Page 38 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

The morning sun barely cuts through the heavy Palermo fog when Luca yanks open my bedroom door without knocking. He stands on the threshold in a charcoal wool coat, a porcelain cup of black espresso in his hand, steam curling toward the ceiling. He doesn't say good morning. He just sets the small cup down on the wooden side table with a sharp clink that makes me jump.

"Get dressed," he commands, his dark eyes sweeping over me with zero warmth. "We have a meeting in the industrial district."

I rub the grit of sleep from my eyes, sitting up against the headboard while smoothing down the silk sheets. "A meeting? As in, you are actually letting me leave this armed compound? Because yesterday you had guards posted outside my door like I was a high-security inmate, and now we are going on a field trip?"

He turns on his heel without waiting for an answer. "Wear boots. And leave your purse."

I freshen up, drink the bitter espresso in two burning gulps, lace up my leather boots, and head downstairs, half convinced this is some corporate sit-down or a quiet renegotiation with Italian bankers over cold pastries. But out in the gravel courtyard, three black SUVs idle with their exhaust chugging into the damp morning air, and every single man standing by the open doors checks the slide of an automatic pistol before tucking it under his jacket.

He holds open the back door of the black SUV with the cold, effortless grace of a man who routinely signs death warrants. "Get in the car. And keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise."

I slide onto the leather. "Charming invitation. Do I get a plus-one or is this a fucking murder date?"

Matteo snorts from the driver's seat. "She's funny when she's about to see things she can't unsee. Love that for her."

Luca climbs in beside me, his thigh pressing hard against mine without an ounce of apology. "You think you're dealing with businessmen who just need polite negotiation," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "I brought you today so you see the real me. The one who kills without a second thought."

I cross my arms tight over my chest. "I was supposed to be in London reviewing client retainers, not touring Sicilian death traps. Your bumbling goons grabbed the wrong woman in broad daylight."

Luca adjusts his dark wool coat, completely unbothered by my glare. "The original plan was clean. Bellini's assistant was scheduled for a discreet transfer to a private wellness spa outside Zurich until the Bellini threat passed. No gunfire. No mess. Just two quiet weeks in the Swiss Alps while we secured the city."

Matteo taps the steering wheel with his thumb, checking the rearview mirror. "Same coffee shop, same corner in London, same black wool coat. How was I supposed to know this one would kick Sal in the throat and swear at me all the way to Sicily?"

"Because you have eyes, Matteo," Luca counters in a low, dangerous rumble. "Instead of a quiet luxury clinic in Switzerland, you brought an angry London crisis manager straight to my doorstep."

I lean close enough to catch the faint scent of black coffee and cold wool on his collar. "I don't just manage crises. I bill two thousand pounds an hour to fix catastrophic fuck-ups just like yours."

Luca doesn't flinch. "Drive, Matteo. Before she sends us an invoice."

The industrial district smells like rust and diesel. The warehouse sits alone at the end of a cracked road, windows blacked out, two guards with rifles nodding us through. Inside, fluorescent lights buzz over concrete stained dark in places that look old and permanent. Four people kneel in a row in the center, hands bound tightly behind their backs with thick zip ties. The middle-aged man's face is swollen purple, blood dripping from his split lip. Beside him kneel a trembling woman and two young kids, a boy no older than ten and a girl who looks maybe eight, all sobbing uncontrollably as tears stream down their bruised cheeks.

My stomach turns. Hard.

"Who's the guest of honor?" I demand. I force my voice to stay flat and dry, because if I let it shake, I lose the only armor I have left.

Luca stops a few feet from the line, tone like ice. "Bellini's informant. And the family that helped hide his betrayal. Three of our men bled out in an alley this morning because of him."

The man lifts his bruised head, weeping openly. "Luca, please. Spare my wife. Spare my children. They had nothing to do with it."

His lethal whisper quiets the room. "You had a choice. You chose wrong."

I take a step forward because negotiation is the only language I still trust. "This is the part where you offer him a deal. Information for exile. Something that keeps the fucking blood off the concrete."

Luca cuts his eyes to me, his expression hardening. "This isn't a boardroom, Nora. He already took the deal. Then he fucked us over."

The kneeling man sobs once, wet and broken. "I can still help. Names. Locations. Anything."

Matteo shifts his weight, arms crossed. "Buddy, you already sang. The song sucked."

"Matteo." Luca's voice drops an octave, hand dropping toward his waistband.

"What? I'm being supportive."

I push past my own rising panic, taking a step closer to the blood. "Luca. Look at him. He's broken. You already won. Executing him now is just... sadistic fucking theater."

Luca's jaw flexes. "Theater keeps the next rat from thinking he can walk into my house and sell my people."

"And what about me?" My temper flares to mask the terror. "You dragged me here so I could clap? Write a review? Five stars for the goddamn bloodstain aesthetics?"