I take a breath, nerves prickling beneath my skin like static. “Not sure I’m ready for the stares.”
“You don’t have to be,” he says, his hand turning me slightly until we’re both reflected in the mirror. His eyes meet mine in the glass—dark, unwavering. “You’re not just my wife, Zara. You’re a Marchetti now. You survived Lachlan. You slipped through Falco’s grasp. And you stood at that altar when you had every reason to run.”
His hand drifts down the front of my jacket, the pads of his fingers grazing over the center button like he’s committing every stitch to memory.
“You’re fire and steel and elegance,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “And I want every bastard in that room to choke on it the second you walk in.”
The words sink deep, curling in my belly like a lit fuse. But it’s the look in his eyes that undoes me. In the mirror, his gaze locks onto mine—dark and ravenous. This isn’t just admiration. It’s ownership. Hunger. Worship in the form of a man barely holding himself back.
His hands slip lower, smoothing over the fabric stretched across my hips, molding to the shape of me until his fingers flex around the curve of my ass.
“Look at yourself, Angel. You’re beautiful.”
He’s already lifting the hem of my skirt as he speaks, inch by inch, the fabric sliding up with maddening patience until lace is all that remains. His breath falters. So does mine.
His knuckle trails higher, grazing the slick heat between my thighs, and I jolt at the touch. His voice rumbles, close to my ear. “Already wet, and I’ve barely touched you.”
My hands grip his arms, my reflection staring back at me—flushed, lips parted, eyes wide. I want to look away, but he stops me.
“Don’t you dare take your eyes off that mirror,” he warns, pressing his mouth to the side of my neck. “Keep your eyes open. See what I see.” His fingers stroke slow, deliberate circles over myclit, each one pulling me tighter into his hold. “That woman in the glass? That’s not the girl who ran. That’s my wife. My queen. The one who now holds just as much power as I do.”
A sharp breath escapes me, heat flooding everywhere his voice touches.
“You love it, don’t you?” he says, moving my underwear to the side, slipping a finger inside. He begins at a gentle pace, moving in and out, until my knees almost buckle. His grip only tightens, keeping me upright. “Power. The power to destroy this city and rebuild it in your image. And fuck, Zara, you’re going to be so goddamn beautiful doing it.”
My chest heaves, tears threatening at the edges, but I can’t look away. My reflection is wild, wanton, powerful. Not broken. Not afraid.
“Enzo,” I whisper, but this time it’s not a protest. It’s surrender.
His teeth graze my jaw, his breath harsh, his fingers circling my clit. “Watch yourself fall apart for me. Watch how untouchable you are when you let go.”
A sound catches in my throat, half-whimper, half-moan, as he works me with expert precision. My body clenches, heat winding tighter and tighter until the pressure is unbearable.
“Enzo—” His name breaks on my tongue.
“That’s it,” he croons. “Let go, Mrs. Marchetti. Let me see what my queen looks like when she shatters.”
Pleasure rips through me in molten waves, so sharp and bright I forget how to breathe. My legs tremble, thighs slick, fingers gripping his arm as I cry out, biting back the scream that tries to tear free. My reflection blurs and still, he doesn’t stop until I’m gasping, until I’m limp and undone in his arms.
Only then does he ease his fingers from my body, dragging them slowly across his tongue with an obscene sound.
His voice comes like a growl, eyes burning into mine in our reflection. “I want the taste of you on my tongue while you command my men like the queen that you are.”
My clit is still pulsing as he fixes my thong. He presses a kiss to my temple and whispers against my cheek as our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. “Do you see that fire in your eyes? Feel the calm heat in your veins?”
I nod, still catching my breath. “Yes.”
“Good, that’s the power you walk into that room with. You understand me?” he asks, straightening my skirt, smoothing his palms down my hips.
“I understand.”
“Perfect. Now let’s go remind the men who the real threat in this family is.”
The heavy doorsof the war room shut with a deep, echoing click, silencing everything.
Every voice cuts off mid-sentence. Every head turns.
The air shifts the second Zara steps beside me, heels clicking quietly across polished stone. These men don’t know what to make of her yet—not fully. They don’t know whether to view her as a threat, a liability, or something far more dangerous. But they’ll figure it out. That’s why we’re here.
