Chapter 53 Enzo
The motorcade pulls away from 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 the underground 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.”
I glance at him. “How so?”
“A couple of men from Philly were sniffing around. Asking questions they shouldn’t. One of the girls said someone tried to tip her five grand for your schedule.”
My jaw tics. “Who?”
“Taken care of. He won’t be back.”
Good. I nod once, but the knot in my gut doesn’t ease.
I make my way through the main floor, watching as dancers work the poles with artful precision and men throw cash with greedy eyes.
The DJ gives me a nod. A few of the girls pause mid-routine just long enough to shoot me those wide, flirtatious smiles. I don’t entertain them.
I head to my office on the second floor, where bulletproof windows overlook the floor below. It’s quiet up here. My throne away from home. I pour myself a drink—just a splash of whiskey, something smooth—and look out over what I’ve built.
I settle into the leather chair behind my desk, letting the silence of my office wrap around me. From here, the pulse of Monarch feels distant, like it belongs to another version of me. One who lived for control, profit, and power, and didn’t know what he was missing.
Before Zara, I thought this was the peak.
The club, the name, the empire. Nights spent surrounded by money and women who’d sell you a dream if you tipped enough.
I built a life of indulgence, every inch designed to keep people at a distance while I sat behind glass, untouchable. It worked. For a while.
But no one had ever looked at me the way she does—like I’m more than all of this. Like I could be something soft, even when my hands are covered in blood.
I glance down at my ring. A simple platinum band. Hers matches it. I didn’t think to get her engagement ring, it seemed pointless with the path I took us on.
A knock pulls me from my thoughts. Nico steps in without waiting for a response, shutting the door behind him.
“So, how’s married life? Lars told me about the penthouse, is Zara okay?” he asks, always quick to get to the point.
“She’s fine,” I say, but the edge in my voice tells him enough. “The estate’s locked down, but we’re not out of the woods yet. Someone knew where we were. Got close enough to fire through the glass.”
Nico’s jaw flexes. “You think Falco’s reaching into the city again?”
I shake my head. “I think he never really left. Just got smarter. Which means we need to be smarter, too.”
Nico nods. “You want more men at the club?”
“I want eyes on everyone who walks in,” I say. “If someone flashes cash for information, I want their name. Their face. Their fucking blood type. You see anyone sniffing around again, you call me. Direct.”
“Got it.”
“And Nico?” I look up, meeting his eyes. “You don’t just protect this place anymore. You protect her. If anyone finds their way to Zara through this club—anyone—you’ll have me to answer to.”
He nods once, serious. “Understood.”
He leaves without another word, and I sit there for a moment longer, staring out over the floor below.
This used to feel like a kingdom. Now it feels like a front. My real empire is waiting back at the estate. Green eyes. Sharp tongue. A war queen wrapped in bedsheets. And I’ll destroy everything I’ve built if it means keeping her safe.
The evening sun shines golden over the estate when I pull up to the house. Being away from Zara, even for one day, leaves a hollow throb in my chest. Like some vital tether’s been stretched too thin.
But what I’m about to do has to be done alone.
I find Violette in the east garden, just off her wing of the house. Martini in hand, hair swept into something elegant that probably took an hour to look effortless. She’s laid out on a chase lounge like it’s a throne and she’s Empress of the Fuck-Around-and-Find-Out Dynasty.
She doesn’t look up when I approach, just tips her glass toward the roses blooming behind her. “They’ve finally come in. Thought the frost this past spring would kill them. Hardy little things.”
“Like you,” I say, taking the seat beside her.
“Like your girl,” she corrects, turning to me now. “I saw her the other morning in your shirt, stealing strawberries and humming to herself like she owns the damn house. She fits, Enzo. Scary how well.”
“She does,” I agree, then lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. I stare at the gravel beneath our feet for a long beat before finding the right words. “I didn’t give her a choice, though. Not really.”
Violette’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is softer than I expected. “No, you didn’t.”
“I needed to protect her,” I explain. “From Lachlan. From Falco. But I see it now—she doesn’t need protection. She needs partnership.”
“And you want to give her that?”
“I want to ask her,” I say, turning toward my mother. “I want her to choose me. No force. No threats. No war. Just love. I want to marry her properly this time.”
Violette stares at me for a long second. Then, she smiles. Not her usual wicked grin—something gentler. Something proud.
“Well, shit,” she says, standing with a stretch. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day my son got soft over a woman.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I plan to milk it for the rest of my life,” she tosses over her shoulder as she walks toward the patio. “Stay there.”
She disappears through her balcony doors for a few minutes, and when she returns, there’s a small velvet box in her hand. Deep green. Worn at the corners. She holds it out without ceremony, just a glint in her eye.
“This was Nonna’s,” she says. “She wore it through two world wars and one hell of a marriage. Said it brought her luck.”
I take the box and open it. The ring inside is delicate but striking. Platinum filigree with an old-cut diamond, the kind you can’t fake with modern replicas. It’s timeless. Like Zara.
Violette places a hand on my shoulder. “You ask her properly this time. No theatrics. No muscle. Just you. Just her.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Just one thing, Enzo.”
I glance up.
“If she says yes, I expect a grandchild by next Christmas.”
I choke on a laugh, shaking my head as I stand. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re in love,” she calls after me. “Get used to that soft shit, baby boy. You’ll be knee-deep in Pinterest wedding boards by the weekend.”
“Thank you, Ma.” I stand and wrap an arm around her shoulders.
She pats my chest. “Don’t thank me, thank God that you somehow convinced that woman to stay even with your empire and your crazy ways.” She moves back to her chair, picking her martini. “Now go, leave me in peace with my roses.”
I pocket the ring and head back toward the house. My heart feels lighter than it has in years.
She’ll have a choice this time. And God help me, I hope she chooses me.