Chapter 38 Enzo
I’m cooking.
After I sent Zara to the guest bedroom with one of my shirts to clean up, I sent Lars a desperate text for instructions on something simple.
He knew what was in my fridge, so after a trail of sarcastic punch lines, he sent me a detailed list of what to do and where everything is.
It’s nothing fancy—chicken in the air fryer, vegetables on the side, bread warmed just enough to pass for effort.
But for me, this is foreign territory. I’ve never stood in a kitchen with the intent of nourishing anyone.
Zara eyes me over the counter, my shirt swallowing her frame, her chin propped in her hand, eyes sparking with that amused disbelief that always manages to disarm me.
“So you were lying when you said you couldn’t cook?
” she teases, stabbing her fork toward the air fryer.
“Do your men know you’re capable of pressing buttons that don’t involve explosives? ”
I shake my head, setting the plate in front of her. “I might have sent an SOS for help. Hopefully you’re not too strong of a critic. Just eat and tell me it’s good.”
She smirks, the corner of her mouth curving as she picks up her fork. “Bossy and domestic. You’re just full of surprises.”
I don’t answer, because if I open my mouth, I’ll tell her the truth—that every piece of me wants to drag her out of that chair, bend her over the counter, and fuck her until she forgets her own name.
But she doesn’t need that tonight. She needs this.
Quiet. Food. A reminder that someone is taking care of her.
We eat without ceremony, her poking at me now and then with more remarks about “Chef Marchetti” and how she never pictured me in an apron. I let her laugh, because every sound of it presses deep into my chest.
When she’s finished, I take her hand and lead her down the hall. Not to my room. To the guest room.
The tub is already filling, steam curling up into the air, carrying the scent of lavender I’d instructed the staff to leave out. On the bed, is one of my shirts for her to sleep in.
She turns to me, and I kiss her gently—just once. Nothing demanding. Nothing more than a promise pressed against her lips. Then I pull back. “Your bath’s ready. I left you another shirt, we’ll worry about proper clothes for you tomorrow. You’ll sleep here tonight.”
Her brow furrows, the question already on her lips, but I hush it with a hand at her cheek. “You need this, Angel. Please don’t protest, because right now, I’m not strong enough to put up a fight.”
I walk out before I can break. Before the part of me that’s been starving for her since the second she walked back into my life decides that peace can wait.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against the wall, dragging a hand through my hair. My cock is aching, my entire body pulled taut with the restraint it takes to walk away from her when I know she’ll be naked in the bathtub, in my home.
But this is strength. Real strength. Not pulling a trigger, not giving orders. This. Letting her breathe. Letting her begin to heal.
Because she deserves more than to be consumed by me. And if I have to starve for a night to prove it, I fucking will.
I’ve been in my office for two hours, the glow of the monitors casting their light across files I should care more about. But all I can think about is the fact that she’s still sleeping.
Zara.
She slept through the night. That alone is worth more than every ledger, every deal.
When the door opens, I glance up. She’s there, barefoot, drowning in one of my shirts that slips off her shoulder. Her hair’s a mess, her skin still flushed from sleep, and my chest pulls tight at the sight of her—because for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks peaceful.
I swivel the chair toward her and extend a hand. “Come here.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to make a joke, but she crosses the room quietly.
When she climbs into my lap, the fight drains right out of me.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, and press my mouth into her hair.
She sighs, soft and quiet, her cheek settling against my shoulder as though she’s been coming here all her life.
“Thank you for last night,” she whispers. Her voice is husky with sleep, but the gratitude in it cuts through me. “For feeding me, for the bath, for…everything. I don’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.”
“You needed it,” I say, my arms tightening around her. “And I needed to give it to you.”
Her head tips back so I can see her face. Her eyes are clear, unguarded, but heavy with a truth she rarely admits. “It scares me a little. How good it felt. How foreign it still feels. I don’t know how to just…rest. Not after everything.”
I study her, committing every flicker of her expression to memory. This woman has been running for seven years, wearing armor made of wit and venom, hiding the exhaustion in her bones. And now, she’s here—in my arms—admitting she doesn’t know how to lay the weight down.
“You don’t have to figure it out overnight,” I tell her. My thumb traces her arm, grounding her, grounding me. “You’ve been surviving too long to just snap your fingers and stop. But I’ll be here while you learn.”
Her lashes lower, and for a second, I think she might cry. Instead, she leans back into me, burying her face in my neck. I hold her tighter, letting silence stretch between us until the clock on the wall pulls me back.
“The men will be here in an hour,” I whisper. My voice is reluctant; I’d rather sit here all morning with her warm in my arms. “Leadership meeting. We’ll keep it short.”
Her groan is muffled against my shirt. “Of course. Nothing says good morning like criminal empire logistics.”
That earns a laugh from me, the sound vibrating against her cheek. “It’s necessary, we caused quite the commotion yesterday. Come on. Let’s get coffee before the house fills up.”
We walk side by side to the kitchen. Her hand slips into mine halfway there, and I don’t let go.