“Happy birthday, amore mio,” he whispers.
She fallsasleep on my chest not long after I carry her to bed. Her body, warm and relaxed, molds to mine like we were made to fit this way. I lie there for a while, not bothering to move, not even to grab the blanket. Her skin is still flushed, her breaths steady and deep, and I swear I could stay like this for the rest of my life and die a happy man.
I trace lazy circles on her lower back, my other hand resting over the slight curve of her stomach. She’s soft there, so fucking beautiful. And mine.
The fire crackles across the room, golden light spilling across her bare shoulder. She looks peaceful. Wrecked and loved. Whole. And knowing I put that look on her face undoes me.
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek and lean down to kiss her forehead, lingering there a beat too long. “You’re everything,” I whisper against her skin. “Everything I didn’t know I needed until I had you.”
Zara shifts in her sleep, a faint sound slipping past her lips, her fingers tightening over my chest like even when sleeping, she refuses to let me go. She won’t have to. Not tomorrow, not ever.
I pull the blanket higher, cocooning her against me, her body curling into mine until we’re nothing but peace and tangled limbs. She settles with a sigh, her breath warm against my skin, and I thread my fingers through her hair, slow and steady.
It’s ridiculous how sacred this feels—watching her breathe,holding her safe. Out there, I’m feared. I burn men alive for less than a lie. But here I am reduced to a simple purpose: keep her. Protect her. Love her so fiercely she forgets what it felt like to run.
No more shadows. No more fucking nightmares. She’s mine. She’s home.
Zara’s voiceis the first thing I hear when I step into the dining room, calm and commanding, like she’s conducting a boardroom full of executives instead of sitting barefoot at the end of our breakfast table.
“Two hundred fifty confirmed,” she says, flipping a page on her legal pad.
She’s curled up in the corner seat, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, her bare legs tangled beneath her. The sunlight through the tall windows makes her ring sparkle every time she lifts her hand—and it hits me all over again. She’s mine.
Violette’s already halfway through a croissant and her second cappuccino, watching Zara like she’s a priceless painting that finally landed in the family collection. Lars sits at the head of the table, a half-finished protein plate in front of him, his laptop already open and glowing.
“Morning, husband,” Zara greets me without looking up, sliding a cup of coffee toward the empty seat beside her like she knew I’d walk in at this exact moment.
“Morning, Mrs. Marchetti,” I say, bending to kiss the side of her neck before sinking into the chair. Her skin is still warm from bed, her smirk dangerously smug. “So, two hundred and fifty. Did anyone decline that we need to hunt down?”
She shakes her head, smiling. “Everyone who matters in the Chicago elite has confirmed. Half the press. Two-third of the city council. And I’m pretty sure Violette bribed someone at Vogue to show up.”
“Bribed?” Violette echoes, feigning offense. “Darling, I charmed them.”
Lars snorts. “You threatened to revoke the Creative Director’s VIP status at your yacht club if they didn’t cover it.”
“Tomato, tomahto,” she says breezily, lifting her cup.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed as I scan the room in front of me. There’s a rhythm to mornings like this now—a quiet undercurrent of purpose threaded through the sound of clinking cups and scribbling pens. It’s not lost on me how strange that feels. Foreign. Like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s version of peace and decided to make it mine.
Violette sips her third cappuccino like it holds the secrets of the universe. Lars scrolls through something on his phone with the narrowed focus of a man who’s ready for blood. And Zara…she sits beside me with her legal pad and her lips pursed in concentration, sketching the bones of a plan that could destroy a dynasty.
There was a time I wouldn’t have let anyone this close. Not to me. Not to this world. But this—this is family.
“Security’s confirmed for the venue,” Lars says, not looking up. “We’ll embed our men across the vendor teams—florals, catering, waitstaff. Every line of sight will be covered. And I’ve mapped two exits in case we need to evacuate fast.”
“Nothing will go sideways,” Zara says before he can finish. Her pen doesn’t pause. Her voice doesn’t so much as waver.
I glance over at her, a rush of pride blooming in my chest. She’s not just adapting to this life. She’s shaping it. Claiming her place in it with a clarity I couldn’t have imagined the first night we crossed paths. She’s not surviving. She’s leading.
“And the reveal?” I ask, my voice curious.
Zara lifts her gaze, and the curl of her lips sends a pulse straight to my chest. “I’m dropping everything mid-speech. I’ll start soft—highlight the foundation, the charity work, the city’s resilience. Then I’ll shift. Pull back the curtain on systemic corruption. Shine the spotlight. By the time I unveil the footagefrom the flash drive, Lachlan Kavanagh will be reduced to a headline. A scandal. And hopefully be in our custody.”
I look at Lars. “Which reminds me. We need to secure Lachlan before police or anyone else get to him. I want him in the warehouse on Central after it’s all said and done.”
Lars nods. “Understood.”
Zara turns to me, brow pinched. “You are not to touch him until I’m there. If he loses any extremities, I want to be the one to do it.”
