Her arms fold loosely across her chest. “But I did, and Enzo fought for me. And now I carry the Marchetti name. Not for ceremony. But with the full intent to defend it by action.”
A murmur ripples from the far end of the table. Gallo. Young, sharp-suited, carrying himself with the kind of arrogance only a man who hasn’t bled for this life can wear. He leans back in his chair, smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Intentions don’t always translate to leadership,” he says, too smooth, too smug. “With all due respect, wearing a name doesn’t mean you know how to carry it.”
The insult hangs, baited.
Zara doesn’t blink. She leans forward instead, planting her palms flat against the polished table. Her voice is cool and precise, a blade sheathed in silk.
“If I was able to survive carrying the Kavanagh name for thirty-two years, watching a vile man’s power wasting away, watching the way the devil can change a man, I am the perfect woman to carry the name of this family. I will have no trouble standing by my husband, serving a good man. And I trust his instincts. If you’re here, he sees the loyalty and the goodness in you just as he sees it in me.”
The smirk falters, almost imperceptibly.
“I know it will take time to show you my determination, my loyalty, but you will see it. And if any of you believe underestimating me is a strategy that will serve you—” her gaze cuts through the room, daring them to meet it, “—I promise you, you’ll regret it.”
A hush rolls through the table. I feel the air shift, the balance tilt. She’s not asking for space. She’s claiming it.
And watching her do it makes my blood roar in my veins.
She doesn’t raise her voice. But the warning threads through every syllable, sharp, cold, and absolute.
No one answers. Not even Gallo.
It’s Stefano who breaks the silence. “Seems like she understands more than most.”
“Thank you, Stefano. Now, if we’re all in understanding, Enzo and I would like to talk about how we can take down Lachlan.”
She lowers into the chair beside me, sitting toward the edge with perfect posture. One hand reaches for her water glass. She drinks calmly, like she didn’t just pull a table full of men into her orbit and make them bend.
My hand finds hers beneath the table. Not because she needs me—she doesn’t—but because I need her to feel me. Steady. Silent. Hers.
My Queen.
“We need a bigger stage,” she says, her voice even, but threaded with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for doubt.
Beside me, Lars tilts his head, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “Bigger than torching half the city?”
Her mouth curves—sharp, sly, a glint of teeth without the smile. “I mean a spotlight.”
Then her gaze cuts to me. It’s the look she gives right before she ignites something dangerous.
The jolt hits my chest like adrenaline poured straight into a vein. And then she drops it.
“I want to host a gala.”
Zara doesn’t give them time to debate. She pushes forward, already miles ahead.
“Charity-based,” she continues, her voice smooth but edged. “Polished enough to draw cameras, clean enough to draw the right people. The right cause, the right venue, and the list writes itself. Politicians. CEOs. Old money desperate to look holier than their deeds. Make it grand enough, and they’ll come running—draped in couture and corruption.
“We invite the press. The donors. The philanthropists who built their empires carving throats in boardrooms and calling itprogress.” Her tone shifts laced with venom that drips like acid. “And when they’re fat with wine, smug with their photographs, convinced they’re untouchable—we rip Lachlan’s name out of their mouths and feed it back to them like glass.”
Heat flares in my chest. Not rage this time. Pride. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes me want to put my fist through a wall and then carry her out over my shoulder so the world knows she belongs to me.
She isn’t playing their game. She’s writing new rules, and I know every man in this room feels it. God help the bastard who tries to stop her.
My smile comes when I know the table has already shifted in our favor. Men who’ve gutted rivals for less than what she just said don’t dare open their mouths. Zara doesn’t just stand her ground—she owns it. Calm. Composed. Utterly lethal.
Massimo leans back, leather creaking under his bulk, eyes narrowed. Skepticism hardens his jaw, but there’s something else flickering behind it—interest. Curiosity. “So, let me get this straight,” he says, voice smooth with practiced condescension. “You want to take down Lachlan Kavanagh in a ballroom? With champagne flutes and a string quartet?”
