Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Zara
The last two days had been confusing as hell.
Lorenzo was different.
Gone was the man who punched strangers in restaurants and fucked me against bathroom stalls. In his place was someone I barely recognized—someone who had dinner ready when I got home from work, who asked about my day, who refilled my wine without being asked.
He was gentle in a way that disoriented me.
My mind hadn’t accepted that though. I just kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the possessive monster to emerge, for him to grab my wrist and remind me who I belonged to. But he didn’t; he just… was. Present, attentive, soft.
And then this morning, he’d fucked me in the shower.
Hard.
Against the tile, water streaming down our bodies, cries of pleasure vibrating against the walls.
He’d taken me apart like he was starving for it, like he needed to consume me just to survive.
I’d come twice before he finally let himself go, burying his face in my neck and groaning my name like a prayer.
Afterward, he dried me off, wrapped me in a robe, and made me breakfast.
No mention of sex.
No possessive comments.
Just eggs and toast and that infuriating smile, and I had no idea what to do with this version of him, so I decided to just embrace it for as long as it lasts.
Earlier I had texted him that I’d handle dinner—a peace offering, maybe, or an excuse to get him to open up. He’d been so closed off about himself. I knew his family was rich, that he ran the bar, that his parents wanted grandchildren and a proper heir. But beyond that? Nothing.
I wanted more.
I needed to understand the man I’d married if I had any chance of surviving the year.
I let myself into the penthouse, arms aching with grocery bags, and found him in the study, laptop open, phone to his ear. He looked up as I walked in, and for a split second, I caught something in his eyes—surprise, warmth, maybe even longing before he tucked it away.
“Let me call you back,” he said into the phone, then hung up without waiting for a response.
“You’re home early,” he said, standing in the room to take the bags from my arms.
“I wanted to cook for you.”
His eyebrows rose. “You cook?”
“I have layers, Lorenzo.”
He laughed, low and genuine, and my stomach flipped. That laugh—the real one—was dangerous. It made me want to hear it again. Made me want to be the reason for it. And that alone was probably another failure of boundaries on my end.
Tonight I’d decided on Spanish food—something that simmered slowly, filling the penthouse with heat and spice, just like my home growing up.
I unpacked ingredients across the marble counter: fresh tomatoes, garlic, saffron rice, and chorizo.
“Move,” I said, shooing him away from the counter as I unpacked. “Let me work.”
He leaned against the island, arms crossed, watching me with that steady gaze that made my skin prickle. “I like watching you.”
I nudge him lightly with my hip. “You hovering over me is distracting.”
I focused on chopping onions, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly. Stay focused. You’re doing this for answers, not to get distracted.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice light, “tell me about your day.”
“Standard. Meetings. Calls.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“It’s not interesting. Tell me about yours, instead.”
“Humor me.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I glanced up, caught him studying me with an unreadable expression.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
The question hung in the air, heavy and charged.
I set down the knife and turned to face him fully. “Because you’re my husband. Because I live in your house, sleep in your bed, and wear your ring. And I still don’t actually know anything about you.”
“You know enough.”
A humorless laugh slipped out of me. “Do I?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I know you’re obsessive and possessive and rich as hell. I know your family owns half the city.” I wiped my hands on a dish towel and leaned back against the counter. “And before you ask—yes, I looked you up.”
“Zara—”
“I was curious.” I shrugged. “There are articles about your father. Your uncles. The clubs, the businesses.” I tilted my head. “Some very interesting rumors.”
His expression hardened instantly. “What rumors?”
“You know.” I gave him a teasing smile that didn’t quite hide the challenge underneath it. “Bar fights, organized crime, bachelor mafia prince. That sort of thing.”
He was moving before I realized it.
One second, he was across the kitchen island. The next thing he was in front of me, crowding into my space until my lower back pressed against the marble counter.
“Is that what you think?” he asked quietly.
Too quietly.
God, he was intimidating like this—dark eyes locked on mine, broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt, heat pouring off him in waves.
I swallowed, but forced myself not to look away.
“You tell me.”
His hand flattened against the counter beside my hip. Trapping me there without touching me.
“Do I look like a criminal to you?”
“You did punch a man in a restaurant,” I quipped.
His nostrils flared. “He touched my wife.”
“There it is,” I shot back softly. “That possessive caveman thing you do.”
For a second, I thought he might actually explode. I could see the violence in him then—not directed at me, never at me, but there under the surface like a restrained storm.
And the worst part?
It thrilled me.
My chest rose too fast, breath catching somewhere between fear and anticipation.
His gaze dropped briefly, tracking the quick rise and fall of my chest, the heat flushing beneath my freckles.
Lorenzo stepped away abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair like he was angry at himself.
“That’s not me anymore, Zara.” His voice was rough. “I’m no saint. I’ve done things I’m not proud of.” He looked at me then, eyes stripped bare. “But I’m trying. For you, Mia Moglie,” he said gently.
My wife.
The tenderness in it hit harder than the anger had.
He let out a sharp breath and looked away, then back at me, something dark and conflicted burning in his eyes.
“Unless,” he said slowly, “you want me to be the man you think I am.”
The words wrapped around my throat.
A warning or a temptation — suddenly broken by the ringing of Lorenzo’s phone for the third time since he stepped into my space.
“Cazzo!” he muttered as he snatched the phone off the counter, glancing at the screen.
His expression darkened instantly.
“What?” he answered flatly.
I watched the change happen in real time.
The softness vanished from his face; the vulnerability gone. The man who’d just admitted he was trying for me disappeared behind something colder, harder.
Dangerous.
He listened silently, eyes narrowing.
Then, very calmly, “Get them out.”
A pause.
“I don’t care who started it.”
Another pause, longer this time.
His shoulders went rigid.
“Anyone recording?” His voice dropped lower. Sharper. “Confiscate the phones. Delete the footage.”
My stomach tightened.
There it was again, that glimpse beneath the polished surface. The man people whispered about. My skin prickled with a sudden chill, heartbeat thudding wildly in my chest. Even the scent of him—clean soap and something darker, sharper—seemed to fill the air until it was all I could breathe.
The man he swore he wasn’t anymore.
Lorenzo turned away slightly, dragging a hand down his jaw while whoever was on the other end kept talking over the noise in the background. Music. Shouting. Glass breaking.
Chaos.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, like he was fighting for patience.
Then he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Don’t call me again tonight.”
Another protest from the other end.
“I’m having dinner with my wife.” Each word landed like a warning. “If there’s another problem, call Costa.”
He hung up before the person could answer.
His fingers scrolled through his contacts before he lifted the phone to his ear, his expression darkening almost instantly.
He spoke in rapid Italian, the sharp edge in his tone making tension crawl down my spine even though I couldn’t understand the words.
Still, the language rolled from his lips like velvet wrapped around a blade.
I studied him carefully as he stood there with the phone still clenched in his hand, chest rising slowly and controlled, as if he was forcing himself back into calm.
He stepped toward me again, the hard edge easing from his mouth as he reached up and brushed his knuckles lightly against my cheek, his dark eyes fixed on mine like he was trying to memorize every reaction I gave him.
And somewhere beneath the heat, the fear, the impossible pull between us, I realized something terrifying.
I wanted every version of him.
Even the dangerous one.