Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Lorenzo
The penthouse had never felt so vast.
I’d spent the morning pacing the marble floors, my shoes clicking against the polished stone and echoing through the cavernous space.
The faint scent of lemon polish hung in the air, blending with the delicate sweetness of a large bouquet of white roses that Carla had insisted on ordering.
Beyond the glass, the city sprawled beneath me like a kingdom I’d never cared to rule.
The judge was already here, a reserved man in a dark suit who’d been handsomely paid for his discretion, his papers shuffling softly at the small table where we would sign our marriage certificate. Carla fussed over the flowers again, pausing to smooth a tablecloth and adjust a chair.
Everything was ready.
Except for her.
I checked my watch for the third time in as many minutes. Ten minutes past ten. The driver had confirmed that he had picked her up, so where the hell was she?
Maybe she’d seen the contract in the morning light, realized how insane this was, and decided to run? I mean, if she changed her mind, I couldn’t blame her—but I’d chase her all the same, because my father’s ultimatum wasn’t the only reason I wanted her here. I needed her.
I would keep every promise I had made to her. I’ll give her everything. Every fucking thing she wants. She just has to show up.
A few more minutes of pacing take over before I’m caught by the chime of the elevator, my heart slamming against my ribs. But before I could see the doors open, Carla was there. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength for a woman her age, pulling me to the side, out of the foyer.
“Enzo, don’t look yet. She’s here, but you must wait. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony.”
I wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at me to push past her, to lay eyes on Zara, to confirm she was real and here. But I bit my tongue and nodded.
Bad luck.
I didn’t believe in luck. I believed in control. In money. In the power to bend the world to my will.
But for her, I’d learn to wait.
That was, if my father didn’t kill me first.
The thought almost made me smile. He’d threatened to cut me off, to take away the businesses I’d built with my own hands.
But I’d fulfilled his requirement: marriage to a “suitable” woman.
He’d specified a bride from a good family, but he hadn’t specified which family.
Zara had no marks on her past. She was beautiful. And soon, she would be mine.
Technically, I’d met the terms of his ultimatum. Whether he liked it or not, I’d won.
But that wasn’t why I was standing here.
I was standing here because I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The way her dark hair fell across her face.
The defiant spark that flickered when she negotiated her terms—no sex, freedom to leave, support for her education.
She hadn’t just accepted my offer blindly; she’d demanded more for herself, bargaining as if determined to finally put her own needs first. I saw in her that blend of caution and determination, the hope for something better battling with the fear of being used again.
She was hurting, and I wanted to put her back together.
I wanted to own every piece of her.
A door closed again, pulling my attention, and this time, Carla didn’t stop me.
I heard footsteps—soft, hesitant. Followed by the rustle of fabric. Then Carla’s voice, gentle and guiding, led her toward the living room.
When I finally laid eyes on her, the world stopped.
Zara stood in the doorway carved from temptation itself, the morning light pouring around her in a pale halo. For a second, all I could do was stare. She was the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen.
The silk skimmed every curve, molding to the soft flare of her hips and the narrow line of her waist before pulling tight across her chest in a way that made my throat dry. It was elegant, almost innocent at first glance, but on her it became something dangerous. Deadly.
Her dark curls spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, framing her face. Then those dark eyes lifted to mine, uncertain, cautious — and mine snapped awake like a starving animal catching the scent of blood.
I felt the primal part of me roar to life, the part that didn’t care about contracts or arrangements or compromises.
I imagined dragging her to me, pressing her against the glass with the city sprawling at our feet, staking my claim so thoroughly the world would never doubt she belonged to me.
I wanted to take her right here, right now, in front of the judge, to tear the dress from her body and make her scream my name until she forgot every man who’d ever hurt her.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, every muscle tight with restraint, desperate to touch yet forced to hold back.
The air between us shimmered, electric with a need I barely contained.
But I held still.
I held still because she was looking at me as if she were afraid I might hurt her. And I needed her to see that I wouldn’t, not like that, not ever.
“Zara,” I said, my voice rough even to my own ears.
She swallowed. “Hi.”
Two letters. One syllable. Yet it hit me harder than any blow I’d ever taken.
“Come here,” I said, eager to get her closer to me.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the marble, each step bringing her closer to me. The judge cleared his throat. Carla retreated to the corner, her hands clasped in front of her.
But I didn’t see them.
I only saw her.
When she stopped in front of me, I reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as I brought them to my lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
A faint blush stained her cheeks. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She looked down, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “I’m nervous.”
“Me too.”
She laughed—a soft, surprised sound. “You? Nervous?”
“I’ve never done this before.” I paused. “I want to do it right.”
She looked up at me then, and something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of trust, maybe. Or hope. Whatever it was, it made my chest ache.
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked her again.
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
I turned to the judge. “Let’s begin.”
The ceremony was short. Unromantic, by most standards.
No vows, no music, no guests weeping in the pews.
Just the judge’s monotone voice reading the legal declarations, my responses, her responses, the exchange of rings I’d had delivered that morning.
As I slipped the band onto Zara’s finger, I glanced at her.
Her grip on my hand was tight, almost desperate; she kept her gaze fixed on the tabletop, but her lashes flickered, and her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
And when he pronounced us husband and wife, I leaned in and kissed her.
I meant it to be gentle. A soft press of lips, a seal on our marriage. But the moment my mouth touched hers, I lost all sense of control. My hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. She gasped against my lips, and I tasted her—sweet and warm and mine.
I pulled back, breathing hard.
“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Falcone.” I smiled, a dark, possessive thing.
Her eyes were wide; her lips swollen.
She blinked, processing. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face. Small. Uncertain. But real.
“Zara Falcone,” she murmured, as if testing the sound.
I liked it.
I liked it more than I should have.
I took her hand and led her to the window, the city spreading out before us. “Look,” I said. “All of this. It’s yours now. I’m yours now.”
She turned to me, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I.” I brushed a curl from her face. “But we’ll figure it out together.”