She shakes her head, eyes wet, smile wry. “You’re going to be unbearable.”
“Only to everyone else. To you? I’ll be at your beckon call. I’ll worship you, I’ll make sure you’re cared for, I’ll love you even harder, Zara.” I grin, leaning in to press a kiss to her jaw, then her lips. “You have no idea how much this fucks me up—in the best way.”
“I didn’t expect it to happen this fast,” she says, softer now. “Five weeks, Enzo. That’s all it took.”
I brush her hair back, reverent. “Of course it was fast. We fuck like Gods and evidently are just as fertile.”
A breath catches in her throat. She closes her eyes for a moment, lips parting. “I wanted it,” she whispers. “I didn’t realize how much until I saw those two lines.”
“You have our child, my heir, growing inside you,” I whisper, laying a hand protectively over her stomach again. “You have no clue how much I want this. How much I wantyou. In fact, it is very difficult to hold myself back from fucking you right here.”
She exhales a shaky laugh, tears still clinging to her lashes. “No strenuous activity, husband.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what happens next,” she says quietly. “But I know I want it. All of it. You. This. Us.”
“I’ve wanted it all with you from the moment I saw you. Youjust finally caught up.” I press a kiss to the back of her hand. “I love you so much, Zara.”
A tear falls from her eye, and I catch it with my thumb. “I love you too, Enzo. Thank you for fighting for me, for waiting, for loving me.”
“Always, Angel,” I whisper. “Now close your eyes. Rest. I’ve got everything else.”
She closes her eyes, lashes feathering against her cheeks, her breathing settling into something steadier. I keep my hand over her stomach like I’m already standing guard at the gates. I’ve fought for a lot of things in my life—territory, power, the Marchetti name—but nothing has ever lit a fire in me like the life growing inside the woman I love. I want every enemy to choke on the fact that the woman they couldn’t break is carrying my child. She thinks this changes everything, and she’s right. It makes me more dangerous. More ruthless. Because now, I’m not just fighting for what’s mine. I’m fighting for the future I never thought I’d deserve.
The private recoveryroom is quiet—too quiet, for someone like Zara. She hates stillness unless she’s orchestrating it.
But now, she’s nestled against a pile of hospital pillows in the light of a bedside lamp, one arm bound in gauze and her skin scrubbed free of blood. Her hospital gown’s slightly askew, exposing the sharp slope of her collarbone and a peek of the bruising that blooms purple along her shoulder. She looks half-wrecked and half-divine.
I haven’t moved from the chair beside her since they wheeled her in. She’s been cleaned, stitched, medicated. The bullet missed bone, threading its way through soft tissue, the kind of luck that makes a man believe in guardian Angels.
She’s drowsy now, one eye half-shut, fingers lazily grazing theedge of her blanket when she mutters, “Please tell me someone brought contraband coffee.”
I don’t miss a beat. “No.”
Her head lolls in my direction, brow scrunched in faux betrayal. “You monster.”
“You’re pregnant, stitched together like Frankenstein’s bride, and concussed. You’ll survive one caffeine-free day.”
She groans and throws her head back into the pillow with theatrical flair. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
I smirk and reach for her hand, gently lacing our fingers. “You want to complain, wait until you find out I told the nurses no sushi, no deli meat, and absolutely no throwing punches for at least two weeks.”
“You’re lucky I’m sedated.”
“I know.”
The door creaks open before she can volley another insult. Violette enters like a shadow given form—black coat still fastened, her hair immaculate, even after shooting a man hours earlier. Lars trails behind her, looking much less pristine in a rumpled shirt and tired scowl, holding two paper cups like a caffeine mule.
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him, nodding toward Zara. “She’s on decaf probation.”
Zara lifts a hand in protest. “I hate this horrible regime.”
Violette strides to her bedside and brushes her hair back like she’s still a child with a scraped knee, not a mafia wife who just took a bullet. “You look pale, but victorious.”
“I’m going more for bloodthirsty porcelain doll,” Zara replies. “Do you think it’s working?”
“It’s unsettling,” Lars mutters. “Which means it’s probably working.”
He hands me one of the cups—a cup from a local cafe, not from a vending machine older than I am. I place it on the rolling tray next to me.
Violette eases into the chair across from me, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Zara like she’s appraising damage. “You were reckless.”
