Page 33 of Always A Villain

Axe opens the car door for me, and I slide in, the leather cool against my back. As he pulls away from the curb, thestreets are nearly deserted, the city lights streaking against the dark glass.

“Where’s Griffen?” I ask.

“Went home with a Slut.”

The silence stretches between us until he finally breaks it. “When did you learn how to dance?”

I blink, caught off guard, and glance over at him. His eyes are glued to the road, expression locked in neutral.

“What?” I ask, still processing the question.

“Dancing. When did you start?”

“Oh,” I exhale, surprised he’s even interested. “My mom started teaching me ballet when I was four. She loved to dance.” The weight of nostalgia creeps in and tugs at my heart.

“Was she a performer, too?”

“No, not like me. She was arealdancer—a prima ballerina in Italy. She was incredible.” I gaze out the window, memories of her flooding my mind, making my chest ache.

“What happened to her?” His question hits hard. He’s never asked before, and I’ve never been willing to share that part of myself with him.

“She was killed.” I shift in my seat to stare at him. “A home invasion when I was ten.”

“Where were you?”

“I was in bed. I woke up to her screaming. Tried to get out of my room, but the door was either blocked or jammed. It wouldn’t budge.”

“And then?”

I study his face. His jaw is clenched, eyes laser-focused on the road ahead.

“I heard her screams. They just kept hurting her. There was nothing I could do. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what was happening—only that she was in pain. As I grew up, I realized they had raped her before they shot her.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles turning white.

“They?”

“Yeah. Two men. They broke down my door, and one of them tried to take me.”

“But they didn’t?”

“No. They bolted when they heard the sirens. But not before one of them told me,tornerò per te.”

“I’ll come back for you,” we say in unison.

I look at him, surprised. “You speak Italian?”

“Enough.” He shrugs, but his demeanor shifts, turning serious. “The men who killed your mother were Italian?”

I nod, my fingers picking at my skin.

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. The one who tried to take me was crying, wouldn’t let me go. The other guy was just angry, screaming that they needed to leave.”

“Did you ever see them again? Did he ever come back?”

“No. But I spent years scared that he would,” I confess. A shiver runs down my spine as the lingering fear slithers back in.