Chapter 60 #2
“You have our child, my heir, growing inside you,” I whisper, laying a hand protectively over her stomach again. “You have no clue how much I want this. How much I want you. In fact, it is very difficult to hold myself back from fucking you right here.”
She exhales a shaky laugh, tears still clinging to her lashes. “No strenuous activity, husband.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what happens next,” she says quietly. “But I know I want it. All of it. You. This. Us.”
“I’ve wanted it all with you from the moment I saw you. You just finally caught up.” I press a kiss to the back of her hand. “I love you so much, Zara.”
A tear falls from her eye, and I catch it with my thumb. “I love you too, Enzo. Thank you for fighting for me, for waiting, for loving me.”
“Always, Angel,” I whisper. “Now close your eyes. Rest. I’ve got everything else.”
She closes her eyes, lashes feathering against her cheeks, her breathing settling into something steadier.
I keep my hand over her stomach like I’m already standing guard at the gates.
I’ve fought for a lot of things in my life—territory, power, the Marchetti name—but nothing has ever lit a fire in me like the life growing inside the woman I love.
I want every enemy to choke on the fact that the woman they couldn’t break is carrying my child.
She thinks this changes everything, and she’s right.
It makes me more dangerous. More ruthless.
Because now, I’m not just fighting for what’s mine.
I’m fighting for the future I never thought I’d deserve.
The private recovery room is quiet—too quiet, for someone like Zara. She hates stillness unless she’s orchestrating it.
But now, she’s nestled against a pile of hospital pillows in the light of a bedside lamp, one arm bound in gauze and her skin scrubbed free of blood.
Her hospital gown’s slightly askew, exposing the sharp slope of her collarbone and a peek of the bruising that blooms purple along her shoulder. She looks half-wrecked and half-divine.
I haven’t moved from the chair beside her since they wheeled her in. She’s been cleaned, stitched, medicated. The bullet missed bone, threading its way through soft tissue, the kind of luck that makes a man believe in guardian Angels.
She’s drowsy now, one eye half-shut, fingers lazily grazing the edge of her blanket when she mutters, “Please tell me someone brought contraband coffee.”
I don’t miss a beat. “No.”
Her head lolls in my direction, brow scrunched in faux betrayal. “You monster.”
“You’re pregnant, stitched together like Frankenstein’s bride, and concussed. You’ll survive one caffeine-free day.”
She groans and throws her head back into the pillow with theatrical flair. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
I smirk and reach for her hand, gently lacing our fingers. “You want to complain, wait until you find out I told the nurses no sushi, no deli meat, and absolutely no throwing punches for at least two weeks.”
“You’re lucky I’m sedated.”
“I know.”
The door creaks open before she can volley another insult.
Violette enters like a shadow given form—black coat still fastened, her hair immaculate, even after shooting a man hours earlier.
Lars trails behind her, looking much less pristine in a rumpled shirt and tired scowl, holding two paper cups like a caffeine mule.
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him, nodding toward Zara. “She’s on decaf probation.”
Zara lifts a hand in protest. “I hate this horrible regime.”
Violette strides to her bedside and brushes her hair back like she’s still a child with a scraped knee, not a mafia wife who just took a bullet. “You look pale, but victorious.”
“I’m going more for bloodthirsty porcelain doll,” Zara replies. “Do you think it’s working?”
“It’s unsettling,” Lars mutters. “Which means it’s probably working.”
He hands me one of the cups—a cup from a local cafe, not from a vending machine older than I am. I place it on the rolling tray next to me.
Violette eases into the chair across from me, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Zara like she’s appraising damage. “You were reckless.”
Zara shrugs, then winces. “A little.”
“But brave,” Violette adds softly. “And effective.”
“She always is,” I add, my thumb tracing idle circles on the back of Zara’s hand. “Even when I want to lock her in a vault.”
Lars slouches in a plastic chair beside the window, sighing like the night’s just now catching up to him. “You two are exhausting.”
Zara grins. “Just wait until it’s your turn.”
“Hard pass.”
Violette turns to him. “You do realize you’re next?”
He chokes on a sip of coffee. “Excuse me?”
“You’re overdue. A woman, a child. Something to distract you from your endless sarcasm.”
“I refuse to tie myself to one gender for the rest of my life, you know that, Vi. There’s too much to enjoy out there.”
I lean back in my chair, warmth settling in my chest. It’s brief and rare, this thing we have in this room—quiet joy. Family, built out of ash and strategy. And it’s mine.
Still, the calm doesn’t last long.
I turn toward Lars, my voice cooling. “Where’s Lachlan?”
He straightens a little, lips thinning. “One of our northside warehouses. Dom’s got eyes on him. He’s…waiting.”
My jaw ticks. “Waiting for what?”
“Whatever we decide.” Lars focuses on Zara. “Whatever you decide.”
Zara’s fingers twitch in mine, her gaze turning distant for a second. I feel the subtle shift in her—the weight of that name always hits her somewhere deeper than she’ll admit.
I look at Lars. “I hope he’s ready to wait for a while. No one is to touch him until Zara is well. I want him well fed, shit put a TV in there with him for all I care. But he stays in good condition until Zara says otherwise.”
Lars looks at Zara. “You let me know when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Lars.” Her eyes move from my cousin back to me. “There’s something else,” she says quietly.
I glance at her. Her lips parted like she’s still deciding whether to speak.
“Zara?” I press.
She looks deep in my eyes and then says, “I need your help finding someone.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
“Who?” I ask, immediately alert.
Zara swallows. “My sister.”
My blood stills.
“You…have a sister?”
“Half-sister,” she says, voice even. “My father had an affair when I was little. Fuck, he had a lot of affairs, but she was the one child that we knew existed. She was just a couple years younger than me. Her mom took her and moved away after it all came out within the Syndicate, and we lost touch. But we were close. Like secret forts and matching bracelets kind of close. I would like to find her.”
I stare at her, heart beginning to pound—not with fear, but that sharp instinct that never leaves me. The one that knows when something new just entered the playing board.
Lars leans forward. “Does Lachlan know where she is?”
Zara shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t even know if he cared. Her mom kept her far away from him after they left. No contact. No photos. Just gone.”
My jaw tightens, every protective instinct in my body waking up all over again.
“Another Kavanagh,” I say, eyes narrowing.
Zara nods. “Maybe. But she’s not like him.”
“She still has his blood.”
“I have that same blood too.”
Her words are quiet, but they land like a goddamn anchor in the center of my chest.
“I want to find her,” she says. “I need to.”
I nod once, hand tightening around hers. “I’ll find her, baby. I swear.”
But in the back of my mind, one thought spirals through the fog—another Kavanagh. Unaccounted for.
And I have no idea whose side she’ll be on when we find her.