Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Zara
The staircase to Lorenzo’s private jet felt like walking into another world.
I’d never been on a plane before. Not once in twenty-one years of existence. The closest I’d gotten to flying was watching planes streak across the sky from the roof of my ex’s apartment building, wondering what it felt like to be that high up, untouchable.
Now I was climbing into a private jet, my legs shaking beneath me.
Lorenzo’s hand pressed against the small of my back, offering subtle reassurance. He’d been quiet since we left the penthouse, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the tarmac like he expected someone to jump out from behind the fuel trucks. But his touch was gentle, guiding me forward without rushing.
“Watch your step,” he murmured, his accent thickening the way it did when he was distracted.
I stepped into the cabin and stopped breathing.
This wasn’t a plane; this was someone’s penthouse apartment with wings attached.
Cream leather seats curved around a wooden table. Gold accents lined the cabinets. A flat-screen TV bigger than my old bedroom wall sat opposite a couch probably worth more than my wardrobe. On a plane.
“Welcome, Mrs. Falcone.”
I startled, turning toward the flight attendant standing near the cabin door—blonde, immaculate in a navy dress, holding a tray with two flutes of champagne.
“Please make yourself comfortable.” She continued, smiling warmly. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Would you like a refreshment before we depart?”
I stared at the champagne. “I… yes. Thank you.”
She handed me the glass with a graceful nod. “Enjoy your flight, Ms. Falcone.”
I sank into the nearest seat, heart fluttering, as I took a shaky sip of champagne.
Lorenzo settled across from me, stretching his long legs out as he watched me over the rim of his own glass, something dark and hungry flickering in his eyes. The distance between us felt intentional. Calculated. Like he was giving me space to breathe while still drinking me in.
I couldn’t help but smile.
It was ridiculous, really. Here I was —the girl dumped on a Thursday and thrown out with nothing but a busted suitcase—sitting in a private jet with a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ spread.
A man who’d married me in a penthouse with no guests and no warning.
Who called me his wife, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“What?” he asked, his lips twitching.
“Nothing.” I shook my head, still smiling. “Just… this is a lot.”
“It’s a plane.”
“It’s a palace with engines.”
He laughed, low and warm, and the sound did something dangerous to my chest. “Wait until you see the bedroom.”
My cheeks flushed. “Lorenzo.”
“What? I’m told it’s quite comfortable.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “For sleeping. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The engines hummed to life, a low vibration that traveled through the floor and up into my bones. I gripped the armrest as the plane began to taxi, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The plane turned onto the runway, and the engines roared.
I felt the world tilt, pressing me into my seat.
I tried grounding myself, fingers digging into the leather.
I could feel every bump in the tarmac, every shudder of the wheels until anxiety prickled through me.
That was until a hand landed on my thigh — warm, heavy,grounding.
I gasped, eyes flying open as Lorenzo quietly moved to the seat beside me. Heat flared at the touch of his palm resting just above my knee.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low in my ear. “Look at me.”
I turned my head, meeting his gaze. Dark eyes, steady and sure. The kind of eyes that had seen things I couldn’t imagine and survived them.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
“We’re so high up—”
“Close your eyes.”
I did.
“Breathe with me. In.” I felt his chest expand against my shoulder. “Hold. Out.”
I mirrored his breathing, matching his steady rhythm. Slowly, panic loosened its grip, warmth from his hand and body anchoring me.
“Open your eyes, Tesoro.”
I blinked.
“We’re going to turn now,” he said softly. “Look out the window.”
When I did, my breath caught for an entirely different reason.
The city sprawled beneath us, a glittering maze of streets.
Then we banked, and the city disappeared, replaced by endless, rolling clouds stretching to the horizon in every direction. White and gold and soft pink, the colors bleeding into each other like watercolors.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I turned to find Lorenzo watching me, his hand still tracing circles on my thigh.
“Look at the clouds,” I said, my voice breathless. “Not at me.”
“I’d rather look at you.”
I grabbed my champagne and took a long sip, hoping the bubbles would cool my cheeks, burning from the heat of his gaze.
We stayed like that for a while before the plane leveled out, and the seatbelt sign clicked off, the sky stretching infinitely around us. Lorenzo’s hand remained on my thigh, and the flight attendant continued to keep my champagne glass full.
When my heartbeat finally settled, I turned to face him fully.
“It’s been almost two weeks now,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “What else should I know about my mysterious husband?”
He smiled—slow, curling, devastating. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’ll tell you anything,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Mia Moglie.”
My stomach flipped. I didn’t know what the words meant, exactly—something Italian, something beautiful—but they settled into my bones like a promise.
“You can start,” I said, “with why you married a stranger. I’ve asked you a bunch of times, but I never get a straight answer.”
He leaned back, sliding his hand from my thigh and intertwining his fingers with mine. His thumb absently traced patterns on my skin as he considered my question.
“Because I saw you,” he said simply. “And I knew.”
“Knew what?” I was frustrated now, tired of asking the same question and getting the same vague response.
“That you were mine,” he said bluntly.
I opened my mouth to argue—I wasn’t anyone’s, didn’t belong to anyone—but his attention enveloped me, the intensity and warmth in his eyes slamming into my defenses until I wanted to believe.
“That’s not an answer,” I managed.
“It’s the only one I have.” He lifted my hand to his lips again, kissing my palm this time. “I’m not good with words, Zara. I’m not good with feelings. But I know what I want. And I wanted you.”
“And you knew all that from across a bar?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even know my name.”
“I knew your eyes.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I knew the way you held your glass. I knew you were hurting, and I wanted to be the one who put you back together.”
My heart stuttered. “That’s…”
“Too much?” He smiled, but there was something sad in it.
“I was going to say it’s romantic,” I admitted. “In a slightly terrifying way.”
His laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ll take terrifying.”
I shifted in my seat, tucking my legs beneath me. “Tell me something else. Something about your childhood.”
He was quiet for a long moment. I watched the shadows move across his face as he decided what to share, how much to hold back.
“I grew up in a family that didn’t believe in childhood,” he finally said. “My father—he wasn’t a father. He was a businessman. And the family business…”
“Crime,” I said softly.
“Yes.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you, Zara. My family has blood on its hands. Money that was made in ways that would make you sick. I’ve seen things I can’t unsee, done things I’m not proud of.”
I squeezed his hand. “Tell me, I want to understand.”
He looked at me then, really looked, as if he were searching for judgment, but he wouldn’t find any.
“I was fourteen the first time my uncle took me on a run.”
“What kind of run?”
“Delivering a message.” His jaw tightened. “My uncle Vitale was my father’s enforcer. He liked to handle things personally. One night, he pulled me out of bed and told me I was coming with him. No explanation, no warning.”
“What happened?”
“We drove to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. There were men there—three of them. They’d been skimming from one of my father’s operations. Vitale wanted to make an example.”
I held my breath.
“He handed me a gun.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and dark. I could see it—a fourteen-year-old Lorenzo, still soft in the edges, standing in a warehouse with a weapon in his hands.
“Did you…?”
“No,” He shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t. I pointed it at them, but my hands were shaking. Vitale laughed and took it from me. He said I was soft. That I would never be a real Falcone.”
“Lorenzo…”
“He was right.” Lorenzo’s voice was hollow. “I didn’t want to be that guy. I wanted to be a kid. I wanted to play soccer and chase girls and not know what it felt like to hold a loaded gun.”
I reached out, cupping his cheek. He leaned into my touch, his eyes closing.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be. It made me who I am.”
“Who is that?”
He opened his eyes, and there was something raw in them. Vulnerable. “I’m a man trying to build something different. The restaurants, the Gilded Cage, that’s all mine. Clean money. Legitimate. I wanted one thing in my life that wasn’t tainted by my family.”
“And you stay out of the rest?”
“As much as I can.” His hand came up to cover mine, pressing my palm flat against his cheek.
“But sometimes, I don’t have a choice. I’m next in line, the underboss in our world.
My family—they don’t let you leave. You’re either in, or you’re an enemy.
I’ve managed to find a middle ground, but it’s… fragile.”
I swallowed carefully. “Your family really is involved in… all of that?”
His eyes flicked toward mine. “What exactly do you think my family does, Tesoro?”
I hesitated.
“People talk,” I admitted softly. “And I’m not stupid.”
A humorless smile crossed his face. “No. You’re not.”
The room fell quiet again, tension threading slowly between us.