Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Lorenzo
I watched her across the candlelit table, something raw twisting in my chest.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.
“No, Tesoro. I’m admiring.”
“Tesoro…what’s that mean?” Her attempt at my accent was clumsy but fucking adorable.
She was stunning in the low light. Her fingers traced the rim of her wineglass, anxious circles that made my cock twitch beneath the table. She was mine. Signed. Sealed. Branded with my name.
“It means treasure. My treasure.”
Her lips parted around a shaky breath, and lord help me, I wanted to be the reason she forgot every coherent thought in her pretty little head.
I wanted to reach across the table, grab her chin, and kiss that sound right out of her throat.
But I held back; I needed to be patient.
I’d earn her trust, then I’d devour her.
The air between us thickened, yet she held my gaze, her cheeks flushing pink. For a moment, the world shrank to just her eyes, her lips, the way her chest rose and fell a little too fast.
Then my father appeared at our table like a ghost in a slate suit. Pale hair. Steel eyes. A mouth that never smiled at me without a motive.
“Lorenzo.”
“Father.”
I kept my eyes on Zara, who had gone still, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Who is this?” His voice was ice wrapped in silk.
I stood slowly, deliberately placing myself between them. “This is my wife. Zara.”
“Your wife?” His laugh was sharp, brittle, a knife on glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not married.”
“We signed the papers this afternoon. Judge Reynolds officiated.”
The silence stretched. I could feel Zara’s eyes on my back, wide and confused.
I should have warned her. I wanted her claimed in front of everyone, even knowing how toxic my father could be.
Some part of me needed her to see all of me—the parts that craved ownership and the parts shaped by venom—so she’d know exactly what she was getting.
“Look at her. She doesn’t even have the decency to dress like she belongs in this city.”
“She belongs wherever I say she belongs.”
“Don’t be a fool, Lorenzo. This will be annulled.”
“I fulfilled my end.” I turned to face him fully, letting him see the coldness in my eyes. “You wanted me married. I’m married. Now leave.”
“Hm…I see.” He pulled out the chair opposite Zara and sat down without invitation. He folded his hands on the tablecloth, studying her like a specimen under glass. “So you’re the one who trapped my son.”
Zara’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t trap anyone.”
“No? Then explain to me how a woman from—where are you from, exactly? The suburbs? A studio apartment?—ends up married to a Falcone.”
“Father, that’s enough—”
“I’m not talking to you.” He didn’t even glance at me. His gray eyes pinned Zara. “Tell me, dear. What do you do for a living?”
She hesitated. “I’m a marketing assistant.”
“Assistant.” He let the word hang, dripping with contempt. “So, no steady income. No job security. No family name worth mentioning. And you expect me to believe you’re not after our money?”
“I didn’t marry him for money.”
“Then why? Love?” He laughed again, cold and ugly. “You couldn’t have been around that long; this is the first i am hearing of you. Love doesn’t happen overnight. Lust does. Greed does. Stupidity does.”
Zara’s hands clenched in her lap. I saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she pressed her lips together to keep from snapping back.
“No answer?” My father leaned forward. “Let me ask you something else. How did you meet my son? In a bar? Through a mutual friend? Or did you track him? Research him? Decide he was your ticket out of mediocrity?”
“It was at his bar.”
“Ah, the infamous Gilded Cage,” he said it like she’d confessed to a crime. “And you just happened to sit next to him? Just happened to smile? Just happened to land in his bed?”
“Enough.” My voice came out low, dangerous. “This conversation is over.”
But my father ignored me. He was enjoying this. I could see it in the cruel curl of his lips, the way he leaned closer to Zara, lowering his voice so only she and I could hear.
“Let me tell you what I see when I look at you. I see someone who doesn’t belong. Someone who will drag my son down. Someone who will never be accepted into this family. And I promise you—I will make your life a living hell if you stay with him.”
Zara’s face went pale. Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with something harder.
Fear. Rage. Humiliation. For a moment, I saw something shift beneath her skin—a stubborn refusal to look away, to flinch, even when she wanted to.
She wanted to stand her ground, to fight back, but the words caught behind her teeth. Not here. Not in front of him. Not yet.
“Do not play with me, girl,” my father spat out.
She looked at me.
And in that look, I saw her crumbling. The walls I’d planned on carefully dismantling were being rebuilt with steel-reinforced concrete, and my father was hammering every nail himself.
I’d be damned.
“Get the fuck away from my wife,” I snapped.
I grabbed my father by the collar of his perfect gray suit and hauled him to his feet. The restaurant fell silent. A waiter dropped a glass. Somewhere, a woman gasped.
My father’s eyes widened—genuine surprise, for once—but he didn’t struggle. He knew better.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” I growled, my face inches from his, “but you will not talk to my wife like that. You do not look at her. You do not breathe in her direction. Do you hear me?”
“Lorenzo, I suggest—”
“Fuck your suggestions. You’re done here.”
I shoved him back. He stumbled, caught his balance, and straightened his jacket with shaking hands.
“Fine,” he bit out. “You’ve made your point.”
The restaurant watched, frozen, as he shot me one last look—something cold and calculating—then turned and walked out.
I turned to where Zara was standing, her jacket clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and wet. Not crying. But close. Too close.
“Zara—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Just… don’t.”
She attempted to walk past me. Toward the door.
But I followed, catching her wrist just before she reached the exit. “Wait.”
She stopped. But she didn’t turn around.
“Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” Her voice was hollow. “That you knew he’d come? That you brought me here so he could humiliate me in public? All for what? So you could play the big, possessive hero while I sat there and took it?”
“No. That’s not—”
“Let go of me, Lorenzo.”
She tried to pull her arm from my grip, but I held on tight. “I didn’t know he’d show up tonight. I swear it. I brought you here because I wanted to be alone with you.”
She turned her head just enough to meet my eyes. Her gaze was sharp, wounded, furious. “What do you expect, huh?”
“I expect you to trust me.”
“How can I trust you?” She pulled her wrist free, her skin slipping through my fingers like water. “You didn’t warn me. You didn’t prepare me. You just threw me to the wolves because you needed to prove something to him, and expected me to survive.”
“Zara—”
“I just want to go to bed,” she said, stepping outside as I followed, reaching for her hand. For one moment—one brief, fragile moment—her fingers curled around mine.
Then she slid her hand out of my grip, letting it fall to her side. She didn’t look back.
The drive back to the penthouse was tense. She stared out the window, arms folded, jaw clenched. I gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Not even the McLarens’ relentless power did anything to steady my nerves.
I wanted to reach out to her. To grab her arm, pull her close, make her see how desperate I was for her to believe I hadn’t planned any of it. My father showing up was no more than a cruel coincidence.
But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d pull away.
“Zara.”
She ignored me.
“Zara.”
She reached the bedroom door and tried to close it behind her, but I was faster. My hand caught the edge, shoving it open.
“Get away from me,” she hissed.
“Stop running.”
“I’m not running. I’m leaving.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I can’t be a pawn in your efforts to win your father’s approval. I can’t do this.”
“It’s not a game.”
“It’s always a game with people like you.” She shook her head, stepping back. “I should have known. I should have walked away the moment you slipped that tracking device into my phone.”
“Zara, listen—”
“No. You listen.” She pointed a trembling finger at my chest. “I signed a contract. I said, ‘I do.’ But that doesn’t mean I trust you. That doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”
Something dark snapped inside me.
“You owe me everything.” My voice came out low, dangerous. “You’re my wife. You live under my roof. You eat at my table. You wear my name.”
“And you think that gives you the right to control me?”
“I think it gives me the right to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” she laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re suffocating me.”
She reached for the door again, but I caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to hold her in place.
“Let go of me.”
“Stop pushing me away.”
“I’m not pushing—”
“You are.” I stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body, to see the pulse fluttering at her throat. “You’re building walls. Putting distance between us. And I won’t let you.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up.
“Lorenzo—”
“Say my name again.” My voice was hoarse. “I dare you.”
She swallowed.
And then she slammed the door in my face.
The wood shook in its frame. The lock clicked.
I stood there, my hand still raised, my chest heaving.
I could break it down. I could shove through, pin her to the bed, remind her exactly who she belonged to now.
But that wasn’t how I wanted our first night to go.
I pressed my palm flat against the door instead, my forehead following a moment later.
“Zara.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
More silence.
“I will apologize for not warning you about my father. That was… a miscalculation.”
A pause. Then, softly: “Go away, Lorenzo.”
I laughed—a low, bitter sound. “That’s not going to happen.”