Zara meets him head-on. “I want to gut the name Kavanagh in front of every person who ever pretended not to know what he really was. I want the investors, the board members, the politicians who shook his hand and called it power while ignoring the blood on his skin—I want them to watch the truth unravel right in front of them. While they smile for the cameras and bite into their overpriced canapés.”
The silence that follows settles deep, heavy enough to press against ribs. It isn’t indecision. It’s a shift. A line carved between what came before and what comes next.
Dom lets out a chuckle, leaning back as though he needs distance just to take her in. “You Marchettis know how to throw a hell of a party.”
They’ve all seen women with sharp edges. They’ve all seenbeauty twisted into power. But this isn’t performance, and it isn’t ambition. This is vengeance. Retribution with a crown.
And nothing is more dangerous than a woman stripped bare, who decides to take back what was stolen.
I slide my hand beneath the table, lacing my fingers with hers. She doesn’t turn to me, but her pulse kicks against mine, strong and fast. She’s the storm rolling through this room, and I love being the one to watch it.
The echoof footsteps fades down the hall, the weight of the meeting trailing after them like a shadow. The door clicks shut, and the silence that settles isn’t relief—it’s aftermath. My pulse still drums a steady war beat in my throat, even though the battlefield is empty now.
I let my shoulders relax, the rigid posture I held finally cracking. My spine protests, stiff from the strain of sitting straight for so long, and the ache in my jaw reminds me just how hard I’ve clenched it.
Lars shifts beside me, dragging a hand across his face before stretching his neck until it pops. The sound breaks the quiet. “You know,” he says, eyes cutting toward me, “I’ve sat through more Syndicate meetings than I can count. And I’ve never seen half of those bastards look that focused.” His tone isn’t light, not teasing. It’s weighty, bare. “You ran it like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”
The words catch deeper than I expect. Not because I need the praise—Enzo pours that over me like it’s his second language—but because it’s Lars. Enzo’s closest ally. For a man who’s bled beside him, who sits at the center of this empire, to look at me and see something worthy…it roots in a place I didn’t even know was still raw.
His voice softens. “I’m proud of you, Zara.”
My throat goes tight.
And then Enzo cuts through, his grin sliding into view from the edge of my vision, smug and molten and entirely him. “She’s fucking brilliant,” he says, his pride a rasp against my skin. “Of course you’re proud.”
Lars offers a lazy salute with two fingers, already backing toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to…celebrate. Or strategize. Or whatever it is you Marchettis are calling foreplay these days.”
He leaves, and instantly the air changes. Enzo leans forward, palms braced on the edge of the table, caging me in. The same table where we just orchestrated Lachlan’s destruction now waits for something more primal, something that belongs only to us. My pulse spikes, and I can feel it echo in every part of me—throne, altar, battlefield. All of it.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, voice deep and soft. “You were so brave.”
Heat sparks under my skin when his fingers brush my shoulder, trailing down like fire leaving its mark. Possession without chains.
Then his mouth dips closer, breath teasing across the shell of my ear. “Tell me,” he whispers, sin wrapped in silk, “how do you want your king to make you come?”
The words coil around me, pulling tight, making it hard to breathe. My body is already wound like a bowstring, trembling with expectation.
His tone sharpens, a dark edge beneath the velvet. “Because right now, I want to wreck my queen.”
The words hit like a live wire, fire shooting straight through my core. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a desperate attempt to contain the ache building inside me, sharp and insistent.
“Right here?” The question comes out hushed, ragged, as if my lungs are too full of him to manage more.
He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give me even a moment to reconsider. “Right here,” he growls, his mouth grazing my jaw, his stubble scraping a line of possession across my skin. “Where youtook control. I want your moans echoing off these walls. I want this table to remember you.”
The way he says it—like the room itself will be branded with us—sets fire to my belly. My skin tingles, every nerve sparking, my pulse pounding like a war drum ready to march me straight into surrender.
Enzo moves, fast and commanding. One hand grips my wrist as the other hooks my waist, dragging me to my feet and crushing his mouth against mine. There’s no soft prelude, no mercy. Just hunger—feral, claiming, undeniable. His tongue tangles with mine, his teeth nip, and I’m left gasping into him, clinging like oxygen.
Then I’m lifted, set on the edge of the table. The same table where I just wielded my power is now about to hold me while he worships and ruins me in equal measure. My skirt is shoved up without ceremony, the fabric gathering high on my hips. His fingers hook beneath the lace of my panties, and I lift my hips, allowing him to drag them down slowly until they slide off my ankles and fall forgotten to the floor.
His eyes burn up at me, no disguise left in them—just hunger, reverence, obsession. A curse slips from his lips, rough and reverent all at once. “You’re dripping for me,” he mutters, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. His gaze cuts back up to mine, sharp as a vow. “God, I fucking love how your body begs before your mouth ever does.”
Then he finds me with a single stroke, tracing down my seam, circling my clit with maddening precision. A jolt rips through me, hips jerking forward against his touch, shameless in my need.
He drops to his knees in front of me like I’m an altar and he’s my most devoted disciple. My legs are pushed wider, his hands strong as they hold me open for him—then his mouth claims me.
He devours me like nothing in this world could satisfy him but the taste of me. His tongue flicks, circles, plunges, each stroke rougher, hungrier than the last. He groans into my pussy like it’s his favorite meal, the sound vibrating through me. My fingers diginto his hair, anchoring myself as wave after wave of sensation breaks against me. Every moan I let slip only seems to drive him harder. His grip on my thighs is bruising, the kind of hold that says he’ll keep me grounded while he tears me apart piece by piece.
