Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lorenzo
I didn’t sleep.
Not because I couldn’t—I’ve gone days without sleep before, running on whiskey and rage and the constant hum of something broken inside me. No, this time I couldn’t sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Zara.
The way her dark hair had fallen across her face when she’d looked down at her hands. The way her voice cracked when she talked about being broken. The way she looked at me, like I was either a savior or a threat, and she couldn’t decide which one scared her more.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my sheets twisted around my legs. The penthouse was silent—the kind of silence that comes with too much space and not enough warmth. I’d bought this place because it was spacious and nothing like the cold, gilded cage I’d grown up in.
But lying there, alone, it felt just as empty.
I kept replaying last night. Every detail.
The way she’d walked into my bar like a storm cloud in human form, dragging a suitcase and a world of hurt behind her.
The way she ordered drinks, like she was trying to drown out heartbreak.
The way she’d looked at me when I’d wiped her tears—wide-eyed, frightened, wanting.
She’d wanted me. I’d seen it. Underneath the fear and confusion, there was a spark. A pull. The same pull I’d felt the moment I’d laid eyes on her.
But she’d run.
And I’d let her.
For now.
I ran a shower, hoping it would help to clear my head.
I stood under the scalding water, my palms pressed against the tile, and let it beat against my shoulders. Steam filled the glass enclosure, fogging everything until I can no longer see my own reflection.
But I could still see her.
Those lips. Full, pink. I’d wanted to bite them. I’d wanted to taste them. I’d wanted to drag her into the back room and show her exactly what kind of arrangement I had in mind.
My cock hardened again at the thought.
I wrapped my hand around it, leaning into the feeling, letting the image of her fill my mind.
Her curves. The way her sweater had hung over her body, clinging to her breasts when she held herself.
The way her leggings had curved around her hips, her thighs.
I’d imagined peeling them off her, piece by piece, revealing the soft olive skin underneath.
I’d imagined pressing her against the bar, her back arching, her gasps filling the air as I took her right there.
I stroked myself harder; the water sluicing down my body with every movement.
In my mind, she was moaning my name.
In my mind, she was mine.
My hands quickened pace as I pictured her on her knees, water weighing down that thick head of curls as her lips worked my cock between her lips.
I came with a grunt as my forehead pressed against the cool tile, my breath ragged and uneven.
I had gotten off to the thought of her, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
I was in my office by seven, dressed in my usual dark dress shirt and slacks, a cup of black coffee going cold on my desk. The morning light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room.
The Gilded Cage was quiet during the day—the staff had their routines, the deliveries came and went, but the bar itself was still, waiting for the night to breathe life into it.
I couldn’t focus.
I’d tried.
I’d pulled up the Peter’s report on Zara—skimming through the details I already knew.
No criminal record. Clean social media. A marketing job at a mid-sized firm that paid her peanuts.
A lease that had ended with the breakup.
A father who’d walked out when she was a kid, a mother who’d passed away.
Three siblings, one currently in prison on drug charges.
But the report didn’t tell me what she smelled like. It didn’t tell me how her voice sounded when she was scared, or how her eyes got wide when she was trying to be brave.
I needed more.
I needed her.
The door to my office creaked open as I looked up, irritation flaring—I’d told the staff I didn’t want to be disturbed—but the face that appeared around the edge of the door softened all the frustration.
Carla was in her sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a bun and a face that had seen too much and loved, anyway.
She’d been with my family for thirty years—had watched me grow up, had bandaged my scraped knees and lied to my father about where I’d been.
She was the closest thing I’d ever had to a real mother.
“Enzo,” she said, her voice carrying that gentle reproach she’d perfected over decades. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She tutted, pushing the door open fully. She was carrying a plate covered with a cloth, and the smell of warm chocolate drifting across the room. “I brought you cookies. The ones you like.”
She set them on the edge of my desk, then stood there, her arms crossed, giving me that look.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Have you slept?”
“No,” I replied dryly.
“Eaten?”
“The cookies.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t touched them.”
I looked down at the plate, then back at her. A small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Carla was the only person in the world who could make me feel like a child again, in the best way.
“I’ll eat them,” I said.
“When?”
I reached for a cookie and took a bite. It was warm and soft, the chocolate melting on my tongue. Comfort. That’s what Carla’s cookies were. Comfort in flour, sugar, and butter.
She watched me for a moment before her gaze softened. Then she moved closer, her hand brushing my shoulder.
“There’s something you want,” she said, knowingly.
I didn’t answer.
“I’ve known you your whole life, Lorenzo. I know when something’s caught your attention.” She paused.
“I don’t know yet,” I finally respond.
Carla noded slowly, leaving the cookies on my desk as she walks out.
I stared at the plate, my mind drifting back to Zara. To the way she’d said my name—Lorenzo—like it burned her mouth.
I needed to hear her say it again.
I needed to hear her say a lot of things.
My phone buzzed.
Zara
You have a deal.
I read it three times. Four. The words burning into my retinas, into my chest, into the part of me that had been coiled tight since the moment I’d first seen her.
She’d said yes.
She’d actually said yes.
I didn’t let myself smile, not even as something dark and hungry unfurled in my gut, spreading through my veins like whiskey.
I picked up my phone and dial a number I’ve dialed countless times.
“Vinny,” I said the moment he answers. “I need you to draft a contract.”
Vinny was my lawyer. Sharp, efficient, unflappable. He’d been with me for years, having handled everything from business acquisitions to the occasional brush with the law. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions; he just got things done.
“What kind of contract?” he asked.
“Marriage.”
There was a pause. Then: “I’m sorry, did you say—”
I cut him off. “Marriage. One year. Financial terms to be negotiated, but generous. Very generous.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Lorenzo, do you mind if I ask—”
“No.”
“Right. Of course.” I could hear him typing in the background. “I’ll need details. Names, terms, duration. Any exclusions?”
“No prenup.”
The typing stops.
“I’m sorry,” Vinny said slowly, “but I have to advise you against that. A marriage without a prenuptial agreement is—”
“I know what it is.”
“Then you know it’s reckless. If this goes wrong, she could take half of everything you own. Everything, Lorenzo. The businesses, the properties, the—”
“I said no prenup.”
My voice was flat, final. Vinny knew that tone. He’d heard it before, when I’d made decisions that defied logic, that defied caution, that everyone around me warned against. And I’d been right, every time.
Because I didn’t do things halfway.
If Zara was going to be mine, she was going to be all mine. And that meant trust. Commitment. A bond that couldn’t be broken with a piece of paper.
“Fine,” Vinny says, his voice tight. “No prenup. But I’m putting my objections on the record.”
“Noted.”
I hang up before he could say anything else.
I stare at my phone, at the thread of messages where Zara’s name sat at the top like a loaded gun.
Me
My penthouse. Tonight. After work. I’ll send a car.
Tonight, she would be in my space, surrounded by my things, breathing my air.
Tonight, I would have her.
And I would never, ever let her go.