Page 114 of Wicked Villain

The roads are quite clear, so we make good time across the city. Soon, we arrive at my parents’ house and I’m getting out of the car.

Mama is already waiting outside for me on the steps. Seeing her lifts my heart and I practically fly into her arms. She holds me like we haven’t seen each other in decades.

“My darling daughter, it’s so good to see you.” Mama squeezes me tighter.

“It’s so good to see you, too.” I sink into her, allowing my entire being to rest against her chest and absorb the sound of her gentle heartbeat.

Slowly, we pull apart. Mama cups my cheeks.

“Come in, I couldn’t help myself, I made all your favorite foods.”

We both laugh.

“Oh, Mama, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did. And I made it all myself too.”

I gasp. “Did you?”

“I did.”

It’s been a while since Mama cooked anything. She’s one of the finest chefs I know, but years ago, Papa replaced her with an actual chef who’s been cooking our meals since.

She slips an arm around me and guides me into the house. The guards stay outside.

When we walk in, memories of weeks ago drift back into my mind. The buildup to the engagement party, Lev bursting in and shooting Danillo, and the defeated, utterly guilty look on Papa’s face when Lev called out that number.

All of it comes back to me. And when Mama and I go into the dining room and find my father standing by the glass wall, the knots in my stomach twist and tangle so tightly I can hardly breathe.

He’s standing up now. Not in a wheelchair. Mama told me he’d been able to stop using it from last week. Seeing my father back to his usual self doesn’t assure me.

He faces me, his favorite cigar between his fingers.

The thing I dreaded rises to the forefront of my mind. Can he tell yet that I’m not a virgin anymore?

Or that I don’t look like I did at the wedding when I hated Lev?

He smiles, and I take that to mean I’m safe.

“Gabrielle.” His voice sounds hoarse.

The way he says my name—that name—like it’s a reminder of the plan makes me despise him even more. But most of all I loathe the way I don’t despise him. Not truly. Not yet.

The girl inside me still looks at him as the father she wishes he could be.

“Papa, hello.”

He places the cigar in an ashtray on the table and extends his arms out to give me a hug.

I go to him. When he pulls me in, he lowers to my ear and whispers, “The house is bugged.”

Of course. The hug couldn’t just be a hug.

He releases me and I nod, letting him know I understand the message—don’t talk too much. Don’t ask too much either.

“Sit.” He waves a hand to the table.

I find my old space, across from him and Mama, on the left. I can see them both here and the space beside me is empty. That was for Gabrielle.