Chapter 49
I take a sip of coffee, perched on the edge of the velvet bench in Enzo’s closet, one leg crossed over the other, a single stiletto dangling lazily from my toes.
Across the room, he fastens the last two buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled to expose his forearms. The slacks cling to him like they were stitched straight onto his frame, and his tie hangs loose around his neck, waiting for him to care enough to finish the look.
I rise and walk toward the mirror, my gaze catching on the sharp lines of the black pencil skirt hugging my hips, the matching jacket tailored to my shape.
It’s nearly identical to the suit I picked for myself back at the penthouse—structured, feminine, and commanding.
A uniform for the kind of woman who could smile sweetly while cutting a man’s throat, then walk away without a wrinkle.
Violette knew exactly what she was doing when she had this delivered.
Of course she did. She’s lived every version of this life and survived it. And now, she’s going to teach me how.
Enzo crosses the room without a sound, sliding in behind me. His hands settle lightly on my hips before slipping around my waist, tugging me back until my spine rests against his chest.
“Are you ready to walk into that room and make every man in it rethink what power looks like?” he murmurs into my hair, voice warm with something that feels dangerously close to pride.
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 my clit, 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.”