Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lorenzo
The brunch was perfect.
I’d chosen the place carefully—a small spot by the water, tucked away from the tourist crowds, where the waiters knew my name and the chef made pancakes that could bring a woman to tears. It wasn’t flashy, but it was a place I thought she would appreciate, and I wanted to share it with her.
Zara sat across from me, her sundress loose around her shoulders, curls falling over her shoulder. She was nursing a mimosa with the careful deliberation of someone who’d learned the hard way that too much champagne led to a shitty migraine the next day.
But she was smiling.
A real smile.
The first one I’d seen from her that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or guarded pain.
“I’m trying,” I said, setting down my fork.
She looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine. “I know.”
For a moment, I thought I saw something soften in her expression. The walls she’d built—the ones I’d been battering against since the moment I saw her—seemed to lower, just a crack.
“Come,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Let’s walk.”
She blinked. “Where?”
“The water. There’s a path.” I held out my hand.
I saw the war in her eyes—the part of her that wanted to say no, that wanted to stay safe, that remembered every man who’d ever hurt her. But then she took a breath, and her fingers met mine.
I kept her hand in mine as we walked along the boardwalk, the late morning sun casting long shadows across the water. The breeze was cool, carrying the salt of the harbor and the distant sound of seagulls.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, her voice quiet. “The real stuff.”
I let out a low laugh. “That’s a dangerous question.”
“Good. I like danger.”
I glanced at her, and for a second, I saw a spark of mischief in her eyes. With that look, I’d answer any question she’d ask of me.
“Alright,” I said. “My father is a bastard. You’ve met him, so you know. My mother is… gone. Not dead. Just checked out. She spends her days at charity luncheons and her night’s drinking wine in her room. She’s been that way since I was twelve.”
Zara’s fingers tightened around mine. “What happened when you were twelve?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“I lost my brother,” I said finally. “Matteo. He was the good one. The one who was supposed to take over the family, marry the right girl, carry on the legacy.” I shook my head. “When he died, my father had no backup plan. So he tried to mold me into a replacement.”
The memories were old, worn smooth from years of repression, but they still had edges. My older brother, Matteo—the golden child, the heir my father actually wanted—was killed by a drunk driver when he was seventeen.
After that, everything fell apart.
My mother disappeared further into herself. My father became sharper and colder than ever. And me? I became the rebellion. The wild card.
“I’m sorry, Lorenzo. That must have been hard.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Zara was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “You have a sister, though. Right?”
“Yes, a half-sister, Isabella. She’s younger than me, married to a man my father picked for her. She’s the only one who gets to tell my father to go to hell.”
“Sounds like you.”
I smiled. “She learned from the best.”
Zara laughed—a real, genuine laugh that made my heart skip.
“What about you?” I asked. “Tell me about your family.”
Her smile faded, but not in a bad way. It softened, as if she were remembering something painful but distant.
“I’m the second oldest of four. My dad left when I was eight. Just… walked out one day and never came back. My mom worked two jobs to keep us afloat. She did her best, but she was always tired, always stressed. I don’t blame her. She gave up everything for us.”
“Four kids alone,” I said. “That’s not easy.”
“It wasn’t. But we made it work.” She paused, her eyes drifting to the water.
“I think that’s why I’m so messed up. I never really learned what love looks like.
My dad left before I could figure it out.
My mom was too busy surviving to show me.
And every guy I’ve been with since then…
they either used me or left when things got hard. ”
I stopped walking.
She stopped too, turning to face me.
“Zara.”
“What?”
I wanted to tell her I wasn’t like them. That I would never leave. That I’d do anything to keep her safe.
But instead, I just held her hand tighter and kept walking until we found a bench overlooking the harbor, and we sat down .
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came after honesty—the kind that said I’ve shown you something real, and you didn’t run.
Zara leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, watching the boats bob in the distance.
“Can I ask you something else?” she asked tentatively, almost as if she were afraid of my response.
“Anything.”
She turned to look at me, her dark eyes searching. “Why me? I mean, you could have anyone. A billionaire heir with a penthouse, a bar, and a family name that opens doors. Why would you marry a random girl who showed up at your bar crying over her ex?”
“You’re not broken.”
“I am,” she said, and there was no self-pity in her voice.
Just a fact. “I’m a mess, Lorenzo. I have daddy issues, trust issues, and a credit score that makes me want to cry.
I don’t know what love is supposed to look like.
I don’t know if I’m capable of it.” She gave a small, humorless laugh, her eyes fixed on her hands.
“You are not broken. There may be pieces of you, but each one is just as beautiful and as special as the last.”
“You don’t know that.”
I grabbed her hand, eyeing the simple band I’d placed on her finger. I took in the row of stones catching the light, before placing a gentle kiss first on her hand, and then on the ring itself.
“I do, Tesoro.”
She shook her head. “Why not wait? Why not fall in love with someone normal? Someone who doesn’t come with all this baggage?”
I turned to face her fully, my knee brushing hers.
“Because the second I saw you,” I said, “I already knew.”
Her breath caught.
“Knew what?”
“That you were the one I’d fall in love with.” The words came out rough, raw. “When I saw you sitting at that bar, crying over some asshole who didn’t deserve you, I felt something I’ve never felt before. And I knew that if I let you walk out of my life, I would regret it forever.”
“Yup, you really are crazy,” she whispered, her freckled cheeks turning rosy.
“Probably,” I said. “But it’s the truth.”
She looked at me, her lips parted, her eyes wide.
And I knew.
I knew this was the moment.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
I leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, her eyes fluttered shut.
And I pressed my lips to hers.
The kiss was soft at first, gentle, testing.
Then I felt her breath hitch, her body tense, and then—slowly—she relaxed.
Her hand came up to rest on my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as I deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, one hand cupping the back of her neck.
She tasted like orange juice and syrup and something uniquely her.
For a long moment, the world disappeared.
There was no family drama. No contracts. No deadlines.
Just Zara and I.
When I finally pulled back, her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly swollen. She looked dazed.
“I—” she swallowed.
She leaned into me, her head finding my shoulder, and something inside me shifted.
“Thank you,” she said, “for today.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “We still have thirteen days.”
Her lips curved. “Thirteen days to prove you’re not crazy?”
“Thirteen days to show you what love can look like.”
I stood, offering her my hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
We walked back to the car, where my driver was waiting, and I opened the door for her. She slid in, and I followed, settling beside her.
I had thirteen days.
Thirteen days to break down every wall she’d built.
Thirteen days to make her see what I saw.
And I was going to use every single one of them.