Page 21 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

She straightens her dress, her hands trembling just enough to show. "Saved by the bell. How convenient."

I step toward the archway. "We're not done with this."

She dusts off her sleeves and calls after me. "We'll see about that. Next time, just tell me to duck. I don't need you tackling me, Moretti."

I turn toward Adrian, blood still tacky on my knuckles, the ghost of her pulse still living under my fingers. Behind me I hear her exhale once, sharp and unfinished.

The night is nowhere near done with us.

Chapter 7

NORA

The smell of bleach and copper hangs in the night air after the bodies are dragged away. Two men in dark coveralls scrub the terrace stones with stiff brushes, cleaning the blood off the marble like it is just spilled paint. Adrian digs his fingers hard into the muscle above my elbow, steering my weight forward off the patio and straight into the massive living room with gold molding and a lit fireplace.

I spin on my heel as Luca stalks down the hallway, barking into a radio. "Three men just died right outside those glass doors. Three men with rifles. And you guys are sitting here like someone dropped a plate on the floor."

Matteo sinks deeper into a velvet armchair. He presses a cloth full of ice to his bruised jaw and winces. "Things happen around here."

I pace back and forth across the rug with my fists clenched tight. "Gunfights are not normal, Matteo."

Enzo folds his arms in the doorway. "We're not normal people. In case you forgot the car ride over here."

"I didn't forget. You shoved me into an SUV and hauled me onto a jet." I turn around, glaring at every single one of them, even Sofia, who curls on the sofa with a pillow like this is movie night. "You're killers. Cold killers. There's blood on the patio, and you treat it like an annoyance. You're monsters in expensive suits."

Nobody flinches. That rattles me more than the gunfire did. Even Sofia, the soft, gentle girl I assumed was an innocent bystander in this nightmare, just adjusts the hem of her oversized sweater without batting an eye. Not a single person in the room looks bothered.

Matteo shifts the ice over his cheek. "Say that again. Slower this time. I want to hear it again."

I stop dead in the center of the rug. "You like being called a monster?"

Nonna Lucia marches in from the kitchen, drying her hands on an apron. She takes in my shouting with one quick sweep and drops a heavy silver tray onto the low table. Then she points a wooden spoon straight at my nose like a furious magistrate. "Sit."

"I don't want your damn espresso," I snap, hand waving off the tiny white cup. "I want someone to tell me why you all act like killing people is normal."

Enzo shrugs, fingers drumming against his arm. "Because it is to us."

"That is crazy. Do you hear yourself?" I throw my hands in the air.

Enzo steps toward me. "I hear myself fine. You look shocked that men who shot at us got killed. What did you expect us to do, write them a letter?"

I open my mouth to fire something back and Sofia, who has been quiet in the corner with her knees tucked up on the sofa like she's trying to take up less space than she's allowed, finally speaks.

"Can I say something?" she asks, and the whole room actually goes dead quiet, every single one of them stopping instantly to give her the floor.

"Go ahead," I mutter, folding my arms across my chest because at least someone in this house seems capable of talking without a shrug or a smirk.

Sofia uncurls slowly and sets both feet flat on the floor. Her voice carries none of the swagger her brothers put on. "You keep calling us monsters. I get why. You saw something today most people never see, and I am sorry. But do not stand in our living room and act like we picked this life because we wanted to."

"Nobody forced you to live like this, Sofia." My voice is quiet, the hot edge of my anger already starting to fade.

"No." Sofia looks down at her lap. "Someone held a gun to my parents twenty years ago. And to Matteo's. And Enzo's. We didn't choose this mess, Nora. We got handed it. Just like you got handed your business by people who loved you. But our family gave us a pile of graves before we even knew what that meant."

I don't have a fast answer to that. It's rare enough that it throws me.

"Luca was eleven," Sofia goes on, pulling at the wool of her sweater. "Eleven years old, and he had to look after three little kids while people tried to kill us. He never got a normal life. None of us did. So yes, we are tough. Yes, people die. But every bad thing done in this house is to keep the people in this room alive. That isn't evil. That is just trying to survive."

Matteo has gone very still with his ice pack, which for him is basically a full stop.