Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zara
The journal pages were beginning to wrinkle beneath my fingers.
Not from age.
From use.
From opening and closing them too many times these past five days, ink pressed hard onto paper as my thoughts outran my hand. The corners soften, the spine bends from holding it against my chest before sleep.
I sat curled in the wrought-iron chair on our villa’s balcony, one bare foot tucked under me, the Tuscan sun warming my skin in amber light.
Italy had a different kind of sunlight than at home.
Warmer somehow. Thicker. Like honey poured across the hills.
Here, everything feels saturated. Colors brighter, air sweeter, food richer, emotions sharper.
Evenings feel alive in a way I’ve never felt.
Downstairs, Mariella hums as she moves around the kitchen.
Pots clatter. Garlic and tomatoes simmer in olive oil.
The scent drifts up with lavender from the garden.
And every single time reality catches up to me, I have the same thought.
I still couldn’t believe this is my life.
Five days.
Only five days since Lorenzo brought me to Italy, and somehow the entire shape of my world has changed.
Five days! Since landing in Florence, stepping off a private jet into a world I’d only seen in movies. Five days of pasta, gelato, and wine tasting like sunshine. Five days of Lorenzo’s hand on my back, lips on my neck, and voice in my ear—rough, possessive, reverent.
That first night, he’d brought me to a trattoria tucked into the hills outside Florence, the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and a nonna in the kitchen who pinched my cheeks and insisted I was too thin.
She kept bringing food until I could barely move, and Lorenzo watched me with that quiet half-smile, as if he was memorizing every bite, every sound I made.
“Good?” he asked, and I couldn’t even answer, just nodded with my mouth full of the best carbonara I’d ever had.
The next day, he showed me Lake Como. I stood in the piazza and tilted my head back until my neck ached, trying to see the top of that impossible dome.
He stood behind me, his arms around my waist, and told me how his nonna used to bring him here when he was a boy, how she’d buy him gelato from the place on the corner and tell him stories about Brunelleschi.
I felt his chest press against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder, and for a moment—just a moment—I forgot about all the darkness that lurked beneath the surface.
Forgot about the way he’d bound me with his tie, the way he’d claimed me in that bathroom, the way he’d punched my ex without a second thought.
Here, he was just a man showing his wife his favorite places.
We went to the Uffizi Gallery. He held my hand as we walked through room after room of Renaissance masterpieces, stopping in front of a Caravaggio—a painting of a boy being bitten by a lizard, the expression of pain and surprise so vivid it made my stomach clench.
“This one’s always been my favorite,” he said, his voice low.
“Why?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Because it’s honest. Pain is honest. Everything else… It’s just decoration.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I just squeezed his hand and let him lead me to the next painting.
We spent the entire second day at Lake Como, where he’d roamed as a kid.
He woke me before dawn, bundled me into a car, and drove us to the lake. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the mountains like a mirror. He’d arranged for a private boat—a sleek wooden thing with a captain who disappeared as soon as we stepped aboard, leaving us alone.
He let me steer. I was terrible at it, constantly over-correcting, but he stood behind me, his body bracketing mine, his hands covering mine on the wheel.
“Easy,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “Gentle. Feel the water.”
“I can’t feel the water; I’m in a boat.”
He laughed—that genuine, surprised laugh that still made my pulse race. “Just… breathe. Trust it.”
I did. I let him guide me, let his warmth seep into my back, let the quiet of the lake settle over me. We floated for hours, stopping at a tiny village where we ate fresh fish and drank wine on a patio overlooking the water.
“You used to come here?” I asked, tracing the rim of my glass.
“When things got bad.” His voice was careful, measured. “I’d take a boat out and just… disappear for a while. No phone. No family. Just the water.”
“Did it help?”
He looked at me, and his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. “No. But it was the closest thing to peace I had.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. He let me.
That night, back at the villa, he showed me what peace meant to him now. It meant his mouth on every inch of my body. His hands were gripping my hips as he took me from behind, his voice rough in my ear, telling me exactly what I was to him.
“Mine,” he growled, his fingers digging into my thighs. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasped, and the word tasted like surrender—but a sweet one.
He didn’t let me sleep for hours. And when I finally did, it was in his arms, his chest pressed to my back, his breath warm against my neck.
Day three was Milan.
He took me shopping on Via Montenapoleone. I’ve never felt so out of place. Stores were quiet enough to hear silk rustle and heels click on marble. Saleswomen looked at me—my jeans, worn sneakers, cheap handbag—and I saw their judgment.
Then Lorenzo walked in, tall and sure of himself. The saleswomen straightened, their attention shifting. He spoke in quick, confident Italian, and suddenly there were armfuls of clothes—dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, bags—piled into my arms.
“I don’t need all this,” I whispered, tugging at his sleeve.
“You don’t need it,” he corrected, his hand sliding to my waist. “I want you to have it. There’s a difference.”
He picked out a deep emerald silk dress, held it up against me, and his eyes went dark. “This one. Wear it tonight.”
I didn’t argue. I wore it to dinner that night, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. We sat at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Duomo, and every time I looked up from my plate, he was watching me. Not the view. Not the wine. Just me.
“I want to remember this,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “The way you look right now. The way the light catches your hair. The way you smile when you taste something you like.”
My heart did a stupid flip. “You’re being cheesy.”
“I’m being honest.” He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. “I’ve never had someone to do this with. To show things to. To watch them experience the world for the first time. It’s…” He paused, searching for the word. “It’s everything.”
The words are smudged from my hand dragging across the ink. Below the title, memories crowd the pages in messy paragraphs and unfinished thoughts—I’m desperate to trap every detail.
Days four and five were in Florence.
He took me to a trattoria that had been in the same family for three generations.
No menu. The owner—a man named Enzo who hugged Lorenzo like a brother—just brought dish after dish: handmade pasta with truffles, ossobuco so tender it fell apart on my fork, tiramisu that made me close my eyes and moan.
“This is where my mother used to bring me,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft. “Before she got sick.”
I looked at him—really looked—and saw the boy he must have been. The boy who lost his mother too young, who grew up in a family that valued power over love, who learned to control everything because he’d never been able to control the things that mattered.
I reached across the table and took his hand. “Tell me about her.”
He did. He told me about her laugh, her cooking, and the way she used to sing to him in Italian. He told me about the last time he saw her, how he held her hand as she slipped away, how he swore he’d never let anyone he loved go again.
His grip on my hand tightened. “You’re not going anywhere, Zara.”
It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t argue.
Tomorrow was Verona.
He told me this morning, over coffee and fresh pastries on the terrace. “We’re going to Verona tomorrow.”
I nearly choked on my cappuccino. “Verona?”
“Juliet’s balcony. The Arena. The bridges.” He was watching me with that look—the one that said he’d been planning this for a while. “You mentioned you always wanted to see the home of Romeo and Juliet.”
I remembered. Vaguely. I’d been emotional, rambling, half-drunk, and I never thought he was paying attention. But he always pays attention.
“Lorenzo…” I didn’t know what to say. “That’s so… you didn’t have to.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his forehead touching mine. “I want to. I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Zara. Let me.”
And I’m starting to believe him.
Because it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to buy me. It doesn’t feel like he’s throwing money at me to keep me quiet or compliant. It feels like… like he genuinely gets joy from seeing me happy. Like my smile is a drug he’s addicted to.
He’s so different in the bedroom, though. That’s the part I keep coming back to, the part I can’t quite reconcile.
During the day, he’s attentive. Gentle. He holds my hand, opens doors, and pulls out chairs. He watches me with soft eyes and asks what I want to do next. He’s almost shy in the way he offers me things—a gelato, a piece of history, a view of a lake—like he’s afraid I’ll say no.
But at night…
At night, he’s a different man. His hands are everywhere all the time.
He pulls me into corners, presses me against walls, lifts me onto counters, and takes me right there, not caring who might walk in.
He grips my hips hard enough to leave bruises, bites my shoulder, growls my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, over and over, as he moves inside me. “Say it.”
And I do. I say it because it’s true.
To be wanted like that, to be needed, to be the thing he craves and can’t get enough of—it overwhelms me. It scares me. But I have never felt more alive.
I’d spent so long feeling like I was too much. Too emotional, too broken, too needy. My father left. My boyfriends used me. Even Nathan, whom I thought loved me, threw me out like I was trash.
But Lorenzo… he looks at me like I’m precious. Like I’m the only thing that matters.
And I’m starting to trust him.
I’m starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be real.
I closed the journal just as I heard the front door open downstairs. Voices—Lorenzo’s, low and commanding, speaking rapid Italian on the phone. A pause. Then footsteps, heavy and purposeful, climbed the stairs.
My heart did that stupid flip; it always does.
The door swings open, and there he is. Lorenzo Falcone. My husband. Still in his suit from the meeting, tie loosened, top button undone. His hair was slightly tousled, and there was a hint of tiredness around his eyes—but the moment his gaze lands on me, it all melted away.
“Where is my wife?”
The words roll off his tongue in that accent I’ll never get tired of. The way he curls around the vowels, the way “wife” sounds like a claim, like a promise. Mia moglie—he says it in Italian sometimes, and when he does, I feel it in my bones.
He’d been trying to teach me. Simple phrases. Ti amo. Sei bellissima. Mia per sempre.
So far, all I’ve managed to learn is cazzo.
He found that hilarious. I’m pretty sure he taught me that one on purpose, just to watch me try to say it with a straight face. The first time I used it—completely by accident, after stubbing my toe on the bedframe—he laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall.
But when he says, “Where is my wife” in that low, possessive voice, I don’t care about any of that. I only care about the way it makes me feel.
Wanted. Chosen. His.
“Right here,” I said, setting the journal aside and standing. “Waiting for you.”
He crossed the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. He inhaled deeply, as if he was breathing me in, and I could feel the tension leave his shoulders.
“Missed you,” he murmured against my neck.
“You were gone for three hours.”
“Too long.”
I laughed, but I understood. I was starting to feel it too—that pull, that ache when he’s not near. It should scare me how fast this is happening. How deep I’m falling.
But I’m too happy to be scared.
“Verona tomorrow?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at him.
“Verona tomorrow.” He kissed me, soft and slow. “Juliet’s balcony. The Arena. A gondola ride on the Adige. Whatever you want.”
“I want—” I stopped, because what I want is still hard to say out loud. “I want to keep feeling like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I matter. Like I’m not just… filling space.”
His eyes went dark, serious. He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“You’re not filling space, Zara. You’re the center of it. My world starts and ends with you. Capisci?”
I nodded because I can’t speak.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and I feel his hands slide down to my hips, pulling me against him.
“Now,” he said against my mouth, “I believe I promised to make up for my absence.”
“You did.”
“Then let me keep my promise.”
He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. I didn’t think about tomorrow or the day after or any of the uncertainties still lurking in the shadows.
I just let myself be wanted.
And for the first time in my life, that felt like enough.