Chapter 61
The morning sun filters in through the slats of the hospital blinds, casting soft stripes of light across the pale blue walls and the foot of the bed.
It’s quiet—no beeping machines, no echo of rushing nurses, just the soft hum of breath and the faint rustle of Enzo’s steady inhale and exhale from across the room.
He’s curled up on the vinyl couch that definitely wasn’t built for a man his size, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped protectively over his chest like he’s still dreaming about shielding me.
His suit jacket is folded beneath him like a makeshift pillow, tie long gone, shirt untucked.
There’s blood on his cuff. Mine. And he didn’t change.
My heart aches as I watch him sleep.
God, I love him.
I trace my fingers gently along my belly—still flat, but not empty—and wonder how something so small can shift the gravity of everything. I can’t imagine surviving a single breath without either of them.
Enzo stirs. Groans softly. Then his eyes flutter open, bleary but still sharp, like even half-asleep he’s assessing threats.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He sits up, his joints cracking in protest. “Are you okay?” His voice is gravel and sleep and worry, all wrapped in one.
“I’m fine.” I smile. “Better now.”
He crosses the room and leans over the bed, pressing his mouth to my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my lips, like he’s checking every inch of me. “I hate this place,” he mutters.
“I bet you do. You slept on a hospital couch for six hours. That’s love.”
“That’s me not trusting anyone else to keep you safe,” he says, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Also love. But mostly paranoia.”
Before I can tease him, the door swings open. Violette steps in, pristine as ever in a slate-gray blazer and pointed heels. She’s holding a massive leather tote that looks like it weighs more than I do. Lars trails in behind her, coffee in hand. He looks like he barely slept.
“Morning, sunshine,” Violette says breezily.
“Good morning, Violette. Lars, how are you this morning?”
He feigns a smile. “Don’t judge. It was my night off. I played poker at the club, won and celebrated.”
“Looks like you celebrated well.” Enzo laughs. “Was she worth the hangover?”
Lars’ eyes turn mischievous as he shrugs. “Not hungover, just didn’t get much sleep.”
“Enough said.” I laugh. “Violette, did you rob a bookstore on the way here?”
“No,” she replies, lifting the bag and setting it on the windowsill. “I came prepared.”
She begins unpacking. Modern Bride, Vogue Weddings, a stack of baby name books, a spiral-bound journal that says “Birth Plan” in rose gold foil, and a weekly pregnancy guide with a smiling fetus on the cover.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
“I’m so excited. We have so much to prepare for.”
Enzo rubs his temples. “You’re terrifying.”
“Speaking of terrifying,” Violette continues smoothly, turning toward Enzo and Lars, “you both have somewhere to be. The men need to meet. I brought you a change of clothes.”
Lars groans. “We just got here.”
“You’ve had your coffee. Now go.”
Enzo frowns, still beside me, not moving. “I’m not leaving her alone.”
“You’re not,” Violette says, sliding into the armchair beside the bed. “She has me. And twenty pounds of printed propaganda.”
He looks at me, his jaw tight.
I grab his shirt and tug gently until he leans down. I kiss him slowly, then whisper near his ear, “I’ll be here when you get back, Daddy. Go play nice with the mob.”
His words are possessive and affectionate. “I’m locking you in a tower when we get home.” He turns to Violette. “Don’t get too comfortable, I’m hoping to have her home by the end of the day.”
Violette salutes him. Then he kisses me again—forehead, cheek, lips, like a ritual he refuses to skip—then heads to the bathroom to change.
Lars smiles. “I haven’t had the chance to properly congratulate you yet, Zara. I can’t wait to see how soft that man goes when that child gets here.”
I laugh. “Thank you, Lars.” I lower my voice, glancing at the bathroom door. “He’s already a mess about it.”
His grin grows larger. “Knew it. We love you, Zara. I’m glad you’ve come in and torn that man’s world to pieces.”
I look between Violette and Lars, my eyes stinging. “I love you both too. He’s lucky to have you two in his life. And I’m lucky you’re in mine now too.”
The bathroom door opens and Enzo sees my eyes. His brow pinches when his eyes dart to Lars. “What have you done to upset her?”
I wave him off. “Oh, calm down, Mr. Marchetti. We’re just being sappy.”
He eyes us all suspiciously. “If you say so, Angel. One more kiss, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I tilt up and place my lips to his.
Lars waves his coffee as Enzo joins him at the door. “Try to keep Vi from terrorizing the staff while we’re gone.”
“No promises.”
Once the door clicks shut behind them, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Comfortable. Violette picks up a couple of magazines, hands one to me and casually begins flipping through it like this is just a Sunday morning at home.
“Are we really going to read about canapés and mood boards right now?” I ask.
“No,” she replies. “We’re going to pretend we are so the nurses stop hovering. I also brought snacks.” She pulls a tiny velvet pouch from her purse and reveals a handful of dark chocolates wrapped in gold foil.
“I take back everything I said. You’re my favorite in-law.”
“Obviously.”
For a few minutes, we exist in something calm. She flips through pages, offering commentary. I nibble chocolate and fake interest in things like garden roses and signature cocktails, grateful for the distraction. Then, curiosity gets the better of me.
I glance toward the door they disappeared through, then back to Violette, who’s pretending to be interested in a spread on destination weddings.
“Can I ask you something?”
She hums without looking up. “Always.”
“What’s Lars’s deal?”
She stills, just for a moment. Then she flips the page and says evenly, “Define deal.”
“Why is he single?” I ask, biting back a grin. “Because unless he’s secretly married to his espresso machine, I’m starting to think he might be emotionally unavailable.”
Violette lifts her eyes, her mouth curving with fondness. “That’s because he is emotionally unavailable. But not by nature—by experience.”
I pause, letting the words settle before I ask, softer this time, “Someone hurt him?”
She nods. “A long time ago. Her name was Leilani. They met when he was barely twenty-one. She was bold, gorgeous, smart enough to keep up with him…and from a rival family.”
Of course she was, this family can never do anything without dramatics laced in.
“She seduced him, built trust, and then turned around and used him to try to blackmail Enzo during one of his earliest territorial shifts. She wasn’t even a soldier—just a very good actress.”
My stomach twists. “That’s brutal.”
“Lars took it personally. Of course he did. He doesn’t just love quietly…he loves completely. And after her, he didn’t trust his own instincts. He didn’t want to give someone that kind of access again.”
I run a thumb across the edge of the blanket. “Has he dated since?”
“A few men. A few women. Nothing that’s lasted.
He’s guarded. Selective.” She pauses, then smirks.
“He also has a bad habit of sleeping with people he shouldn’t.
There was a bartender in Prague…a journalist in Montreal…
and a very enthusiastic Spanish ambassador’s son that ended in minor diplomatic panic. ”
I laugh. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Oh yes. He’s a Marchetti, through and through—charming, sharp, reckless when it suits him. But underneath it all?” Her expression softens. “He’s lonely. God knows he’ll deny it until he’s six feet under, but he wants someone who sees him. Not the second-in-command. Not the protector. Just…Lars.”
I nod, letting that settle in. “He deserves that.”
“He does,” she agrees. “He just hasn’t met the right person yet. Or maybe he has and pushed them away before they got close enough. I pray it’s not the latter.”
The room goes quiet again, not heavy, just thoughtful. I glance toward the stack of baby books and magazines, then back at Violette.
“I hope he finds his person. I think he would be a fabulous partner and even a father.”
Violette exhales, something wistful flickering behind her eyes. “I think he already is one, in his own way. To Enzo. To this family. He protects and cares for us. Loyal and strong. He’ll make an amazing father if that’s the path he chooses.”
I smile, warm and full. “You’re a damn good matriarch, Violette.”
She chuckles. “Don’t let me get soft now. I’ve got a wedding to plan and a baby to spoil.”
I laugh softly, settling deeper into the pillows, palm resting over my stomach. Our child has no clue how fiercely they’ll be loved, how completely they’ll belong the second they take their first breath.