Page 4 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

"Nora, tell your mother that cyanide is lazy writing," Dad had appealed, turning around to grab the salt cellar while the kettle whistled.

"Cyanide works fine, Dad, but if you burn the potatoes again, I am ordering pizza," I had told them both, picking up a knife to help with the carrots.

Mum had laughed into her teacup while Dad let out a gasping sigh of betrayal. The memory hits like a bruise behind my ribs. Right now, they are probably sitting in that same bright kitchen, waiting for my daily check-in call while the tea goes cold.

Sal sits two rows ahead, cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife. The driver stands by the cockpit door, his jacket unbuttoned enough to show the black grip of a pistol in his shoulder holster.

Matteo leans sideways across the aisle to catch my eye. "Enjoying the flight?"

"The service is terrible and the company is worse," I answer, adjusting my posture against the stiff leather.

"I will pass your feedback to management," Matteo says, finishing his glass.

The plane begins its descent as the sky outside goes dark, and Matteo leans over to check my seatbelt one more time with an attentiveness that is almost sweet if you ignore the context entirely.

"Almost there," he warns, leaning over to tighten my restraints. "Brace yourself."

"Why is the landing as messy as your kidnapping strategy?" I ask.

"You really never shut up, do you?" Sal groans from his seat near the front.

"Not when I'm surrounded by amateur criminals, no!" I call back.

"Quiet now," Matteo says. His smile vanishes, and he checks the magazine of the handgun tucked inside his jacket before sliding it back into place.

"Scared your boss won't like me?" I taunt, raising my chin.

"I am worried he might shoot you before you finish a sentence," Matteo answers, unbuckling his belt as the cabin floor tilts level.

When the doors open, the air outside smells like cut grass and something floral, warm in a way London never manages, and for one absurd second it almost feels like a vacation, right up until they walk me down the stairs and I see it.

Massive stone walls rise into the dark. Floodlights track our movement down the paved driveway, glinting off automatic rifles held across the chests of men stationed every ten yards. At the front entrance, iron gates swing open with a low metallic grind.

"What is this place?" I ask, pulling back against his grip.

"Home sweet home," Matteo mutters, his hand on my elbow tightening as he guides me down the metal steps into the warm night air.

My stomach drops, and my hands shake inside the plastic ties.

Chapter 1

LUCA

Three assassination attempts, a federal audit, and my grandfather's funeral never pulled a raised voice out of me. I keep my hands on the polished mahogany desk, watching the door frame as Matteo stumbles through it.

Matteo stands frozen under the overhead lights. I lock my eyes onto his until a bead of sweat breaks at his hairline, slips past his eyebrow, and drips onto the collar of his damp jacket.

Before Matteo arrived, the meeting focused on actual business. Adrian stood at the head of the long mahogany table with a map of the southern docks pinned flat beneath his heavy palms, tracing the routes the Bellinis had scouted over the past three weeks. Rain tapped against the tall office windows while I tracked every pen mark Adrian made across the paper. A good boss listens before he speaks. My father taught me that rule, even if he failed to survive long enough to enjoy the benefits.

The heavy double doors swung open, cutting through Adrian's voice. Matteo slipped inside ten minutes late, smelling of jet fuel and damp night air. Usually, he kicked the doors wide, slouched into the nearest leather armchair, and put his boots on my table before anyone could object.

Tonight, Matteo leaves the leather armchairs empty. His fingers stay glued to the brass latch behind his back, boots scraping once against the rug as he pins his eyes straight to the floor between his toes.

I lean forward until my palms rest flat against the dark wood. "What did you do?"

Matteo runs a hand through his dark hair until the strands stick straight up. "We grabbed the wrong woman. The dress, it was the exact same model, the coffee shop, same street, same building as Bellini's assistant's was supposed to be."

"Bellini's assistant is five foot two and terrified of her own shadow," I say, my tone dropping to ice. "Who exactly did you put on that plane?"