Page 57 of Beautiful Villain
I wanted her.I wanted Provence.And I needed this war finished.
Those truths didn’t sit neatly together.And Archie Popovich didn’t allow half-measures.
This had to be seen through all the way, no matter the cost.Even if that cost turned out to be higher than I’d planned for.
23
Mikayla
Iwas pacing the length of the sitting room, barefoot, pretending not to watch the door, when Enzo held out his phone.I took it without asking.
Gianni’s voice came through the line, smooth to the point of irritation.He told me to get ready.We were going out to dinner.
Out.
As if any of this were normal—standing this close to the man who’d hit me with his car, letting his presence feel familiar instead of wrong.A man who now knew the shape of my body.Every incomplete, imperfect inch of me.As if it were the most natural thing to run from one monster only to step straight into the arms of another.
I knew exactly what Gianni was.He wasn’t my salvation.My beautiful villain was sharp, inevitable.And the most unsettling truth of all was that some broken part of me felt safer with him than I ever had anywhere else.
I stared at the wall while he spoke, trying to reconcile the idea of a dinner date with the reality of how we’d met.The café after he’d bought me clothes didn’t count.That had been fuel—something quick to eat in the middle of damage control, not a deliberate plan involving expectations.
This was different.And I had no idea what that meant for us.
“What does ‘get ready’ mean?”I asked.“Ten minutes or?—”
“An hour,” he said.“Wear something nice.”
And then he hung up.
I stood there for a second, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.Then I exhaled and moved.
Getting ready took longer than it usually takes me, mostly because I couldn’t decide who I was supposed to be tonight.The woman Gianni had met by accident?Or the liability he was protecting?
I showered.I dried my hair.I changed twice.
In the end, I settled on a soft black dress that skimmed my knees, with a coat layered neatly over it, falling to the same length and making the whole thing feel more deliberate than I was ready to admit.
By the time the sound of engines rolled up the drive, my nerves were shot.
It wasn’t just one car.He’d gone out with what amounted to a small army, while another contingent had stayed behind to secure the house.Headlights cut through the dusk, low and deliberate, the convoy easing into place like this was a military operation rather than a dinner date.
I watched from the window as doors opened and men stepped out, scanning the perimeter with practiced ease.He was leaving nothing to chance after the house was attacked.
Gianni emerged last.
He looked calm.Immaculate.Deadly in that quiet way that dared anyone to disrupt the air around him.
When he came inside, he paused like he always did, eyes finding me instantly.Something shifted in his expression—small, private.
“You’re ready,” he said.
I lifted a shoulder.“You told me to be.”
I told myself he probably wasn’t used to women getting ready on time.A small, sharp pang of jealousy hit me without warning, unwelcome and irrational.The idea of other women’s hands on him made my stomach flip.
The drive was long and winding, as we travelled roads that made you forget the rest of the world existed.Vineyards rolled past us, darkening as the sun dipped lower, the sky streaked with deep oranges and bruised purples.The men in the cars ahead and behind kept their distance, close enough to be reassuring, far enough to pretend we were alone.
“Where are we going?”I asked.
