to remember him.”
He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying—and failing—to make it fit.“So your stepfather still has that much control over your life?”
I shook my head.“Not control.Leverage.”
He frowned.“Explain.”
“I needed a place to live.I needed stability.He was the only family I had left.”My voice sharpened despite my effort.“I needed him.And he knew it.It’s not something you notice all at once.”
