Chapter 39 Zara
The coffee between us is still steaming when Enzo’s phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightens before he rises from the stool. “Stay here,” he murmurs, already striding toward the private elevator.
A muted chime sounds, then I hear the doors slide open. When he returns, he’s carrying two glossy shopping bags in one hand, setting them on the island in front of me. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth deepens when he catches the surprise written on my face.
“Enzo…” I reach for the handles, tugging them open to reveal neatly folded fabric—silk, soft cotton, and a touch of luxury that makes my chest ache. Pajamas. Dresses. Even lingerie I don’t dare touch while his eyes are on me. My throat tightens. “You did this?”
His gaze stays steady on mine, dark but softened around the edges. “You needed clothes. Now you have them. My mother might have helped. We guessed at your size, hopefully they fit.”
It’s such a simple statement, practical, yet it leaves me unsteady. Men in my world have been harsh, transactional and here he is—laying out pieces of a life in front of me without asking for anything in return.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words small.
Enzo steps closer, his hand lifting to cup the back of my neck, thumb grazing the line of my jaw. “Go get ready for the day. Shower. Take your time.”
I hesitate, pulse tripping. “Can I use your room?”
His smirk deepens, that dark glint in his eyes always undoing me. “Yes. You can use our room.”
The words stay with me as I climb the stairs, settling heavier than the bags I carry. His room—ours now.
Upstairs, I pause at the threshold. The space is masculine but not cold.
Deep blues anchor the room, softened by a fireplace tucked into one corner.
Heavy curtains dim the light just enough to make everything feel private, protected.
The bed is wide, dressed in charcoal sheets, and two soft chairs sit angled by the fire as though waiting for quiet conversations. It feels lived in, comfortable. Safe.
I set the bags carefully on the bed and let myself drift toward the dresser. It’s understated, heavy wood, the kind meant to last generations. A few cufflinks gleam in a small dish. A watch rests on a leather stand. Simple, timeless pieces.
There’s a framed photo tucked in the corner of the dresser—unexpected.
Him and an older woman that has his same eyes, standing in a garden of roses, sunlight spilling over their shoulders.
I brush a fingertip over the glass before pulling away, that strange ache pressing at my ribs again.
This room feels different from the one downstairs, filled with personal touches, mementos, and warmth.
For so long, my life has been stripped down to survival—cheap hotels, burner phones, shadows I never outran. And now I’m standing here, in this room, with new clothes waiting for me and a man downstairs who has already claimed me as his. It feels foreign, but at the same time, it feels…good.
Doubt creeps in, but I stuff it down. Stockholm Syndrome be damned.
I draw in a breath and force myself to move. Carrying the bags with me, I step into the en suite bathroom. It’s spacious, all black and white marble and brushed steel, but softened by the glow of sconces along the wall. A soaking tub waits beneath a frosted window.
I set the bags on the counter, peel away Enzo’s shirt, and catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a mess, my eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. But there’s something else there too. A steadiness. A thread of hope winding its way through the cracks.
The shower hisses to life, steam beginning to curl into the air. And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe I can step into something new.
The penthouse feels quieter once the last of Enzo’s men file out.
Their absence leaves behind a lingering weight in the air—strategy, tension—but now it’s just the two of us.
Dinner was ordered in containers scattered across the island now half-empty and forgotten.
I’m not sure what feels stranger, the fact that I ate a full meal without looking over my shoulder, or that I did it while sitting across from him.
Later, I sink into the couch, my legs tucked beneath me, watching Enzo drop into the seat beside me.
It’s almost comical—this man who commands armies of criminals sprawled across leather like he belongs in some domestic daydream.
The sight makes me uneasy. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do.
And I don’t know how to reconcile that hunger with the world we actually live in.
I break the silence first. “So, the meeting. Did it go the way you wanted?”
Enzo leans back, one arm stretched along the couch, but his eyes stay hard, steady. “Productive enough. Most of it was about you. About what your abduction means. They expect Lachlan to try something—loud, messy. And Falco won’t sit still forever. Men like that don’t take humiliation quietly.”
My stomach knots, but I don’t look away.
Enzo goes on, “So we reinforce. Lock down movement, slow the flow until I’m satisfied. More eyes on the docks. More men on rotation here. No gaps, no weak points. Until they make their move, we hold the line.”
“And me?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
His gaze cuts into me, sharp and possessive. “You’re protected. Always. Every second. I’d gut anyone who tried to get near you again. They think taking you once was leverage. What they don’t realize is it’s the last mistake they’ll ever make.”
The words should terrify me. Instead, they wrap around me with the strangest warmth, a shield forged in his words.
But when my arm brushes against his, my pulse stutters.
It’s ridiculous how awkward it feels to share a couch with him.
I’ve had his hands everywhere, his body pressed into mine in ways that still make me ache, but sitting shoulder to shoulder, my thigh brushing his, feels far more intimate than all of it combined.
His gaze dips briefly to where our knees touch, then back up to my face. Heat lingers in that look, restrained but coiled, waiting. My breath hitches, the room shrinking around us.
“Why does this feel so strange?” I ask, more to myself than him.
Enzo tilts his head, studying me with that maddening patience. “Because couches are for peace,” he says simply. “And peace is new for us.”
The words slide under my skin, sharp and soft all at once. My chest tightens, the silence between us shifting from uneasy to charged. I can already feel it pulling me closer, demanding something more than sitting side by side.
His words still linger in the air—peace is new for us—when I realize how close he’s gotten. His hand, resting on the back of the couch, is now brushing against my shoulder, warm and steady. My breath hitches, caught between wanting to lean in and waiting for him to close the space.
But Enzo never rushes. He shifts an empire one decision at a time, and somehow that patience becomes its own kind of power. Now, sitting this close, I feel it coil around me. His gaze flicks to my mouth and the restraint nearly undoes me.
“Enzo…” The whisper is out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer with words. His fingers slide down, cupping the back of my neck, urging me forward until our mouths finally meet.
The kiss is slow, laced with a tenderness that steals my breath without taking it all at once.
His lips claim mine with the quiet authority of a man who knows he’ll always get what he wants, and my body betrays me instantly, pressing closer.
The taste of him is consuming, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, heat floods my veins. His hand at my neck tightens, not harsh but commanding, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. A sound escapes me, half-moan, half-sigh, and it earns me a growl from him that vibrates through my chest.
I shift instinctively, angling toward him, my leg brushing against his thigh.
He doesn’t move away; instead, his free hand settles at my hip, pulling me closer until I’m nearly straddling him.
The pressure of his body under mine, the way his mouth takes and gives in equal measure—it’s too much and not enough all at once.
When I break the kiss just long enough to breathe, his lips trail down my jaw, teeth grazing the edge of my throat. “You’ll crawl to me tonight, won’t you, Angel?” His voice is gravel and silk, each word sinking under my skin.
A shiver runs through me, my fingers fisting in his shirt as I whisper, “I’ll crawl. I’ll beg. Whatever you want.”
He smirks against my skin. “Good. Because I don’t just want you crawling, Angel. I want you to smile when you do it, knowing exactly who you belong to.”
And then his mouth is on mine again, hungrier now.
“Enough of this couch,” he says, voice threaded with heat. “Come upstairs with me.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I let him take my hand, the simple contact sparking down my spine as he guides me toward the stairs. By the time we cross the threshold to our room, my chest is tight with anticipation, every nerve ending already tuned to him.
Just inside the space, Enzo releases my hand and sits at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders back, eyes locked on me like a man who’s waited far too long to indulge. He gestures with one hand, voice steady, commanding.
“Undress.”
He leans back on the edge of the bed, his posture all command and composure, dark eyes tracking every move I make.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the zipper of my dress, but I don’t hesitate.
Piece by piece, I strip down beneath the weight of his stare.
The fabric slides off my shoulders, pools at my feet, then my bra unclasped, panties discarded.
His gaze devours me—hungry, reverent, ruthless in the way it strips away any pretense I might still cling to.
I should feel bare, vulnerable, exposed. Instead, every inch of my skin feels claimed.
And without thinking—without being asked—I sink to my knees across the room from him. My palms rest lightly on my thighs, my chin tilted up to meet his gaze. The movement is instinctive, an offering, my body admitting what my pride would never say aloud.
For a long beat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me with something feral flickering in his eyes, his jaw tight as though holding himself back costs him everything.
“You’re so beautiful on your knees.” He exhales. “You have no idea what you do to me, Zara.”
I hold his gaze, steady. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
His laugh is dangerous and filled with want. “Then crawl to me.”
I shift forward on my knees, placing one hand in front of the other, closing the distance inch by inch until I’m between his thighs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. My hands settle on his knees, sliding slowly upward. I feel his muscles tense under my touch.
His hand cups my jaw. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I stay on my knees in front of him, breath uneven, heart thundering. His thumb presses against my bottom lip, parting it slightly, and I look up at him. I want him to see this choice—mine as much as his.
Enzo leans forward, his voice threaded with reverence and something feral. “Do you know what it does to me, seeing you here like this? No one has ever had this part of me. No one’s ever made me want to be worshipped and ruined in the same breath. Only you.”
My lips curl faintly around his thumb, my whisper rasping out between shallow breaths. “I’m not afraid of being ruined. I want it. I want you.”
He exhales sharply, his composure unraveling at the edges. His hand cups my jaw fully now. “Christ, Zara. I want to keep you here forever, on your knees, until the only thing you know is the taste of me and the sound of me losing control inside you.”
I shift closer, pressing my palms flat to his thighs, my voice softer. “I want you to lose control.”
His eyes burn through me, and his thumb drags across my lower lip again before a sound escapes him—half-feral, half-pleading. “Angel, if I don’t kiss you right now, I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
“Then kiss me, Enzo. Please,” I whisper.
His control snaps. He leans forward, mouth on mine, hot and demanding, pulling me into his lap as though the restraint he’d been clinging to never existed.
The kiss is wild, consuming, a collision of hunger and devotion that devours the air between us.
His hands grip me tight, one fisted in my hair, the other sliding down my spine, anchoring me to him as if he’ll never let me go again.