Chapter 42 Enzo
Zara stands at the kitchen island in one of my shirts, half-buttoned and slipping off her shoulder, teasing me with flashes of bare skin.
I had pajamas included in the clothes delivered, but she still demanded to wear one of my shirts.
Her legs are long as she leans her hip against the counter, sipping her coffee like she’s been doing it here for years. Like she belongs.
The sight of her in my clothes, in my kitchen, does something brutal to me.
It’s not just want—it’s possession settling deep into my bones.
She looks too perfect in this place, like every corner of the room was designed to frame her.
And maybe it was. Maybe I just didn’t know I’d been waiting for her to step into it.
I adjust my grip on the jacket slung over my shoulder, my tie still loose, unfinished.
Half-dressed and already half-lost. I should be walking out the door, but all I can think about is taking the mug from her hand, setting it aside, and carrying her back upstairs where I can bury myself inside her again.
But reality presses harder than my want.
The flash drive in my pocket is a reminder that last night’s fire burned into more than just sheets—it lit up enemies, stirred smoke I can’t ignore.
My men are waiting. Answers are waiting.
And yet here I stand, staring at my wife like she’s the only thing in this city worth claiming.
“Are you sure you’ll survive without me today?” I ask, crossing the floor toward her.
Her brow arches, smug. “Pretty sure I’ll manage. I’m married to a mob boss now. Guess I should get used to a little abandonment.”
I chuckle, tossing my jacket onto the stool and sliding my arms around her waist. “You wound me, Mrs. Marchetti.”
She snorts into her cup. “Please. You’ll be barking orders and brooding in a meeting room before I even finish my eggs.”
“Fair point.” I laugh, kissing her temple. “But I won’t be gone long. Lars will be stopping by, so you’ll have company.”
“Who is Lars?”
“My second in command,” I say, combing my fingers through her hair. “Technically my cousin, but more like a brother.”
Her eyes narrow. “Now I’m nervous.”
I laugh under my breath. “Don’t be, Angel. He knows what you mean to me. He was with me, every step, when I was tearing this city apart to find you. He’s family.”
“Okay. Family. I can deal with that. Who else is coming?”
“My accountant will be here around two. And more clothing will be delivered. I want you to have what you need.”
“I can buy my own clothes. I’m not broke and helpless.”
“I know you can. But I want to. And right now, it’s not safe for you to leave the penthouse. They’ll bring a collection—you just pick what you like.”
Her lips curve. “Will they have sweatpants and T-shirts?”
My hand slides down her side to her hip. “Pick out whatever you want, Angel. I know what’s underneath. But get a couple of dresses too. For dinners. For events. For when the world can see you at my side.”
She nods, and I reach into my pocket, pulling out the phone I had Rowan prep last night. Brand new, encrypted, already loaded with everything she might need.
“Your new phone,” I say, handing it to her. “My number. Lars’s. A couple of others. Secure. You don’t answer for anyone else.”
She flips it over, lips pressed into a line. “Thanks.”
“Password’s your birthday,” I add.
Zara glances up, her expression softening. “You remembered?”
“Hard to forget the night you turned thirty.” I let the weight of that hang between us.
She flushes, muttering, “You’re obsessed.”
“But charming.”
“Debatable.”
I lean down, brushing my lips over hers. “Behave while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” she whispers.
I groan, kissing her again—this time lingering, possessive. She tastes like the only woman who can burn me alive and make me thank her for the fire. If I don’t leave now, I never will.
Reluctantly, I tear myself away, grab my jacket, and head for the elevator.
“Enzo,” she calls, just as I’m pressing the button.
I glance back.
“Don’t get shot.”
I grin. “I’ll do my best, Angel.”
The meeting at headquarters is starting at ten. I walk into the long room flanked by Lars and three of my top capos, the air already thick with tension. The fallout from the cathedral raid is still ricocheting through the city, and I need every man in this room focused.
At the head of the table, I take my seat and nod once. Everyone else follows.
Stefano clears his throat. “We’ve confirmed casualties. Five Falco men dead. Three Kavanaghs. Two of ours were wounded—non-fatal.”
I nod, jaw ticking. “Who led the retreat?”
“Anthony Falco. Disappeared right as the bullets started. Took a few of his crew with him.”
“Coward,” Lars mutters. “He left Zara standing there like bait.”
“Exactly,” I say darkly. “And he’ll pay for it.”
Dom speaks up. “There’s whispers of the Falcos backing off. Kavanagh’s allies are scrambling. Their power’s bleeding out faster than they can contain it.”
“Then we push,” I say. “Start making recruitment moves. Kavanagh loyalists who are wavering—buy them. Threaten them. Make them offers they can’t refuse. I want to peel them off, one by one.”
“What about Lachlan?” Stefano asks.
I fix my gaze on him. “Let him spiral. I want him to see the empire he tried to build crumble around him.”
Lars leans forward. “We’ll need to lock down Zara’s security. With the wedding botched and her gone, they’ll be desperate. Desperate men do stupid things.”
“Done. I want to double the eyes on the building. Security on the elevators. Nothing touches her.”
Every man nods.
I let the conversation wrap before raising a hand. “Everyone out. Except Rowan.”
Chairs scrape. They know better than to question me when I make a call like that. In under a minute, it’s just me, Lars, and my hacker.
Rowan sits, already pulling out his laptop. “What’ve you got for me?”
I reach into my jacket and pull the flash drive from the inner pocket.
“Whatever’s on this,” I say, “I want to know by the end of the day.”
Rowan takes it like it’s ticking. “Any idea what’s on it?”
I glance at Lars, then back to Rowan.
“No,” I say. “But I’ve got a feeling it changes everything.”
By the time I make it back to the penthouse, the sun’s almost gone, casting the city in long amber shadows. I’m bone-tired but the second I step through the front door, that all drops away.
Because she’s here.
I find her curled on the oversized couch in the living room, one bare leg tucked under her, wearing a soft-looking T-shirt. Her phone’s in her lap, but her eyes are on me the second I walk in.
“Long day?” she asks, her voice casual, but her eyes track every step I take toward her.
“You have no idea,” I exhale, tossing my jacket over the back of a nearby chair. “But coming home to you helps. Tell me about your day.”
She rises from the couch and walks toward me. “I had fun picking out clothes. Your accountant was a little dry, but tolerable. Lars didn’t drop by.”
I wrap my arms around her and place a kiss on her hair. “Things were a bit busier at work than we expected. But you’ll meet him soon enough. Tell me more about what you picked from the shoppers.”
That earns a soft laugh from her. “Well, I may have gone a little overboard. There were...a lot of options.”
I raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. “Did you pick anything sexy?”
Her eyes flash with challenge, and she leans forward just a touch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I reach for her hand, brushing my lips over her knuckles. “I would, actually. Why don’t you show me?”
Zara bites her lip, her gaze flicking to the hallway, as if weighing the offer. Then, with a look over her shoulder that nearly brings me to my knees, she turns and disappears down the hallway.
I sit back on the couch, removing my tie. I exhale for the first time today, my chest finally releasing the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding. I loosen my tie, the fabric tight around my neck suddenly feeling suffocating, and silence my phone—no distractions, not now.
Five minutes later, Zara steps back into the room, her presence filling the space like a magnet.
She’s wearing a black skirt suit—sharp, professional, and modest..
.but still impossibly sexy. The tailored lines of the suit curve in all the right places, and the way it fits her is nothing short of devastating.
I nod my approval, fighting the urge to reach for her, my teeth sinking into the inside of my cheek as I force myself to stay still.
She flashes me a smile, the one that makes my heart race, before disappearing down the hall again.
The next time she returns, she’s wearing a soft lilac dress, the delicate lace along the bust making it look both sweet and fragile. But on her, it’s anything but. It’s innocent and alluring in equal measure—a dangerous combination that wraps around me and tightens like a noose.
I can’t help the whimper that escapes me. “Jesus... You’re trying to kill me.”
Zara gives me a devil-may-care grin before she pivots and disappears down the short hallway, leaving me breathless.
And then she’s back.
This time, she’s wearing something that can hardly be called a dress at all—just a thin swath of fabric clinging to her body like it was painted on.
When she steps back into the open space of the living room, I’m already leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees, the pulse in my neck beating hard and fast. I give her a look that makes it clear I’m seconds away from hauling her against me and taking her right here.
“You like this one?” she teases, pausing just far enough away to make me ache, letting me drink in the full effect.
My voice comes out hoarse, thick with need. “I like all of them.”
She lingers by the hallway, a playful glint in her eye. “There’s one more. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”
I straighten, every muscle in me coiled. “Zara,” I say, already pushing to my feet, “there is no such thing.”
She vanishes again, and when she returns, the air leaves my lungs in a sharp, involuntary rush.
The dress is a weapon—deep green, her favorite color, and sinful, molded to her curves like it was sewn onto her skin.
The fabric hugs her hips, dips low across her chest, matches her eyes and parts at the thigh in a slit so high it borders on indecent.
Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, tousled and wild in a way that looks effortless, but I know better.
She planned this. Every inch of her is measured and lethal. And fuck if she doesn’t wear it well.
She stands in the middle of the room, letting me take it in. Letting me feel the full force of her.
I rise, gaze dragging down the length of her body until my fists ache with the effort it takes not to reach for her. “Turn around,” I rasp, my voice rough with everything I’m holding back.
Her eyes flicker, but she obeys—spinning slowly. The dress shifts with every step, catching light, whispering against her skin like a secret. When she faces me again, I’m already moving—crossing the room in three purposeful strides until I’m standing in front of her.
My hand slips around her waist, fingers spreading over silk and skin. “Did you pick this for me?” I ask, voice rough against the line of her throat.
She doesn’t answer right away—just meets my gaze, steady and breathless. “Maybe,” she says, her voice soft, but laced with heat.
I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Then take it off for me.”