Her lips twitch like she wants to make a joke, but she crosses the room quietly. When she climbs into my lap, the fight drains right out of me. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, and press my mouth into her hair. She sighs, soft and quiet, her cheek settling against my shoulder as though she’s been coming here all her life.
“Thank you for last night,” she whispers. Her voice is husky with sleep, but the gratitude in it cuts through me. “For feeding me, for the bath, for…everything. I don’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.”
“You needed it,” I say, my arms tightening around her. “And I needed to give it to you.”
Her head tips back so I can see her face. Her eyes are clear, unguarded, but heavy with a truth she rarely admits. “It scares me a little. How good it felt. How foreign it still feels. I don’t knowhow to just…rest. Not after everything.”
I study her, committing every flicker of her expression to memory. This woman has been running for seven years, wearing armor made of wit and venom, hiding the exhaustion in her bones. And now, she’s here—in my arms—admitting she doesn’t know how to lay the weight down.
“You don’t have to figure it out overnight,” I tell her. My thumb traces her arm, grounding her, grounding me. “You’ve been surviving too long to just snap your fingers and stop. But I’ll be here while you learn.”
Her lashes lower, and for a second, I think she might cry. Instead, she leans back into me, burying her face in my neck. I hold her tighter, letting silence stretch between us until the clock on the wall pulls me back.
“The men will be here in an hour,” I whisper. My voice is reluctant; I’d rather sit here all morning with her warm in my arms. “Leadership meeting. We’ll keep it short.”
Her groan is muffled against my shirt. “Of course. Nothing says good morning like criminal empire logistics.”
That earns a laugh from me, the sound vibrating against her cheek. “It’s necessary, we caused quite the commotion yesterday. Come on. Let’s get coffee before the house fills up.”
We walk side by side to the kitchen. Her hand slips into mine halfway there, and I don’t let go.
The coffeebetween us is still steaming when Enzo’s phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightens before he rises from the stool. “Stay here,” he murmurs, already striding toward the private elevator.
A muted chime sounds, then I hear the doors slide open. When he returns, he’s carrying two glossy shopping bags in one hand, setting them on the island in front of me. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth deepens when he catches the surprise written on my face.
“Enzo…” I reach for the handles, tugging them open to reveal neatly folded fabric—silk, soft cotton, and a touch of luxury that makes my chest ache. Pajamas. Dresses. Even lingerie I don’t dare touch while his eyes are on me. My throat tightens. “You did this?”
His gaze stays steady on mine, dark but softened around the edges. “You needed clothes. Now you have them. My mother might have helped. We guessed at your size, hopefully they fit.”
It’s such a simple statement, practical, yet it leaves me unsteady. Men in my world have been harsh, transactional and here he is—laying out pieces of a life in front of me without asking for anything in return.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words small.
Enzo steps closer, his hand lifting to cup the back of my neck,thumb grazing the line of my jaw. “Go get ready for the day. Shower. Take your time.”
I hesitate, pulse tripping. “Can I use your room?”
His smirk deepens, that dark glint in his eyes always undoing me. “Yes. You can use our room.”
The words stay with me as I climb the stairs, settling heavier than the bags I carry. His room—ours now.
Upstairs, I pause at the threshold. The space is masculine but not cold. Deep blues anchor the room, softened by a fireplace tucked into one corner. Heavy curtains dim the light just enough to make everything feel private, protected. The bed is wide, dressed in charcoal sheets, and two soft chairs sit angled by the fire as though waiting for quiet conversations. It feels lived in, comfortable. Safe.
I set the bags carefully on the bed and let myself drift toward the dresser. It’s understated, heavy wood, the kind meant to last generations. A few cufflinks gleam in a small dish. A watch rests on a leather stand. Simple, timeless pieces.
There’s a framed photo tucked in the corner of the dresser—unexpected. Him and an older woman that has his same eyes, standing in a garden of roses, sunlight spilling over their shoulders. I brush a fingertip over the glass before pulling away, that strange ache pressing at my ribs again. This room feels different from the one downstairs, filled with personal touches, mementos, and warmth.
For so long, my life has been stripped down to survival—cheap hotels, burner phones, shadows I never outran. And now I’m standing here, in this room, with new clothes waiting for me and a man downstairs who has already claimed me as his. It feels foreign, but at the same time, it feels…good.
Doubt creeps in, but I stuff it down. Stockholm Syndrome be damned.
I draw in a breath and force myself to move. Carrying the bags with me, I step into the en suite bathroom. It’s spacious, all black and white marble and brushed steel, but softened by the glow ofsconces along the wall. A soaking tub waits beneath a frosted window.
I set the bags on the counter, peel away Enzo’s shirt, and catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a mess, my eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. But there’s something else there too. A steadiness. A thread of hope winding its way through the cracks.
The shower hisses to life, steam beginning to curl into the air. And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe I can step into something new.
The penthouse feels quieteronce the last of Enzo’s men file out. Their absence leaves behind a lingering weight in the air—strategy, tension—but now it’s just the two of us. Dinner was ordered in containers scattered across the island now half-empty and forgotten. I’m not sure what feels stranger, the fact that I ate a full meal without looking over my shoulder, or that I did it while sitting across from him.
