He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, the chair behind him crashing back as his voice cuts through the ballroom like a gunshot. “Lies!” he bellows, pointing a shaking hand toward the stage. His face twists, red and vicious, spit catching at the corner of his mouth. “This—this is the pitiful act of a bitter child. A desperate girl clawing for relevance.”
He turns on the crowd now, sweeping his arm wide, his voice booming. “And you sit there like fools and let yourselves be swayed by a Marchetti whore parading onstage with doctored papers and a sob story!” The words crack through the air like a whip, and the room jolts, whispers surging like wildfire.
Zara locks eyes with me, ignoring his rage.
Two of his guards step forward, stiff with unspoken command. But mine are faster—Lars has trained them well. They close in around our table with silent precision, fingers brushing holsters as they flank Lachlan’s approach. Lars is already intercepting, slipping in between the Kavanaghs and the rest of the crowd with that calm, measured calculation only men like us know how to wear.
But my attention shifts.
I don’t hear the rest of what Lachlan is shouting. I don’t see the way the crowd parts for him or the way the tension crests into chaos. Because I see something else.
At the rear of the ballroom, one man stands out. He sits, watching. Doesn’t lean or shift or whisper to the person next to him. When he finally rises, it feels like slow motion. One hand slips beneath his jacket, and a rush of adrenaline floods my body.
“Zara!”
Her name rips from my throat. I push back from the table, nearly taking the damn thing with me, legs burning as I lunge toward the stage.
She turns just slightly at the sound of my voice, and in that blink—before the shot—I see her smile falter, confusion flickering in her eyes.
Thenthe gun cracks.
The sound is louder than anything I’ve ever heard. Her body jerks, and then she collapses, folding to the ground with a sickening thud as her temple strikes the marble floor. A red bloom spreads near her shoulder, but it’s her stillness that undoes me.
I reach her just as Violette takes in the situation. There’s no hesitation in her—just precision. Her gun is already in hand, she moves, her arm steady as she fires three clean shots into the man who dared aim at my wife. The first drops him. When she reaches his body, the second and third ensure he doesn’t get back up. Blood paints the backdrop behind where he stood, blood pools beneath his body. The scent of gunpowder and champagne fills the air, chaos erupting in waves.
The crowd, the gunman, even Violette’s ruthless efficiency—they fade into static.
The only thing I see is Zara.
I’m on my knees beside her before I register moving, the world narrowing to the place where her body lies on cold marble. She’s not conscious. Her head rests at a sharp angle, blood seeping beneath her arm, the fabric of her gown clinging wetly to her body. I press my palm to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, my other hand cradling her head as gently as I can manage. Her skin is too pale. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers like it’s trying to escape.
“Zara, baby—no, no, wake up.” My voice is unrecognizable. Raw. Frantic. “Come on, look at me, please—just open your eyes.”
Violette crouches beside me, pushing my hand aside to examine the wound with clinical calm. Her hands are steady, movements efficient. “She’s breathing, pulse is alright. Looks like it just caught her arm, the fall knocked her out. Keep pressure here.”
Lars rushes toward us. “An ambulance is on the way, five minutes out. Lachlan is in our custody.”
I press down harder than I want to, blood soaking into mycuff. I lean closer to Zara, whispering her name like a prayer between clenched teeth. “You’re okay, amore mio. You’re going to be okay. Just open your eyes. Please.”
Around us, the room is still screaming—people crying, security shouting orders, photographers frozen in place. But it’s all a blur behind the pounding in my chest. Lars stands guard beside me, barking orders into his earpiece, coordinating the lockdown. My men are already securing exits, removing press, corralling civilians out of the room. But none of that matters.
Because my wife is bleeding in my arms.
“She’ll be fine, figlio mio, it’s not serious,” Violette says, not looking at me, her voice certain. “Talk to her, Enzo. Even if she can’t respond, let her hear you.”
I begin to speak. I whisper everything I can think of. Promises. Memories. The things I never told her before now. That she changed my life.
That I’m sorry I didn’t protect her better.
The momentthe paramedics roll in, I don’t let go of her.
She’s awake, then out again. In pain, but still breathing steady. Her blood stains my hands, her arm wrapped hastily with a towel one of Violette’s guards handed me. I’ve applied pressure since the second she went down. But she hasn’t opened her eyes fully again. And that’s what’s eating me alive.
“She hit her head,” I snap when they ask. “Went down hard. Marble floor.”
They nod, already moving efficiently, voices calm like this is just another routine Friday night. Maybe for them it is. But for me, this is the worst kind of fucking nightmare.
“She’ll be okay,” one of them assures me. “The bullet passed clean through muscle. The head injury will be assessed at the hospital.”
