Chapter 30 #2
I looked down at our intertwined hands. “If I’m your wife…” My voice came out smaller than I intended. “Am I part of that world too?”
I didn’t know what to say. So instead, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.
It was soft. Gentle. Nothing like the rough, desperate kisses we’d shared before. This was a promise. A question. A beginning.
Something darkened in his expression immediately.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want.” His voice dropped even lower. “Being close to me comes with risks, Zara. If I step out of line, or if someone wants to get to me, they use the people I care about as leverage. Wives, even girlfriends, have been threatened before. Sometimes worse.”
The certainty in his tone caught me off guard.
“I don’t understand.”
Lorenzo leaned back against the couch slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. For once, he looked tired. Not physically.
Emotionally.
“My world is dangerous,” he said carefully. “It’s built on power and fear and men who solve problems with violence before words.” His eyes held mine steadily. “The less you know about it, the safer you are.”
I frowned immediately, his jaw tightening in response. “If something happens, if people ask questions, if there are investigations—”
“I don’t care about investigations, Lorenzo.” His expression sharpened slightly at my interruption, but I continued anyway. “I care that you’re shutting me out.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
The words settled heavily between us.
He looked away first. That alone told me more than anything else tonight. Because Lorenzo almost never took his eyes off me.
“I grew up watching women in my family survive by pretending not to know things,” I said quietly. “Pretending not to ask questions. Pretending not to notice blood on expensive suits.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t want that kind of marriage.”
“I don’t know how to give you both honesty and safety,” he admitted, voice raw.
I shifted closer until our knees touched. “I understand that, but you don’t get to decide for me what I can handle.”
His eyes lifted back to mine slowly. Dark. Intense. Torn in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“You say that now,” he murmured. “But you didn’t grow up in this world, Zara. You don’t understand what men like my father are capable of.”
“Then help me understand.”
Silence.
Long enough that I thought he might shut down completely again.
Then he exhaled quietly and leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees.
“My great-grandfather built the Falcone empire through organized crime,” he said carefully.
“Smuggling. Gambling. Protection rackets. By the time my father inherited it, he was power-hungry, wanted to branch out, take over more.” His mouth twisted slightly.
“As he earned more profit and gained more power, that expectation turned to me. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, Zara. ”
I listened carefully, heart beating harder now.
“I spent most of my life trying to distance myself from that side of things,” he continued. “The restaurants, the bars, the legitimate businesses—they were supposed to be my way out.”
“And your father?”
“He believes power only survives through fear.”
The statement landed heavily.
“And you?”
Lorenzo looked at me for a long moment before answering.
“I think I want more than a life that requires the worst out of me.”
Something in my chest softened painfully at that.
Because suddenly I could see it more clearly—the constant tension inside him. The man raised in violence is trying desperately not to become it completely.
“You’re different from him,” I said quietly.
A dark laugh escaped him. “You don’t know that yet.”
“I do.”
His gaze searched mine like he was trying to understand how I could possibly believe that.
Then, softer this time, “You’re changing me.”
The confession stole the air from my lungs.
Lorenzo looked away briefly, jaw flexing as if the admission itself unsettled him.
“I used to think love made men weak,” he said quietly. “Now I think it just makes them terrified.”
Emotion climbed painfully into my throat.
“Terrified of what?”
His eyes met mine again.
“Losing the one thing that finally matters more than yourself.” He looked at me, and there was so much emotion in his eyes it almost hurt to see. “I’m trying, Zara. Trying to be better, gentler. Trying to be the man who earns your love, not takes it. I really am.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his and letting silence say what words couldn’t. For a moment, we simply looked at each other, hearts pounding, the space between us full of complicated hope.
When I pulled back, his eyes were dark, hungry, but he didn’t move to take more.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For telling me.”
“You asked.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “I told you. I’ll give you everything, Tesoro. Everything I have. Everything I am.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You’re worth it.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder, watching the clouds drift by outside the window. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and I felt something settle in my chest.
Safety. That was new.
“Tell me more,” I said. “About the good parts.”
He chuckled softly. “The good parts…”
And as the plane carried us across the ocean, he talked. About summers in Italy, swimming in the sea. About his grandmother’s cooking, the way she’d pinch his cheeks and call him bambino. About the first time he’d seen the Gilded Cage, a run-down bar that he’d poured every ounce of himself into.
I listened. I laughed. I held his hand.
And somewhere above the clouds, surrounded by champagne and leather and a man who looked at me like I was the answer to every question he’d ever asked, I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be loved.
Really loved.
By a man who saw my broken pieces and wanted to hold them, anyway.