Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lorenzo
The moment the cabin door swung open, the air hit me—warm, thick with the scent of tarmac and sea salt, carrying that particular Italian humidity I’d known since childhood. But today, it felt different. Today, I wasn’t arriving alone.
I turned to find Zara still strapped in her seat, gripping the armrests tightly. Her eyes were wide, questioning, and a little afraid.
“Come, Tesoro. Welcome to Italy,” I said, extending my hand to help her up from the seat. As Zara rose, I gently guided her until her bare feet touched the metal stairs. She let out a squeal, high and pure, like a child on Christmas morning.
“Italy?!” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Lorenzo—we’re in Italy?!”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. The sound escaped me as I watched her spin in a slow circle, trying to take in the mountains in the distance, the cobblestones and cypress trees lining the airfield.
Her old wounds surfaced—years of hurt, of not being enough, of surviving on scraps and hope. I was privileged to give her this moment. Pride surged so fiercely that I steadied myself by grasping her hand.
“I take it you approve.”
“Approve?” She whirled back to face me, her eyes bright, almost wet. “Lorenzo, I’ve dreamed of coming here my whole life. I saved pictures on a Pinterest board I never thought I’d actually see.”
I filed that information away. Pinterest board. Italy. Every dream she’d ever had was now my mission to fulfill.
“Then we’re off to a good start.” I led her down the stairs, keeping my hand at the small of her back. We walked toward a waiting black sedan on the tarmac: sleek and understated—the kind of car that said money without screaming it.
Dante opened the door with a slight bow. “Benvenuti in Italia, Signor e Signora Falcone.”
I felt her freeze beside me.
Zara’s eyes went wide, that same flicker of disbelief with the weight of a name she was still learning to wear.
I leaned down, my lips brushing her ear. “That’s you now. Get used to it.”
She swallowed, then gave me a shaky nod.
“To the house, Dante.”
“Subito, Signor Falcone.”
The car pulled away smoothly, and I watched her press her face to the window like a child on a road trip. The hills rolled past—olive groves, vineyards, ancient stone farmhouses clinging to the slopes. Terracotta roofs. Winding roads lined with sunflowers.
I’d seen it a hundred times, but seeing it through her eyes made it new.
She turned to me, her voice soft. “Lorenzo, I want to plan some things. I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Uffizi. And the vineyards in Tuscany. And—” She caught herself, almost embarrassed. “Is that okay? I don’t want to assume we have time.”
I reached over and took her hand, lacing our fingers together. “You can plan anything you want. I will make time. But I have a few things I want to share with you, too.”
Her eyes softened. “Like what?”
“You’ll see.” I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Let me surprise you.”
She smiled—that rare, genuine smile that made every dark corner of my past worth it. Then she turned back to the window, and I settled into the seat, content to watch her experience Italy.
The drive to my family’s home in Lake Como took forty minutes. Winding roads, a brief stretch along the coast where the Mediterranean sparkled like shattered sapphires, then up the hills. Houses grew fewer, vegetation thicker. And then we turned down a long gravel drive lined with cypress trees.
Giovanni slowed the car. “Siamo arrivati, Signor Falcone.”
I squeezed her hand. “We’re here.”
The large, ornate iron gates adorned with the Falcone family crest swung open, leading to a view of the entire estate.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
La Casa dei Falcone rose before us like something out of a Renaissance painting.
A sprawling villa of honey-colored stone, three stories tall, with ivy climbing the eastern wall.
Terracotta roof tiles, aged to a deep russet.
A central courtyard with a fountain cascading into a basin, surrounded by lemon trees.
Shuttered windows, each one framed by climbing roses.
A loggia ran along the second floor, shaded by wisteria that hung in purple cascades.
Behind the villa, the hills rolled on forever, dotted with olive trees and wildflowers.
Giovanni opened the door. “Welcome, Signora.”
She stepped out slowly, as if the ground might crumble beneath her. Her mouth hung open, her eyes drinking in every detail.
“Lorenzo… this is…” She shook her head, lost for words.
I came up behind her, hands on her hips. “It’s been in my family for five generations. We typically only use it in summer, but I thought you deserved it all to ourselves. No family. No obligations. Just us.”
She leaned back into me, her head resting against my chest. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.” I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I led her through the arched entrance of the villa.
Mariella appeared from a side hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun, her round face crinkled with laugh lines, and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing when I was a child.
“Signor Lorenzo.” She beamed, coming forward to kiss both my cheeks. “It’s been too long.”
“Mariella.” I returned the gesture, then turned to Zara. “This is Mariella. She’s been with our family since before I was a baby. She runs this house. If you need anything, anything at all, she’s the one to ask.”
Mariella turned her warm gaze on Zara. “Signora Falcone. Benvenuta. It is an honor to have you here.”
Zara’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you. Please call me Zara.”
Mariella’s smile widened. “Zara. A beautiful name.” She clasped her hands. “I have prepared the master suite. Your bags are already being brought up. If you need anything—a bath, a meal, a tour—you only have to ask.”
“Thank you,” Zara’s voice was thick with emotion.
I squeezed her shoulder. “Mariella will show you to our room. I have to check on something real quick—a work matter I can’t leave unattended.”
I saw the flicker of disappointment cross her face before she could hide it, her shoulders dropping almost imperceptibly.
I hated that look.
I cupped her chin, tilting her face up to meet my eyes. “I’ll be back soon, Mia Moglie. I promise. And I’ll make up for my absence.”
She tried to smile. “Okay.”
I kissed her forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then I turned and walked toward the study, where my phone had been buzzing insistently for the last ten minutes.
I answered with a snarl. “What?”
“Lorenzo.” My father’s voice was ice. “I heard you took the jet to Italy with that wife of yours.”
“She has a name, Father.”
“I don’t care what her name is. We have business to discuss. The Gualtieri deal—”
“It can wait.”
“It cannot. Since you are out gallivanting in Italy, I have arranged a meeting with the Provenzano family tomorrow. I expect you to represent our family well.”
I closed my eyes, my jaw tight. “Fine. I’ll be there. But I’m not leaving Zara here alone.”
“Bring her if you must. But don’t let her distract you.”
He ended the call before I could respond.
I stood there, in my family’s study, surrounded by portraits of ancestors who’d built empires on blood and ruthlessness. And all I could think about was the sadness I’d seen flicker in Zara’s eyes before I’d kissed it away.
After spending several hours on business and getting a debrief from Cosa about the Provenzano family, I headed upstairs, where Zara was taking pictures and playing with Beau.
I’d promised to make up for my absence.
And I intended to keep that promise tonight, in every way I knew how.