I’m still trying to absorb the room when the sharp click of heels cuts through the air. A moment later, she appears. Tall. Glamorous. Slightly terrifying.
The woman sweeping toward me is all red silk and diamonds, her silver-blonde hair swept back in a twist that looks like it was sculpted by an artist. Her lipstick is bold, her expression bolder.
She stops in front of us, giving Enzo a cursory glance before locking eyes with me. And then she smiles. Wide, sharp, knowing.
“You must be Zara,” she says, voice smooth. “I’m Violette Marchetti. Matriarch, martini enthusiast, chaos curator…and apparently now a mother-in-law.”
I stand, because instinct tells me this woman commands respect—and maybe also because I’m a little afraid she’ll scold me if I don’t.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, trying to sound less shell-shocked than I feel.
She steps in, cupping my face between her palms like she’s known me for years. “Oh, sweetheart. You poor thing. Surviving a mafia wedding, a gunfight, and Enzo’s possessive streak in a single week? You deserve a goddamn medal.”
I laugh, shaky but genuine. “I’ll settle for a strong drink and a night without anyone shooting at me.”
Violette grins. “I knew I’d like you.” She pulls back, eyes softening as they flick over me. “You okay, bambina?”
The nickname nearly cracks something inside me. It’s warm and casual and maternal in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
“I think I’m still in survival mode,” I admit, “but…yeah. I’m okay.”
“Well, good. Because you’re staying,” she says matter-of-factly. “We’ve got you and Enzo set up in the south wing. Private enough for some peace, far enough that no one hears a thing if you’re screaming for fun or otherwise.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan.
She winks. “Ideal for baby-making. And before your husband chokes on his own tongue, let me clarify—I’m not rushing you. But if you do decide to cook up a little Marchetti, I will absolutely throw a party.”
“Ma,” Enzo mutters, running a hand over his face.
Violette waves him off. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not putting a deadline on it. Just a healthy amount of pressure.”
I can’t help it—I laugh again, and this time, it feels good. Like the edge of the tension I’ve been carrying is finally peeling away.
Violette leans in one last time and lowers her voice just for me. “Welcome to the family, Zara. I mean that. You’ve got guts. And good taste in men.”
“I’m starting to believe it,” I say, glancing at Enzo from the corner of my eye.
He raises a brow.
I smirk. “But I’m still keeping him on a short leash.”
Violette lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, Ireallylike you.”
She scans my attire, and I suddenly feel extremely exposed, only wearing Enzo’s shirt. She looks at Enzo. “You didn’t bring anything with you, did you?”
Enzo shakes his head. “I didn’t want to waste time leaving.”
“Understandable. Enzo, you still have things here, but we’ll have things delivered for Zara.”
“Oh, you don’t need to?—”
She raises a hand to interrupt me. “Don’t tell me ‘no,’ that only drives me to spoil you more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed to the kitchen. I’m sure you two are ready to get some rest.”
“It was lovely meeting you, Violette.”
She wraps her arms around me. “I’m not happy about why you are here, but I’m happy you’re in our home.”
She struts off toward the kitchen with a flourish, probably in search of a martini—or mischief.
