Enzo exhales, then turns his head on the pillow until our eyes meet. His gaze is steady, threaded with apology. “I need to check in. It’s been weeks. My absence starts to look like weakness if I stay away too long.”
He places a lingering kiss against my lips before he brushes another over my temple. Then he shifts away carefully, the sheets cool where his heat had been.
I watch him sit up, the muscles of his back flexing as he drags a hand through his dark hair. When he stands, the fluid stretch of his body makes my throat tighten, the sight of him already pulling away leaving me hollow and hungry for more.
“I know,” I whisper, even though my fingers curl a little tighter around his arm. My chest tugs painfully. “I just don’t like the idea of you walking out that door again.”
His hand covers mine, warm and sure. “I’ll come back through it,” he assures me. “Always.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, then rises to his feet in a fluid stretch that makes my throat tighten.
Naked, powerful, he moves with the kind of confidence that isn’t taught. It’s embedded in his bones. His body is a contradiction of violence and control, all lean muscle and brutal grace.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the hiss of water a moment later. The shower is quick—efficient. Still, it’s enough time for me to close my eyes and picture him in there, steam curling around those tattoos, water trailing over the sharp lines of his shoulders. I don’t think I’ll ever stop craving him.
When he returns, he’s toweling his hair, droplets clinging to his chest, still warm and flushed from the heat. He catches me watching and smirks.
“No shame in staring, Angel,” he says, grabbing a clean pair of black boxer briefs and pulling them on.
I prop myself up on one elbow, unabashed. “Can you blame me?”
He grins wider and buttons a crisp black shirt, rolling the sleeves to his forearms. His slacks are already on, his belt slung loosely at his hips as he glances back at me over his shoulder. His tattoos peek through the open collar, bold and familiar. Possessive.
He steps closer, resting a knee on the bed as he leans in, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “You’ve got a glow to you, Mrs. Marchetti.”
“Stop. I do not.”
“Mmmm.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “You do. That fucked-you-so-good-you’ll-be-floating-‘til-I-get-home glow.”
I roll my eyes and throw a pillow at his chest. He dodges it with a smug laugh.
“Cocky bastard,” I mutter, even as a smile sneaks onto my lips.
He grabs his laptop from the bathroom counter, then collects his watch, wallet, and keys from the dresser. Before leaving, he circles back to me, leaning down to press a kiss to my mouth. His hand finds the back of my neck, holding me there like he’s not quite ready to go.
“I love you,” he says against my lips. “I’ll text when I get there.”
“Bring me something sweet,” I whisper, not ready to let go. “I love you, Mr. Marchetti.”
His eyes darken with affection. “Anything for you, Angel.”
Then he winks, turns, and disappears through the door—leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and the ghost of his mouth on mine.
I sink into the pillows, limbs still aching in the best way, heart stupidly full. He’s only been gone a minute, and I already miss him.
It’s ridiculous how hard he’s wrecked me.
The motorcade pulls awayfrom the estate just after eleven. Two matte black SUVs lead the route, followed by my own car—an armored Maserati Quattroporte with bulletproof glass and reinforced doors—then another two SUVs to close the gap.
Inside the cabin, silence sits heavy except for the occasional radio check from the lead car. My fingers drum against my thigh as we weave through the streets of Winnetka, heading into the heart of the city. It’s strange to be leaving Zara after this week. After the chaos, the flash drive, the war room, the sex. She’s changed everything and she doesn’t even fully realize it yet.
I reach for my phone, checking for messages, but the screen stays empty. Lars knows better than to update me unless it’s urgent, and Violette is probably making Zara a five-course breakfast or dressing her up like her newest Mafia doll. I smirk at the thought.
Traffic thickens as we hit downtown. The skyline swells around us—steel, glass, and history—and then we take a hard turn onto a side street behind the club. Monarch isn’t just a strip club. It’s a statement. A two-level fortress of sin, luxury, and leverage, wrapped in black marble and gold-trimmed lighting. The clientele knows they’re stepping into Marchetti territory the second they cross the velvet ropes.
The back entrance clicks open, and I step out into theunderground garage. My men fan out, scanning the shadows. I roll my shoulders once, then climb the stairs to the main level.
Inside, the smell of perfume, cash, and liquor hits like a memory, yet all too familiar. Neon lighting spills across the polished floors, and a bass-heavy track vibrates through the walls. Day shift has just started and yet there are men already sitting at the bar. The club’s manager, Nico, meets me near the private hallway. He’s wiry, sharp-eyed, and smart enough to never make me ask for a report twice.
“Everything’s stable,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Girls are happy, rooms are booked, and your ledger’s clean. But—” He pauses before continuing. “Falco’s name’s been floating on lips more than usual.”
