I lean over the table, close enough for my reflection to blur in the glow of the monitors. My hands curl into fists against the polished wood.
Falco thinks he slipped the noose. He doesn’t know I’ll chase him sky for sky, city for city, until there’s nowhere left to run.
“There’s also a list of aliases,” Lars adds. “Used for travel and transactions. One of them? Zara’s. He’s been using her name to move funds.”
My blood runs ice cold.
“Motherfucker,” I grit. “He probably knew where she was all those years. He just didn’t move to bring her home until he needed her.”
“Most likely. He probably always had eyes on her in case he needed a scapegoat. My guess is, Falco was sick of waiting and gave an ultimatum. Hand over Zara or he’s out.”
I stare at the screen, and the only thing I feel is rage.
Zara’s in the other room, curled in my bed, finally safe. And this bastard—her father—has been playing her like a pawn in a war she never asked to fight.
“No more delays,” I say. “I want Lachlan in my possession.”
The scentof coffee and cologne lingers in the air.
When I stretch, the sheets whisper against my skin. A soft rustle draws my eyes to the wardrobe across the room. Enzo, shirtless, pulling a crisp button-down from a hanger. His tattoos shift with every move. His dark slacks hang low on his hips, tailored to bring a woman to her knees.
I push up on my elbows, eyes dragging over the way he moves, sharp lines in a tailored suit that looks like it was cut to intimidate. “You always get dressed like you’re about to deliver a verdict?”
He glances over his shoulder, mouth curving faintly. “No, Angel. This is me trying to look civilized when what I really want is to stay in bed with you all day.”
A laugh slips out of me as I swing my legs to the floor. “Good. Because I’m not spending the day wrapped in one of your shirts, no matter how much you get off on it.”
He tilts his chin toward the armchair. “Violette had these brought up.”
On the seat, a cream cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans. Designer, of course. I touch the fabric, soft enough to make my chest ache.
Across the room, Enzo finishes buttoning his cuffs, watching me in the mirror. His gaze tracks me without shame, not lust so much as fixation—like he’s engraving the sight into his bones.
When I’m dressed, he crosses the space in two steps, cups myjaw with his palm, and lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is brief, but it leaves me rooted to the floor.
“You slept well?” he asks, voice softer than it should be.
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Better than I have in weeks.”
“Good,” he says, thumb brushing once across my cheek. “You’ll need a clear mind.”
My brows lift. “For what?”
He doesn’t answer—just lets that dangerous smile play at the corner of his mouth before opening the door.
The dining roomin the Marchetti estate is what most people would call a ballroom. Ornate ceilings, a chandelier the size of my old Honda, and windows overlooking the manicured gardens. At the long mahogany table, Lars is already seated, stretched out—barefoot, hair damp, shirt half-buttoned. He’s sipping coffee like it’s whiskey.
Violette is at the head of the table in an elegant satin robe and dramatic earrings, holding court like a mafia empress who just rolled out of bed and still looks better than most women at a gala.
“Good morning, my darlings,” she sings as we enter. “Zara, you look edible in cashmere. That color isdivineon you.”
“Good morning, Violette.” I smile, trying not to flush as she pulls me into a surprisingly tender hug.
“I had them send over a variety—daywear, lingerie, everything in between. You’ve got at least two dozen pieces in the closet now.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little overwhelmed but genuinely touched. “You didn’t have to.”
“Oh, I did. Can’t have the mother of my future grandchildren wandering around in yesterday’s sins.”
