Page 22 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

Nonna Lucia sets a cup down in front of me without asking, which by now I recognize as her love language, and says nothing, which for her is loud.

"You didn't get a childhood," I whisper, mostly to myself.

Sofia lifts her chin to look straight at me. "None of us did. Call us monsters if you want. But we became this because dying quietly was the only other choice. I would rather be hard and breathing than sweet and dead in the ground."

The room stays quiet after that in a way that feels less like tension and more like everyone giving her space to have said it.

I rub the back of my neck as all the fight drains out of me. "That was quite a speech."

I glance down at Sofia, then over at Nonna Lucia standing beside the table with her hands under her apron. "I'm sorry. For yelling at you."

Sofia gives me a soft nod. Nonna doesn't utter a word, but her mouth relaxes slightly as she slides the warm cup an inch closer to my hand.

Enzo clears his throat, clearly hating how quiet the room has become. "Whatever. Coffee is getting cold."

"Nobody cares about the coffee, Enzo," Matteo groans from his chair.

"I care. Nonna made it. You drink Nonna's coffee," Enzo mumbles back.

Nonna Lucia glares at him with a look that could curdle milk from across the room, and he shuts up to gulp down his coffee immediately, revealing the actual power structure in this house.

My knees buckle slightly, so I drop onto the edge of the low armchair before anyone notices the wobble. When I reach for the tiny porcelain cup, the ceramic clatters against the saucer. I wrap both hands tight around the rim to steady the tremor, bringing the dark liquid to my lips. It burns my tongue, thick and tar-bitter, but the heat gives my fingers something solid to anchor against.

Across the rug, Sofia shifts to the far corner of the sofa. She smooths the wool cushion beside her, leaving an open space right at her side. Her eyes stay fixed on her lap, giving me room without staring, and the quiet gesture hits harder in my ribs than a room full of condolences.

I set the empty cup down with a sharp clink, pushing myself up from the cushions before the heat in my eyes turns into water. "I need some air," I murmur to the floorboards, already turning toward the archway before anyone can answer.

I make it down the carpeted hallway and into the guest bedroom, clicking the heavy oak door shut until the iron latch drops into place. Leaning back against the solid timber, I press my palms flat against the cold wood as my breath comes in short, ragged gasps. My face burns hot and blotchy, my hair is a tangled mess, and the borrowed silk shirt hangs loose on my frame with the cuffs rolled up too high. No tailored blazer, no phone buzzing in my palm, no spreadsheet to balance the board.

My legs give out completely. I stumble two steps and sink onto the edge of the heavy mattress, digging my fingernails into the quilted bedspread until the threads strain.

My father would have made a joke by now. My mother would have already started narrating this like it's the opening chapter of her next book, some line about danger and desire dressed up in Italian marble. I don't have either of them here. I have a locked door, a family of very polite killers down the hall, and a man whose thumb is still, somehow, the last thing my skin remembers clearly.

The tears come without permission, which is the part I hate most. I don't cry pretty. I cry ugly and fast and furious at myself for doing it at all, hand pressed hard against my mouth so the sound doesn't carry, shoulders shaking in a way I would never, ever let a client see.

There's a knock. Two knuckles, unhurried.

"Go away." I wipe my nose with the heel of my palm as my voice breaks.

The heavy lock turns with a quiet click. The door glides open anyway.

Luca stands in the doorway, tall, dark, and still wearing his suit. A dark smudge of dry blood coats his right cuff, but he does not bother hiding it. His dark eyes fix on my face, cold and completely unblinking, like he is examining a broken glass on the floor.

I swipe the back of my hand across my wet cheeks to hide the tears. "I said get out."

"I heard you." He doesn't raise his voice. He walks right into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind his back.

I pull my legs up on the mattress, glaring at him. "Then why are you standing in my room?"

"This is my house," he points out, his voice smooth and cold. "All of it. And you look ridiculous crying on that bed."

"Go to hell," I bark, jaw clenched tight.

Luca stops right by the bed. "You stood out there and called my whole family monsters. You think three dead men gives you the right to fall apart in here? Dead men happen, Nora. Deal with it or break."

I point a trembling finger at the wood door. "Get away from me."

"Try to make me." He stands completely still.