Chapter 54 Zara
The drawing room looks like a bomb full of tulle, gold foil, and empty espresso cups went off.
Violette has three open notebooks spread across the table and a tablet in hand, flipping between photos of florals and mock invitations.
She’s sipping her second martini—dirty, of course—while Lars is pacing near the fireplace, arms crossed, a pencil tucked behind his ear like he’s halfway to quitting whatever job he’s just assigned himself.
“I’m telling you,” Violette says, swirling her drink, “naked statues with glitter guns. The press will eat it up.”
Lars groans. “We’re not weaponizing glitter, Violette.”
“Why not?” She turns to me like I’ll be her salvation. “Zara, back me up. A little sparkle never killed anyone.”
“Actually,” Lars mutters, “I’m pretty sure it has.”
I grin as I flip through the event sketchbook we’ve been building. “Okay, no guns, but what about dancers suspended from silks? Something dramatic but classy.”
Violette claps once. “Yes. God, yes. You are a gift. Lars, hire someone bendy.”
Lars scribbles something on his notepad with the enthusiasm of a man who knows he’s already lost.
The more we plan, the more the event starts to take shape, it’s becoming not just a gala, but a spectacle. A glamorous middle finger to the men who thought they could use me. A crown jewel of a night designed to expose Lachlan for exactly who he is.
And yet, somewhere in the midst of talking about catering and charity partners, a warmth begins to build in my chest.
Not adrenaline. Not revenge. But something that feels...softer.
Because I’m sitting at this ridiculous, gilded table between a mafia enforcer and a martini-wielding legend of a woman who both somehow call me family now. They listen when I speak. We laugh. I’m not just surviving anymore—I’m building something.
I’m wanted.
“Look at you, queen of the underworld,” Violette teases, tapping her glass to mine. “Planning a takedown over brunch and looking better than I did at your age.”
“Careful,” Lars says. “She might actually enjoy this power.”
“Darling,” Violette replies, “if she doesn’t enjoy it, she’s doing it wrong.”
The door opens before I can respond, and Enzo steps in like he’s been summoned by the sound of my heartbeat. His eyes land on me first. Always.
“You’re early,” I say, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel.
He leans down, brushes his lips against my cheek, then lingers just a second longer. “I didn't want to miss my wife conquering the social scene.”
“Careful,” I smile. “You’ll inflate my ego.”
His hand slides to my lower back, anchoring me to him like he always does. “Let it grow. You wear power well.”
Somehow, between the strategy meetings and the laughter over fresh pasta, I’ve slipped into a world that once terrified me.
A world that used to mean blood and betrayal and survival.
But now, wrapped in the warmth of Enzo’s steady presence, Violette’s chaotic affection and Lars’s dry loyalty, it feels different. It feels like home.
I stare down at the sketches in front of me, plans for a gala that will destroy my father and cement my place in this family, and realize I’m not just helping anymore.
I’m leading.
By the time we make it back to our suite, the house is hushed. Even Violette has gone to bed, though not before declaring—loudly—that the gala absolutely requires Venetian masks and a string quartet trained in “theatrical timing.”
Enzo walks beside me, his palm steady at the small of my back, guiding me through the last stretch of hallway. It isn’t silence that weighs between us…it’s intention. I can feel it in the way his hand lingers, in the steady pull of his presence.
And when he unlocks the door, I understand why.
The suite is lit only by the flicker of a fire. The glow spills across polished floors and settles on a tray set on the plush rug nearby. Silver. Elegant. Two champagne flutes catch the light, and beside them, a single slice of cake rests on china so fine it almost feels untouchable.
Raspberries and cake scent the air. It’s simple. Thoughtful. Exactly the kind of gesture that knocks the air out of me, because it’s him—and it’s us.
I stop in my tracks.
“I know what this is,” I whisper.
Enzo steps behind me, hands on my hips as he pulls me back against his chest. His voice is soft, just above my ear. “Good. I was hoping you would.”
“The cake,” I say, my heart ready to break open. “And the champagne. From the hotel.”
“Our first night,” he confirms. “You moaned when you tasted it. I nearly fell to my knees.”
I laugh, caught somewhere between tears and disbelief. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything about that night, about you,” he says simply. “I always have.”
He takes my hand and walks me toward the fire. I sink to the plush rug, the heat of the flames warming my legs, but nothing compares to the warmth burning in his eyes.
He sits beside me and hands me a flute. We clink glasses—no words, just the shared weight of everything between us. The comfort. The fire. The kind of love that blooms from wreckage.
I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the memory wrap around me like velvet. “That night changed me. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.”
Enzo shifts closer. “You were mine from the second I touched you. I chased that feeling for so long. Now that you’re here, now that you’re mine, sometimes I worry it’s a dream that I’ll wake up from.”
I set the flute down and turn fully toward him, eyes searching his. “You mean that?”
“I do.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and my heart stops.
It’s not a designer box that he pulls out. It’s a small velvet one, the kind you’d see in an old family heirloom collection. He opens it and inside is a ring unlike any I’ve ever seen. Vintage. Elegant. A thin band of white gold with a dramatic center stone and two small diamonds on either side.
“This was my grandmother’s,” he says softly. “She survived a war. Built a family from ashes. And when I told my mother I wanted to ask you something, she didn’t hesitate to make sure this was the ring I would ask you with.”
I’m already crying. It’s ridiculous. But something about this—about him—undoes me in the softest, most beautiful way.
Enzo shifts onto one knee, offering all that he is in the quiet of our room with a devastating look of love in his eyes.
“I married you once out of necessity,” he says. “But this…this is me asking you to choose it. To choose me. Not as a Marchetti. Not as a strategy. But as a man, your husband, your partner. The man who loves you more than anything he’s ever owned or conquered.”
My hands cover my mouth, my heart doing something wild and irreparable in my chest. “Enzo…”
“I love you, Zara.” His voice cracks, just a little as his eyes stay steady on mine.
“God, I love you. Every sharp edge. Every wild piece. You’re not just the woman I want in my bed or at my side.
You’re the woman I want to build a future with.
To have a family with. To grow old with—if we survive my mother. ”
I laugh, a watery, choking laugh, and launch myself into his arms, toppling him back onto the rug.
“Yes,” I say into his chest. “Yes, you ridiculous, beautiful man. Of course it’s yes.”
His arms lock around me as he rolls us so I’m beneath him, and I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen so clearly—relief. Not the kind born of safety or survival. The kind born from being seen. From being chosen.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “And not because you’re powerful or dangerous or impossibly hot—though, let’s be honest, that helps. I love you because you see me. Because you never asked me to be anything but exactly who I am. And because when I’m with you, I feel safe and cared for and powerful.”
He takes the ring from the box, setting it beside us. As he leans over me, he picks up my hand and slides it on. When it’s in place he stares at it for a moment, then brings my hand to his lips.
He let go of my hand and looks into my eyes, trailing a single finger down my neck. I’m barely holding back a river of tears as his mouth crashes onto mine, soft but reverent. A promise. A brand.
When he finally pulls away, his breath sweeps against my lips, “Happy birthday, my Queen.”
I smile through the tears. “Best gift I’ve ever gotten, my King.”
He kisses me like I’m something precious. Like he’s asking permission again to be mine.
My back settles into the thick rug, my fingers tangled in his shirt, the warmth of the fire flickering over us both. The kiss deepens, his hands begin to travel across my body.
“Are you sure you want to do this here?” I tease softly.
Enzo lifts his head and smiles, that devastating smile that makes me weak. “I want you here. I want you everywhere. But tonight…” His eyes sweep over me, possessive and tender in equal measure. “Tonight, I want to worship you. Slowly.”
My breath stutters as he moves over me, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear, then another at the hollow of my throat. His fingers find the hem of my shirt and lift it with aching care, baring inch after inch of skin as if he’s unwrapping something sacred.
He pulls it over my head, then leans back just enough to look at me.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “Always so fucking perfect.”
I reach for his shirt and tug at the buttons, impatient to see him. “Take this off. Now.”
He obliges, shrugging out of the soft black fabric. The firelight dances over the lines of his chest, the tattoos that tell a history most men never survive. He’s cut and powerful and mine.
“I still can’t believe you’re real,” I say.
“I’ve never felt more real than when I’m with you.”
His pants are gone next, discarded without ceremony, and then he kneels between my thighs, running a reverent hand up my bare thigh, pushing my panties aside as he lowers his mouth to me.
The first touch of his tongue is soft. A kiss more than a lick. I arch into it, my hands gripping his hair, my hips rising to meet the rhythm he builds—unhurried, relentless, so gentle it hurts.
“Enzo,” I gasp, already trembling.
He groans like he’s starving. “I love the way you say my name.”
The praise, the pressure—it undoes me. My body is already spiraling, heart racing, skin slick with heat. But he keeps it tender, coaxing my orgasm with whispered filth and reverent fingers. He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, until his name is a desperate chant on my lips.
He kisses up my body like a man who can’t bear space between us. By the time he reaches my mouth, I taste myself on his tongue and let him take everything he wants.
When he finally sinks inside me, it’s slow, inch by inch, and he groans like the relief of it wrecks him.
“Look at me,” he whispers, his forehead pressed to mine. “Let me see those eyes while I make love to my wife.”
I wrap around him tighter, breath catching as he rocks deeper. “I love when you say that.”
“You are mine,” he says. “I love you so much, mia dolcezza. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes, thick and consuming. “I love you too, Enzo. I think I’ve been falling since the first night.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a hand across my cheek.
“You have no idea what those words do to me.” His voice is hoarse, reverent. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna ruin me.”
And then he moves—deep thrusts that make my toes curl and my heart ache.
“It’s almost midnight,” he says, voice gravel rough. “I wanted you to feel loved when your birthday hit. Wanted you to come with my name in your mouth, my cock buried deep inside you.”
I cry out, overwhelmed with how good he feels, how cherished I feel.
“Happy birthday, Zara,” he says, grinding in deep and staying there.
“Best fucking birthday of my life,” I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks.
He thrusts once more—deep and sure—before he roars, burying himself fully and holding still as he spills inside me.
“Take it,” he rasps, his voice wrecked against my ear. “Every fucking drop, Angel.”
I cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, gasping through the aftershocks. But he doesn’t move far.
When he finally pulls out, he leaves a void I want filled again. I can feel his cum already beginning to leave me.
Enzo growls, catching it with his fingers. “Not a chance,” he mutters. “That stays inside you.”
And before I can breathe, he’s pushing two fingers back into me—slick with his cum, working it deep with unrelenting strokes.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, hips already shifting, the overstimulation setting every nerve on fire.
“That’s it,” he says, watching me with fevered eyes. “Let me fuck my seed deeper. Let your King give you everything you’ve ever needed.”
I moan, helpless against the way he touches me, worships me, works me over like it’s his only purpose.
“Come for me again,” he commands, voice full of heat and reverence. “Claim my fingers like you want to keep every drop.”
It takes only seconds. My body clamps down around him, and I come again with his name on my lips, trembling and aching and full of him.
He curls over me after, fingers still deep, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Happy birthday, amore mio,” he whispers.