But first, I have to get her out of here.
I adjust my hold on her as the elevator doors open. I press the button for the garage and we descend. Lars is doing his part. The estate will be on lockdown. No one gets in. No one leaves. Zara will be safe.
And when I’m sure of that?
I’m going to burn Falco’s entire world to ash.
The black SUVglides through the empty streets like a bullet—silent, fast. Enzo’s hand never leaves mine. It’s not just possessive. It’s protective, grounding. His thumb moves in slow, steady circles over the back of my hand, a silent rhythm meant to keep me from spiraling. I don’t tell him that it’s working.
The city lights fade behind us, the skyline giving way to long stretches of quiet roads, tall trees, and gated driveways that whisper wealth. Winnetka is a different kind of opulence—old money, curated elegance, the kind of place that doesn’t stir at the sight of armed security.
And now, apparently, it’s where I live.
I sit back against the seat, still in his shirt, bare thighs brushing the leather. I should feel exposed. I should feel shaken. A man just tried to kill us. Glass exploded around us like we were in a war zone. And yet…I’m calm. Because Enzo is here. Because the second that window shattered, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t falter. He threw himself between me and a bullet like it was a reflex, like dying for me was just part of the deal.
I turn slightly, watching the way the shadows kiss his jaw. His expression is like stone, that familiar glint of vengeance simmering in his eyes. But his grip on me never slips. If anything, it tightens the farther we get from the city.
When the SUV finally begins to stop, my breath catches.
The gates are massive—iron scrollwork flanked by stonepillars, the Marchetti crest worked into the metal. Armed guards step aside the moment they recognize the vehicle, each of them nodding with military precision. The gate creaks open and we pull onto a driveway lined with trees, like some kind of fairytale path leading to a castle.
Except this isn’t a fairytale. It’s a fortress.
The house comes into view, lit by exterior sconces and warm light pouring from high windows. It’s sprawling, elegant in a timeless, intimidating way. Ivy climbs the walls, manicured hedges flank the stone steps, and I catch a glimpse of more guards stationed at the corners of the property. There’s nothing subtle about it. This is the kind of wealth that doesn’t apologize for how it was earned.
Enzo helps me out of the car the moment it rolls to a stop in the wide circular driveway. He wraps an arm around me, guiding me up the stairs, whispering something to Lars as we pass. I don’t catch the words, but I don’t need to. Lars nods and disappears, barking orders to the men behind us.
Inside, the home is just as breathtaking.
The foyer is double-height with a sweeping staircase, the floors a glossy dark wood softened by rich Persian rugs. A chandelier hangs above us—crystal, not gaudy, casting dappled light across the cream-colored walls. Everything smells expensive. Clean. Safe.
Enzo leads me into a sitting room with soaring ceilings and a fire already crackling in the fireplace. The space smells faintly of cedar and smoke, warmth layered over wealth. A velvet couch sits angled toward the flames, oversized armchairs flanking it, and a tray of decanters gleams on a sideboard that probably costs more than my entire old apartment.
I sink onto the couch, muscles trembling with the leftover hum of adrenaline. My lungs drag in air, but it still feels shallow, like my body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the gunfire stopped. For the first time since our world shattered, my pulse begins to ease.
Enzo lowers beside me, then without a word pulls me fully into his lap. His arms band tight around me, anchoring me against the solid wall of his chest. He exhales hard, the sound rough, like it scrapes him on the way out. His eyes close, his jaw tense, one hand sliding into my hair as though he needs the contact as much as I do.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, my lips brushing his throat.
His jaw flexes. “You almost weren’t.”
“I know.”
The silence between us is heavy, thick with everything we’re not saying. My body softens incrementally against his, each second of safety loosening another knot inside me. I tilt my head, pressing my cheek to his chest, listening to the hard thud of his heart. He holds me tighter.
“But you got me out,” I say, gentler this time, my fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. “Like you always do.”
His eyes find mine then, storm-dark and stripped bare for just a second. The mask slips, and what I see beneath it makes my chest ache—fear, fury that hasn’t burned itself out, and something even more dangerous, devotion so consuming it feels like it could swallow us both.
“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he says, his voice low, harsh with promise. “Not while I’m breathing.”
It isn’t the first time he’s said it. He’s been repeating it ever since the bullets stopped. A vow. A warning. And part of me should be unsettled by the obsession in it. But I’m not. Because every time he says it, I believe him a little more.
I cup his face, guiding his gaze back to mine. “I know,” I whisper. “I hear you. And I’m safe, Enzo. Because of you. You didn’t fail me. You saved me. And I’m thankful for you.”
His throat works and his arms tighten until I can feel his pulse against every line of my body, until it’s impossible to know where I end and he begins.
For the first time since tonight’s chaos began, I let myselfbreathe. Really breathe. And I do it in his arms, exactly where I want to be.
