“I feel like he has kill stats listed somewhere online under an alias like SilentDeath27.”
“If he does, I haven’t found it. And I’ve looked.”
I smile faintly and turn back toward the penthouse. The glass that shattered around us is repaired, no hint of the violence that occurred that night remains. For the first time, I take in the main room with a clear head. The furniture is sleek, clean, sharp-edged and intentionally unwelcoming. Everything smells faintly of leather, espresso, and Enzo’s cologne—rich, dark, and masculine.
It’s all exactly the same.
I move through the living room slowly, fingertips grazing the back of the sofa. “Okay. First of all, we need to talk about this color palette. Everything in here looks like it was designed by a hitman who just discovered minimalism.”
Enzo moves up behind me, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over a nearby chair. “It’s clean.”
“It’scold,” I say, spinning around to face him. “You have two colors in this entire space: black and whatever shade of boredom this wall is painted in.”
“I’ll have you know that’s gunmetal gray.”
I raise a brow. “So, regret with a body count. Got it.”
“You loved it last time.”
“I was concussed from emotional whiplash and deeply compromised by your jawline. Let’s not count that.”
His smirk spreads, unapologetic. “If you want to change it, go right ahead, Angel.”
I wave him off and turn, eyes sweeping across the room. “We’re warming this place up. Area rugs, layered textures. Plus, we need to think about babyproofing everything.”
His eyes light up and he brushes his thumb along my cheek. “You’re beautiful when you’re determined.”
“Don’t sweet talk me right now, Mr. Marchetti.” I step back out of his reach, which judging by the look on his face, only amuses him. “This place isn’t just a penthouse anymore. It’s where I’m carrying your heir. And our baby deserves more than steel, shadows, and a bulletproof bassinet.”
“You say that like I didn’t already order the custom Kevlar crib.”
I stop just outside the bedroom, half-laughing, half-serious. “We’re getting a proper nursery, Enzo. Something soft. Safe. I’m thinking of sage green walls. A rocker. Natural light. Curtains that don’t look like they were pulled from a hostage negotiation room.”
Enzo’s palm skims over my lower back, pulling me in until I’m flush against him. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, his stubble scraping in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “You’ve ruined me for living alone,” he says, voice dark like he’s confessing something sinful.
I tip my head toward him, smirking. “Ruined you? I’ve been here, what, an hour? That’s all it took for you to fall in love with the idea of throw pillows and scented candles?”
His lips curl against my skin. “I don’t give a fuck about throw pillows. I care about walking into a room and smelling you. Hearing you. Knowing you’re here where you belong, not out there where I can’t touch you.”
“Possessive much?”
He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing likehumor. “You have no idea how bad it is, baby. You’ve got me thinking about things I can’t stop wanting. Like how I’m going to fuck you in every inch of this place until the walls remember us. Until I can walk into any room and know exactly where you came apart for me.”
My breath catches at the raw certainty in his voice, but I keep my chin up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep it cuts. “You talk a big game.”
His hand slides lower, gripping the curve of my ass like he’s already signing his name there. “Not talk. A vow.” Then his mouth crashes onto mine—hard, hungry, taking until my knees threaten to give out. He swallows the sound I make, kissing me like he’s marking territory he’ll never surrender.
When he finally drags his lips from mine, his breath is hot against my ear. “Every inch of this place will smell like sex, soundproofed or not. I’ll fuck you loud enough the city hears you scream my name.”
A shaky laugh escapes me, though my pulse is anything but steady. “Poor Dante.”
Enzo’s teeth graze my jaw, his voice dropping lower. “Let him hear. Let him know exactly who you belong to.”
The shiver that runs through me is instant, sharp. “You’re insane.”
“No, baby.” His mouth curves against my skin, pure possession in the shape of a smile. “I’m in love.”
The wallsin my downtown office, just floors beneath my penthouse in Marchetti Tower, are reinforced steel wrapped in Italian black walnut, built for meetings like this—quiet, deadly, and far from the reach of the legitimate world upstairs. A floor beneath the Monarch, the public never sees this space. Hell, most of my own men don’t know it exists.
