Page 78 of Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You

Matteo thrusts an open palm out behind the balustrade. "Pay up, Enzo! Full tongue contact! That's fifty in my pocket!"

Nora swats Matteo's arm with a sharp smack. "Shh, keep your voice down! If you ruin this moment, I will shove that apple down your throat."

"His form is terrible," Enzo grunts, eyes narrowed through the leaves. "He's gripping her waist like he's securing a duffel bag of stolen cash."

I watch the two of them in the grove, my chest tight. "Shut up, both of you. He's doing just fine."

Chapter 30

LUCA

I just walked back down the hallway after watching Adrian and Sofia finally sort things out and share a kiss I would rather not watch. I was hoping for five minutes of peace in my office to clear my head, but Matteo bursts through the door looking like he lost a fight with a doorframe.

I sink into my leather chair without making a sound, fixing my eyes directly on his face. He shifts his weight from boot to boot, pulling at his collar as beads of moisture gather along his hairline.

Matteo conducts an invisible orchestra with both hands, swaying on his feet. "Okay, so, theoretically, if someone wanted to ruin your entire night, how mad would you be on a scale of one to we need to buy a whole new set of leather furniture?"

I set my palms on the mahogany desk and lean forward. "Give me a number, Matteo."

"A solid eight." Matteo winces. He touches a tender spot on his jawline. "Maybe a nine if you factor in the commute."

Adrian follows him in and shuts the door with the kind of care that means the news is bad.

My knuckles turn white against the polished wood. "Can someone explain it to me," I growl.

Matteo winces and rubs the bruise on his cheek. "Bellini hit three of our warehouses at once. Palermo, Naples, and the one outside Genoa that we pretended was a furniture importer. They didn't steal. They burned. Coordinated to the minute."

Adrian pushes the tablet across the wood desk. On the screen, thick gray smoke pours from the roof of the Genoa warehouse. Red and yellow lights flash against burned black brick. In the corner of the video, two paramedics carry a heavy black body bag into an ambulance. My jaw locks tight.

"Casualties." My voice cuts through Matteo's babble like a blade.

"Four of ours dead," Adrian answers, voice flat as concrete. "Seven wounded. Two of theirs left behind, which means they wanted us to know it was intentional. Not a smash and grab. A message."

Matteo drops into the chair opposite me hard enough that it creaks. "Also, funny story, not funny, the Genoa crew sent a photo of the gate with a note stuck to it. In Italian. Very rude Italian. It says the Moretti heir's distractions are showing."

I look up, my stare locking onto Matteo's face. "Say that shit again."

He holds both palms out. "I didn't write it. I'm just the charming delivery system. Also I may have punched a wall on the way in. The wall won. Don't tell Nonna."

Adrian ignores him and taps the screen. "There's more. They hit our shipping lines. Two trucks gone mid-route. The trackers were cut. That's not street muscle. That's someone who knows our schedule."

"Inside help," I say.

"Or someone who planned this for months." Adrian folds his arms across his chest, eyes fixed on the map behind me. "Either way, it's a trap. They smash our outside spots so we pull everyone back to the house."

I rub the tension between my eyes. "And then we sit here like ducks in a parlor. Waiting for the pot to boil."

Matteo taps his knuckles against his chest. "Extremely well armed ducks, if that helps."

Matteo leans forward, planting his elbows onto his knees. "Can we talk about the part where my favorite espresso counter near the Genoa site is now a smoking crater? Because I had a loyalty card. Two more stamps and I earned a free pastry. Bellini literally owes me a breakfast feast."

I reach into my drawer for a fresh magazine. "I will personally buy you a bakery if you shut your mouth for sixty seconds."

Matteo raises two fingers. "Make it two bakeries and I will consider humming silently instead."

"Matteo," I snap. A cold glare pins him to his chair and shuts him up instantly.

"I am processing my trauma through lighthearted banter." Matteo slumps back into the leather cushion. "My therapist says suppressing panic causes stomach ulcers."