The more we plan, the more the event starts to take shape, it’s becoming not just a gala, but a spectacle. A glamorous middlefinger to the men who thought they could use me. A crown jewel of a night designed to expose Lachlan for exactly who he is.
And yet, somewhere in the midst of talking about catering and charity partners, a warmth begins to build in my chest.
Not adrenaline. Not revenge. But something that feels...softer.
Because I’m sitting at this ridiculous, gilded table between a mafia enforcer and a martini-wielding legend of a woman who both somehow call me family now. They listen when I speak. We laugh. I’m not just surviving anymore—I’m building something.
I’m wanted.
“Look at you, queen of the underworld,” Violette teases, tapping her glass to mine. “Planning a takedown over brunch and looking better than I did at your age.”
“Careful,” Lars says. “She might actually enjoy this power.”
“Darling,” Violette replies, “if she doesn’t enjoy it, she’s doing it wrong.”
The door opens before I can respond, and Enzo steps in like he’s been summoned by the sound of my heartbeat. His eyes land on me first. Always.
“You’re early,” I say, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel.
He leans down, brushes his lips against my cheek, then lingers just a second longer. “I didn't want to miss my wife conquering the social scene.”
“Careful,” I smile. “You’ll inflate my ego.”
His hand slides to my lower back, anchoring me to him like he always does. “Let it grow. You wear power well.”
Somehow, between the strategy meetings and the laughter over fresh pasta, I’ve slipped into a world that once terrified me. A world that used to mean blood and betrayal and survival. But now, wrapped in the warmth of Enzo’s steady presence, Violette’s chaotic affection and Lars’s dry loyalty, it feels different. It feels like home.
I stare down at the sketches in front of me, plans for a galathat will destroy my father and cement my place in this family, and realize I’m not just helping anymore.
I’m leading.
By the timewe make it back to our suite, the house is hushed. Even Violette has gone to bed, though not before declaring—loudly—that the gala absolutely requires Venetian masks and a string quartet trained in “theatrical timing.”
Enzo walks beside me, his palm steady at the small of my back, guiding me through the last stretch of hallway. It isn’t silence that weighs between us…it’s intention. I can feel it in the way his hand lingers, in the steady pull of his presence.
And when he unlocks the door, I understand why.
The suite is lit only by the flicker of a fire. The glow spills across polished floors and settles on a tray set on the plush rug nearby. Silver. Elegant. Two champagne flutes catch the light, and beside them, a single slice of cake rests on china so fine it almost feels untouchable.
Raspberries and cake scent the air. It’s simple. Thoughtful. Exactly the kind of gesture that knocks the air out of me, because it’s him—and it’s us.
I stop in my tracks.
“I know what this is,” I whisper.
Enzo steps behind me, hands on my hips as he pulls me back against his chest. His voice is soft, just above my ear. “Good. I was hoping you would.”
“The cake,” I say, my heart ready to break open. “And the champagne. From the hotel.”
“Our first night,” he confirms. “You moaned when you tasted it. I nearly fell to my knees.”
I laugh, caught somewhere between tears and disbelief. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything about that night, about you,” he says simply. “I always have.”
He takes my hand and walks me toward the fire. I sink to the plush rug, the heat of the flames warming my legs, but nothing compares to the warmth burning in his eyes.
He sits beside me and hands me a flute. We clink glasses—no words, just the shared weight of everything between us. The comfort. The fire. The kind of love that blooms from wreckage.
