Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lorenzo
She had said it wasn’t any of my business.
And she was right. Technically. Legally. In every way that mattered to a normal man.
Normal men didn’t watch a woman at a bar for twenty minutes, cataloging every tremor of her fingers, every hitch of her breath. Normal men didn’t memorize the curve of her spine through a cheap hoodie, didn’t feel the air leave their lungs when she finally stood up to leave.
Normal men didn’t follow women out into the cold.
But I did.
Because I wasn’t normal.
I’d never been normal.
Something in me got broken early on.
I knew I didn’t know her. But this feeling in my gut—this violent, possessive pull—it didn’t care about logic. It didn’t care that I’d never spoken to her before tonight. It only cared that she was hurting, and that aggravated me.
And now, standing just three feet away from her, I was able to truly look at her. Her dark hair was tangled, wind-tossed, falling in curls around a face still blotchy from crying. She had curves beneath that baggy hoodie, soft and round in ways that made my mouth water.
She was a disaster.
She was beautiful.
I felt my legs move without thought. My hand came up—I didn’t plan it, didn’t consider it—and the pad of my thumb brushes across her cheekbone, catching a stray tear. Her skin was soft beneath my calloused fingers.
She immediately flinched and stepped back.
“What—”
I didn’t let her finish. “Zara, you’re crying.”
My voice came out rough. The fact that she was crying with me standing right there felt like an insult. She should have known I’d fix it, I’d fix everything.
My fingers flexed at my side, itching to touch her again.
She looked up at me, confusion warring with wariness in those brown eyes. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
I pulled a crumpled receipt from my pocket—the one the bartender had handed me after I’d watched her scribble on it. “You signed for your drink. Zara.”
Recognition flickers across her face. Then something harder. Guarded.
“You stole my receipt?”
“My name is Lorenzo Falcone,” Holding out my hand, as if it should mean something. Usually, it did. The Falcone name opened doors, closed deals, and made people nervous. But she just stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.
“I don’t—” She shook her head, ignoring my outstretched hand. “I don’t care who you are. What do you want?”
I could have told her the truth.
I want to know everything. I want to take you somewhere warm. I want to find out who made you cry and make them regret ever being born.
Instead, I held her gaze and said nothing.
She scoffed. A bitter, broken sound. “Look, I don’t have the time or energy for this.
Okay?” Her voice cracks. “I just got dumped. I’m stuck in this city with nowhere to go.
I’m waiting for my friend who hasn’t answered a single text, and I’m—” she stops.
Her jaw clenched. Her eyes glistening again.
Then she exploded.
“I’m fucking hungry, alright? I haven’t eaten in hours. My bank account is negative. I’m standing on a street corner in the cold, crying to a stranger in a five-thousand-dollar suit, and I don’t know why you’re even talking to me, so just…leave me alone.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and jagged. She was breathing hard now, chest heaving, her fists clenched at her sides. Then a tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, furiously, as if she were angry at herself for letting it fall.
I should have walked away and left the poor girls alone.
Any reasonable man would have.
But I’d never been reasonable. Not when it came to something I wanted. And I wanted her. This beautiful, furious girl who had no idea what she was doing to me.
“Come back to the bar,” I said.
She froze. “What?”
“You’re hungry. I’ll have the chef make whatever you want. Anything.” I pause. “And we can talk.”
“Talk?” she chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You’re a stranger,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You were walking alone through the city at night. That wasn’t safe. This is.” I gestured back toward the bar, visible a block away—the warm glow of its windows. “I’m offering you a meal. A place to sit. Nothing more.”
She glares at me, then at the bar, then back at me.
“Why should I trust you?” Her teeth sinks into her lower lip, causing my cock to twitch.
“You shouldn’t.” I stepped closer, close enough that I can smell her coconut shampoo and fruity perfume. “But I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to eat.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes searching mine, looking for a lie, a trick, or a hidden agenda. But she wouldn’t find one. My agenda was right there in the open:
I want to be near you. I want to know your voice, your laugh, your secrets. I want to own the sound of your breath.
Finally, she let out a shaky exhale. “Fine. But I’m not staying long. And you’re walking in front of me.”
“Deal.”
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, as I reach out allowing my hand to close over hers. “I’ll carry it.”
“I can manage—” She flinched again, but I didn’t let go.
“I know you can.” I said, pulling the handle from her grip before she could argue. “But I’d really prefer to help.”
She glanced at me below her dark lashes before she wraps her arms around herself, hugging her thin hoodie tighter.
I fell into step beside her. Her suitcase rolls easily now, and I felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction at taking the weight off her hands.
“Lorenzo,” she repeated, testing the name. “Is that Italian?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound Italian. You sound like…New York.”
“I was born in Florence and raised between here and Italy.” Born and choked, I think to myself, the family legacy was a noose around my neck. But that was a story for another time.
“Lorenzo Falcone.” She said it slowly, tasting it. “Sounds like a very official name.”
She glanced at me, and I caught the hint of a smile—the first I’d seen from her. It was small. Faint, but it made my chest tighten.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For… this. Even if I don’t know why you’re doing it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too raw. Too dangerous. Too close to something I’d spent years pretending I didn’t want: someone to protect. Someone to claim. Someone to keep.
We reach the bar, and I held the door open for her. She slipped inside, allowing the warmth of the bar to wash over us.
Marco raised an eyebrow but said nothing as I led her past the empty tables, past the darkened booths, to a corner where the light was soft and the noise was low.
“Zara,” I said, grabbing her attention.
Her eyes meet mine and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
If I have any say in it, this girl would be a Falcone one day.
My wife. My future.
And I always have what I want.