Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Zara
I stared at the contract in my hands, the ink still glistening, sealing my fate. My name. His name. Two signatures that bound me to a stranger for a full year.
I handed the paper back to him, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Now what?”
Lorenzo took the contract, placed it carefully in the desk drawer, and turned back to me with that dark, steady gaze that made my stomach flip.
“The driver will take you back to your friend’s place. Get your things. We’ll arrange the rest in the morning.”
“Morning?”
He nodded, as if this were the most casual thing in the world. “We’ll wed tomorrow. I’ll call the judge. A private ceremony, just us and the necessary witnesses. It’ll be quick.”
My heart jolted.
Tomorrow.
I was going to marry a man I’d met less than twenty-four hours ago, in a penthouse I’d only just seen, under terms I’d negotiated while still smelling like the cheap tequila from the bar.
It was insane.
I was insane.
“I—” I swallowed, my throat dry. “I don’t have much. My stuff is just… a suitcase. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s fine. My driver will pick you up at your friend’s house in the morning. Whatever you need, we will take care of later.”
I nodded, my mind spinning. “What time?”
“Nine. That gives you time to pack and say goodbye.”
Nine in the morning. I’d be married by noon.
By dinner, I’d be Mrs. Lorenzo fucking something-or-other.
I’d signed a contract without reading the fine print, without a lawyer, without a single person who gave a damn about me.
It hit me then that this was what rock bottom really looked like: maxed-out credit cards, sketchy agreements, and no one to call.
“What about work?” I asked because, somehow, in the midst of all this, I forgot that I am still a functioning adult with real responsibilities.
Lorenzo’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the air between us. A quiet assertiveness that made me feel small.
“Don’t worry about that.”
“What do you mean? I have a job. I have bills. I can’t just—”
“Zara.” He took a step towards me, and I automatically took a step back in response, my spine hitting the edge of his desk. I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “While you’re my wife, your needs will be taken care of; you don’t have to work unless you want to.”
“I do want to.”
“Why? I thought you said you wanted to go to school?”
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, closed it, and tried to find words.
“Because I’ve learned a hard lesson about trusting men blindly,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to have my own money. My own identity. My own something that isn’t tied to a man who might change his mind.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. For a moment, I thought I’d made him angry. But when he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I know.” The air sharpened between us, charged with a tension I couldn’t name. He watched me carefully, as if he were memorizing the way I took up space in his office. “I take good care of what is mine, Zara.”
His voice was softer, but there was a new note to it that made my skin prickle—a promise, or maybe a warning.
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to believe him.
But I’d heard pretty words before. I’d seen promises shatter. I’d learned that the only person I could count on was myself.
“If I work,” I said, my voice steadier now, “it’s my choice. Not because you allow it. Not because I have to. But because I want to.”
He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. Then he nodded.
“Fair enough. Keep your job. But if you ever change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
His lips pulled into a dangerously dark smile. “I admire your stubbornness. It’ll make this interesting.”
Heat curled low in my stomach despite every instinct telling me to run. I didn’t know what that meant, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Lorenzo was offering me a way out.
A way up.
And even if it came with strings attached, even if it meant giving up some part of my freedom, it was better than drowning.
I just hoped I wouldn’t regret it.
I walked into Marcus on his couch, feet up, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, watching me with hawk-like intensity.
“So,” he said, crunching on a kernel. “You signed your soul away to a mysterious billionaire. How was that?”
“Not my soul.” I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the opposite end of the couch. “Just my hand in marriage.”
“Same thing, babe.”
I kicked him, but there was no heat in it. My mind was still spinning, still replaying the moment Lorenzo slid that contract across his desk, still feeling the weight of his gaze as I signed my name next to his.
“So,” Marcus said, turning to face me fully. “Spill. What’s his deal? And why does my best friend, who swore off men, suddenly agree to marry a complete stranger?”
I took a deep breath. “I did not…”
“Forget it, just tell me about him.”
“I don’t have much to tell; I barely know him,” I said, embarrassed by just how reckless it sounded.
Marcus stared at me, his mouth slightly open. Then he blinked, grabbed his phone, and started typing furiously. “What’s his full name? We’re looking him up.”
“Lorenzo Falcone…”
He looked at me, then back at his phone, then at me again. “Zara. Did you just say Falcone? As in organized crime, Falcone. His grandfather had been under investigation for years. His father has been linked to all kinds of crazy shit, including the damn mafia. And Lorenzo himself—here, look.”
He turned the phone toward me. I leaned in, reading the article headline: Lorenzo Falcone: The Heir Who Walked the Edge—From Bar Fights to Boardroom Brawls.
There were pictures and news articles. Lorenzo, younger, with a black eye, grinning at the camera outside a club.
Lorenzo being led away from a brawl by security.
Lorenzo at a gala, looking bored and dangerous in a tuxedo.
The article cataloged his reckless youth, his family’s ties, and his father’s attempts to clean up the image.
“He’s a bad boy,” Marcus said, his voice a mix of awe and warning. “Like, actually a bad boy. Not just the kind who rides a motorcycle and has tattoos. The kind who probably knows people who make people disappear.”
I should have felt terrified. Should have listened to survival instinct, the chill that kept me safe after so many mistakes. But instead, wildness unfurled inside—heat, longing, rebellion.
“Ohhh shit, Zara likes a bad boy,” Marcus teased, but his eyes were sharp with concern. “But seriously, girl, the man is literally old enough to be your father,” he said, making an exaggerated expression.
“Marus, just last week, you were on a date with a 50-year-old. I don’t think it’s that bad.”
“Wait…you’re not actually going through with this, are you? Zara, this guy is dangerous. Like, actually dangerous.”
I knew Marcus was right. I knew this is insane. I knew I should be running in the opposite direction, should be tearing up that contract, should be pretending I never walked into The Gilded Cage that night.
“I know it sounds crazy,” I said quietly. “But there’s something about him. Something that makes me feel… safe.”
“Safe?” Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s literally a mafia prince.”
“Safe,” I repeated, firmer this time. Sure, the man was clearly possessive, possibly borderline crazy. But he also wiped my tears while I cried about my shitty life and even shittier ex. And the way he agreed to every condition and boundary I set.
“Fine,” he added, his voice dropping to something more serious, “just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t care how many crime family connections he has. I will burn his pretty penthouse to the ground.”
“I promise.” I picked up my wine glass again, swirling the red liquid.
Marcus wass quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. But you’re my best friend, and I trust you. If you say he’s different, I’ll believe you.” He holds up a finger. “But I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ if this goes sideways.”
“Noted,” a laugh bubbled in my throat.
“And,” he added, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “I need updates on the sex. In detail.”
I threw a pillow at him. “There’s nothing to update.”
“Bullshit.” He caught the pillow, tucking it behind his head. “Hey, I’m just saying. If you’re gonna marry a crime lord, at least get some good stories out of it.”
“Marcus!” I bury my face in my hands, laughing despite myself.
We fell into our usual playfulness after that, the TV playing some reality show neither of us is watching while he told me all about his trip. I sat curled up against the arm of the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs, and let my mind drift.
Lorenzo Falcone. The name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with history and violence and secrets I don’t yet know.
But when I closed my eyes, I don’t see the headlines. I don’t see the blood on his knuckles or the fire in his eyes.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Ohhh,” Marcus sang, wagging his eyebrows. “Is that daddy crime lord calling?”
“Shut up.” I pulled out my phone, and sure enough, there wass a text from Lorenzo.
Lorenzo
I’ll have a few dresses sent to your friend’s address for tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know.
I stared at the message, my heart doing that stupid flutter it always does when I think of him.
“Well?” Marcus prompted. “What’d he say?”
“He says he’ll have a dress sent here for tomorrow.”
“Of course he will. Because apparently reality TV has taught me nothing about the habits of criminal billionaires.” He grabs another handful of popcorn. “What’s the dress look like?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Bet it’s expensive. Bet it’s a designer. Bet it’s something you’d never be able to afford on your own.”
I looked at him, and despite his teasing, I could see the concern in his eyes. The worry he’s trying to hide behind jokes and sarcasm.
“Marcus,” I say softly. “I’ll be okay.”