Read This Before the Villain falls in Love with You (Read This Before #2)

Prologue NORA

Prologue

NORA

I press the phone to my ear with my shoulder and grab my hot latte. "Amelia, if he was in bed with his wife's sister, he should have kept his family reunions in the dining room."

"He claims it was a momentary lapse in judgment," Amelia says through the speaker, the clatter of her keyboard loud enough to rattle my eardrums. "And that they were only discussing catering options for the charity gala."

"In a Mayfair hotel room with the 'Do Not Disturb' tag hanging on the knob? Please. Tell him our crisis retainer just doubled and he needs to draft a formal apology before the tabloids leak the penthouse elevator footage." I switch the hot latte to my left hand and step toward the crosswalk.

A horrific screech of burning rubber shreds the morning air.

A massive black SUV cuts straight across two lanes of oncoming traffic, jumps the curb, and mounts the sidewalk three feet in front of me with the grace of a falling safe.

Two hulking men in cheap dark suits pile out of the doors before the vehicle even finishes rocking on its axles.

"Amelia, I'll call you back," I say, stepping sideways, already doing the math on foot traffic and exit routes because that is what years of fixing other people's disasters trains you to do.

"Is it the client?" Amelia shouts over the noise. "Did he do something else?"

"No, worse," I mutter, stepping into the gutter as the left guy nearly takes my shoulder off. "I'm about to get abducted by two walking thugs in Armani knockoffs."

"Wait, what? Are you getting mugged?" Amelia's voice crackles frantically through the speaker. "Should I call the police or cancel your one o'clock meeting?"

"Cancel the meeting, call the police, and if I die, delete my browser history!" I yell back. Then the phone is gone, ripped clean out of my hand and shattered face-down on the concrete. A gloved hand clamps around my bicep, digging in hard enough to bruise.

I scream loud as I slam my heel straight into his instep. Bone gives under my shoe with a satisfying pop.

"Cazzo!" he yells, stumbling back and clutching his foot.

"That's for my iPhone, you giant ape!" I scream while my heart pounds in my chest.

The second guy grabs for my arm, so I drive my elbow straight back into his throat.

"Motherfucker!" he wheezes, staggering back and dropping to his knees, clutching his throat like he's drowning on dry land.

"Nice try, sweetie!" I gasp out, chest heaving. For one absurd second I think I might actually win this, might actually turn around, pick up my spilled briefcase, and hail a cab with my hands shaking, but then a third man appears from nowhere.

"Hold still, lady!" the third guy grunts, sliding a sweat-smelling rag over my mouth.

"Fuck!" I try to yell against the cloth, fighting the chemical reek burning down my throat.

In the distance, past the roar of traffic, the high wail of sirens cuts through the air. Too far. Too late. The street tips sideways and everything goes black.

I wake up in the back of the SUV with my wrists zip tied in front of me. When I blink, the streetlights outside streak past in blur, sending a sharp spike of pressure straight behind my eyes.

"Great, chloroform," I groan aloud, resting my forehead against the cold glass. "How original. Did you guys learn your kidnapping skills from eighties cartoons?"

"She's awake," the one with the bruised throat grunts from the front seat, rubbing his neck as he glares at me through the rearview mirror like I'm the threat.

"And she's already talking trash," the driver grunts, keeping his eyes on the road.

"No shit, Sherlock," I snap, blinking through the pounding in my skull. "Who raised you bastards? What kind of operation is this?"

The sore-throated one rubs his neck. "To a place where people don't fight dirty. You almost crushed my windpipe, lady."

"Next time I will crush it completely," I say, leaning forward against the zip ties. "I have four more kickboxing combinations I didn't get to try."

The man in the front passenger seat turns around. He's younger than the others, twenty-five maybe, with a face that would be handsome if he weren't smirking at me like I'm an interesting problem instead of a person he's committed a felony against.

"You're remarkably chatty for someone who just assaulted two grown men," he remarks, shifting in his seat to get a better look at me.

"I call it aggressive self-defense," I retort. "You can look up the legal definition while you're sitting in a cell."

The sore-throated one spits out the window. "I'll sue you for my trachea."

"Good luck finding a judge who pities a guy who gets beat up by a woman in Louboutins," I fire back, tapping my heel against his car mat.

"Sal doesn't really do lawyers," the young one chuckles, flashing a dimpled grin that makes me want to kick his teeth in. "I'm Matteo, by the way. Since we're going to be spending some quality time together."

"I don't give a shit what your name is," I snap , narrowing my eyes at him. "Pull this fucking car over and let me out before you turn a kidnapping charge into a murder trial."

"A murder trial?" Matteo laughs, leaning back against his headrest. "Who are you going to kill with zip ties, sweetheart?"

"You, if you call me sweetheart again," I reply coldly.

"See, that's the spirit I was hoping for," Matteo beams, completely unfazed by the threat. "Very dramatic. You'd do great on television."

The driver glances in the rearview mirror and swears in Italian. Matteo leans his head back against the seat and lets out a soft chuckle.

"You think this is funny?" I demand, pulling at the plastic against my wrists.

"A little bit, yeah," Matteo admits, checking his watch. "Usually there is much more screaming and praying at this stage."

"You have the wrong person," I say, leaning toward the front console.

"That's what they all say," Matteo scoffs, waving a dismissive hand.

"No, you absolute idiot, listen to me," I hiss, leaning forward until the zip ties bite into my wrists. "I run a London crisis firm. I deal with billionaires. You grabbed the wrong woman."

Matteo inspects his thumb before glancing back at me. "A crisis manager? Oh no, Sal, did you hear that? The press might issue a stern reprimand."

"I am going to strip your entire family of every asset you own," I state, keeping my eyes fixed on his. "Starting with that horrific knockoff jacket."

Sal, from the front seat, still rubbing his throat, mutters something to the driver in Italian. The driver answers without turning around. Matteo watches me with an expression I will later learn to recognize as his default setting, delighted amusement in the face of catastrophe.

"You talk like you rehearsed that," he notes, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"I don't usually practice getting abducted on my break, so no," I snap, digging my heels into the floor mat.

Sal grunts from the front. "She talks too much. Put the rag back on her."

"Touch me with that rag again and I'll bite your fingers off, Sal," I snap.

"Could have fooled me. Very smooth. Ten out of ten delivery," Matteo applauds softly, clapping his palms together twice.

"I will fucking destroy you." I hold his gaze with cold, absolute venom. Matteo bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he wipes a tear from his eye.

"She's feisty," he nudges Sal, who merely glares ahead, his throat still mottled purple. "I fucking like her."

"You won't like me when I get these ties off and shove them down your throat."

Matteo smirks and holds up his fingers. "I'd give you five minutes before you break a nail trying."

"I will break your jaw first," I reply without missing a beat.

"Promises, promises," he winks.

The car eventually stops at a private airport, and they walk me up the stairs of a jet that costs more than my home, one hand gripping each of my arms like I might sprout wings.

I consider screaming again and decide against it, because there is no one here to hear me except men who work for whoever is paying for this jet, and screaming into a void is not a strategy, it is just waste of oxygen.

"Seatbelt," Matteo murmurs once we're settled, leaning over me to click the metal tongue into the buckle. "Safety first, sweetheart."

"You bound my fucking wrists and now you're worried about a bumpy flight?" I ask, incredulous.

"Liability," Matteo explains smoothly, settling into the leather chair across from me. "If you hit your head on turbulence, it reflects poorly on our service standard."

"Your service standard is already in the gutter, mate."

"We're professionals," he shrugs, flashing those infuriating dimples. "Mostly."

"Mostly," I mock, rolling my eyes. "That is incredibly fucking reassuring. I feel so much safer now."

"You want a drink? We've got wine. Good wine, actually, not that airport shit."

"I am not drinking with my fucking kidnappers."

Matteo lifts the bottle. "Suit yourself, more for me. Though usually people in your situation accept free booze."

"Usually people in my situation would be weeping on the floor, Matteo."

"Your loss. It's a brilliant Barolo," he sighs, pouring himself a glass.

The dark liquid splashes into the glass. I press my knees together to stop the tremor running through my legs and take a slow breath through my nose.

"Drink it," Matteo says, holding out the glass. "It helps with the altitude."

"I would rather drink gasoline," I say, turning my face toward the small oval window.

"Where are we going?" I ask, keeping my voice flat. "Give me a straight answer, not another joke."

"Why? So you can plan your dramatic escape out the emergency exit at thirty thousand feet?" he asks, taking a sip.

"So I know what media to contact when we land."

Matteo's grin dims a fraction. He glances at Sal, who shrugs, and then back at me.

"Italy," he offers, swirling his wine. "That's all you need to know."

"Fucking brilliant. Beautiful country. I hear the human trafficking industry there is lovely this time of year."

"We don't do human trafficking, that's disgusting," Matteo says, looking genuinely offended. "We are respectable organized criminals."

"Oh, pardon me! Respectable criminals! That changes everything! Should I leave a five-star review?"

"You're taking this remarkably well," he observes, a trace of genuine admiration creeping into his eyes that makes me want to claw them out.

"I'm not taking this well," I snap, digging my nails into my palm. "I'm kidnapped, drugged, and trapped on a jet by idiots. I just prefer keeping my dignity over giving you the crying fit you want."

Matteo considers this for a moment, head tilted, and then nods like I've said something genuinely wise.

He raises his glass in a mock toast. "Fair enough. For what it's worth, this isn't personal."

"It is entirely personal, you prick. You have my body locked in your private airplane."

"Okay, that's fair too," he chuckles, taking a slow sip.

The sky outside the window fades into a deep evening blue. My muscles ache, but I sit up straight in the leather chair and keep my eyes on Matteo.

To keep my brain from short-circuiting, I force myself to think about Sunday dinner at my parent's house. Dad was standing over a pan of gravy with flour on his cheek while Mum sat at the kitchen table with her cold tea, arguing about a plot hole in her new book over the smell of roasted potatoes.

"If you put cyanide in the gravy, darling, the inspector is going to arrest the cook in chapter two," Dad had said, waving a wooden spoon at her while butter spluttered on the stove.

"It is a classic poison, Oliver," Mum had replied, crossing out a line in her notebook and flicking a stray crumb off the page. "My readers do not want a rare South American frog toxin. They want a traditional English murder before tea."

"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.