Before I can say more, Violette turns, her smile small but assured. “Don’t worry, Zara. The top four floors of the building belong to the family. One of them is mine.”
I blink. “You live there?”
“Not full time,” she replies. “But the space is mine when I want to be in the city. The Marchettis don’t share walls with strangers. That would be uncivilized.”
“She has a wine vault larger than most city apartments,” Lars adds. “And two chandeliers in the bathroom.”
Violette shrugs like she’s embarrassed by neither. “One does need options.”
Enzo ends his call with a final clipped command, then glances toward the doorway. “He’s here.”
I tilt my head. “Who’s here?”
Before Enzo can answer, the door opens and the temperature of the room drops ten degrees
A man steps inside. Tall. Built from thick muscle that strains against clean, fitted black clothing. Not the theatrical kind of black some bodyguards wear to look menacing—this is practical, functional, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. He moves without waste, every step precise, carrying the kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself so much as seep into the room.
His eyes sweep first—pale, steel-gray, scanning with methodical precision, cataloging everything before landing on me. His face is all angles and hard shadows, the kind of features that look carved instead of born. His appearance is sharpened by his buzz cut hair and scar on the side of his throat.
Enzo’s voice cuts through the silence, calm but carrying weight. “This is Dante.” He steps closer, his gaze locked on me while the man remains still, silent. “He’s my most trusted. From this moment forward, he doesn’t leave your side.”
Dante says nothing. Just nods once, eyes never leaving mine.
I raise a brow. “Is he always this chatty?”
“He speaks when it’s necessary,” Enzo replies. “Which, for him, is rare.”
Lars chuckles. “He once took out a weapons dealer in Budapest without saying a single word. The man thought Dante was mute. Last thing he heard was a silenced shot between the eyes.”
“Great,” I say. “Love that for me.”
Enzo crouches beside me, ignoring the others. His voice is warm against my skin. “You’ll be safe. He’s the best. Invisible when you need him to be, a force when you don’t.”
I glance at Dante again. He hasn’t moved.
“I feel like I should offer him a muffin or something. Welcome him to the team.”
Enzo smirks. “He doesn’t eat carbs. Or smile. Don’t take it personally.”
I narrow my eyes at Dante. “Blink twice if you’ve killed someone in the last twenty-four hours.”
His lips twitch. Barely. But enough.
Enzo straightens, satisfied. “You’ll get used to him.”
I don’t have a choice.
Because if I’m going back into the world—the penthouse, the Syndicate, the shadows waiting outside this clean white room—I don’t need normal. I need someone who’ll make sure I live long enough to raise this child. Someone who doesn’t run at the sight of blood, or threats, or ghosts from my past.
If my husband trusts him, then I’ll trust him as well.
The elevator doors glide open, same as they always have—silent and seamless, opening into the penthouse like it’s some sacred, steel-lined vault. I step inside without pausing. No hesitation this time. Just steady feet and a quiet awareness that the lasttime I crossed this threshold, I was a stolen bride in a dress I never wanted to wear.
Dante enters first, his black-clad figure moving with silent efficiency as he sweeps the space. He checks the windows, the corners, the hidden doorways—methodical, quick, not a single word spoken. He’s a shadow dressed like a soldier, and by the time Enzo and I finish stepping inside, Dante is already stationed in the hallway, arms crossed, back straight, eyes forward.
I watch him for a second, brows raised. “Does he sleep standing up?”
Enzo closes the elevator behind us, mouth twitching. “He sleeps when I order it.”
