Enzo slides an arm around my waist, his thumb brushing lazy circles over my hip. “You okay?”
“Honestly? I’ve never felt safer.” I lean into him. “She’s going to dress me like Italian royalty, isn’t she?”
“Worse,” Enzo says. “She’s going to dress you like her.”
“I’ll need a stronger drink,” I mutter.
“You’ll need a damn security team to keep her from monogramming your panties,” he replies.
And somehow, despite the terror and the bullets and the goddamn helicopter, I laugh. “But if your mother starts handing out sex tips over dinner, I’m fleeing the country.”
Enzo laughs. “You think that’ll stop her?”
“I think it’ll delay the trauma.”
He pulls me closer, kissing my temple with a grin. “You’re gonna fit in just fine, Mrs. Marchetti.”
“Obviously,” I say, lifting my chin. “Now point me to the liquor or the dessert tray. I think I’ve earned both.”
The south wing is quiet.Secluded. The kind of silence money buys and power protects. Thick marble floors, dark wood paneling and artwork obtained through less than legal avenues.
Zara moves, her body still tense from the night. From everything. She hasn’t said much since my mother bulldozed through the sitting room like a diamond decorated hurricane, and I don’t press. I know her silence. I respect it. But that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her alone in it.
When we enter our suite, she sits on the edge of the bed, her shoulders rounded, fingers resting on the embroidered duvet like it’s unfamiliar territory. For her, it is. She was dragged into this world at gunpoint, married into a dynasty that bleeds secrets, and yet somehow, she’s still standing.
I slip off my jacket, toss it on the nearby chair, and cross to the en suite bathroom. The tub in here is massive—deep enough to drown in, carved from a single slab of stone. I start the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s just right, and pour in one of the overpriced bath oils I find in the cabinet. The scent of rosewood and citrus fills the air.
When I step back into the bedroom, she hasn’t moved.
“Come here, Angel,” I say softly. “Let me take care of you.”
Her eyes lift to mine, uncertain but open. Always open with me, even when she wants to fight it. She rises, and I guide hertoward the bathroom, fingers brushing along her spine as we walk.
The steam curls around us as I unbutton the shirt she’s wearing, letting it drop to the floor. Her skin pebbles under the warm air, and my hand skims down her arm, steady, gentle, reverent. She lets me remove her underwear. No protest. Just trust.
When she steps into the water, she lets out a soft breath, sinking into the heat like she’s finally starting to exhale.
I roll my sleeves up and kneel beside the tub, grabbing a sponge from the tray and soaking it. She leans forward and I run it over her back in long strokes. Her body relaxes under my touch, her eyes closing, head tipping back against the edge.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, voice thick.
She cracks one eye open, lips curving faintly. “Even like this?”
I smile and nod. “Raw. Real. Just you.” I trace the line of her collarbone with the sponge, then press a kiss to her shoulder. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you when you walked into my penthouse for the first time?”
“The ‘just dinner’ date?”
I grin. “I thought you were going to eat me alive.”
Her laugh is tired but soft, and it stirs something inside me I didn’t know I was still capable of—hope.
I ease the sponge lower, gliding over her chest, down her stomach. My palm replaces it, fingers splaying across her belly as I lean in closer. My voice drops, hushed and rough. “One day, I’ll see you full. Swollen with my child.”
She opens her eyes, and the vulnerability there guts me.
“You mean that?” she whispers.
“Every fucking word.” My thumb brushes across her skin. “You’ll be the most dangerous, beautiful mother this family’s ever seen. And I’ll make sure the world burns before it touches you or what’s ours.”
