Chapter 45
The black SUV glides through the empty streets like a bullet—silent, fast. Enzo’s hand never leaves mine.
It’s not just possessive. It’s protective, grounding.
His thumb moves in slow, steady circles over the back of my hand, a silent rhythm meant to keep me from spiraling. I don’t tell him that it’s working.
The city lights fade behind us, the skyline giving way to long stretches of quiet roads, tall trees, and gated driveways that whisper wealth. Winnetka is a different kind of opulence—old money, curated elegance, the kind of place that doesn’t stir at the sight of armed security.
And now, apparently, it’s where I live.
I sit back against the seat, still in his shirt, bare thighs brushing the leather.
I should feel exposed. I should feel shaken.
A man just tried to kill us. Glass exploded around us like we were in a war zone.
And yet…I’m calm. Because Enzo is here. Because the second that window shattered, he didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t falter. He threw himself between me and a bullet like it was a reflex, like dying for me was just part of the deal.
I turn slightly, watching the way the shadows kiss his jaw. His expression is like stone, that familiar glint of vengeance simmering in his eyes. But his grip on me never slips. If anything, it tightens the farther we get from the city.
When the SUV finally begins to stop, my breath catches.
The gates are massive—iron scrollwork flanked by stone pillars, the Marchetti crest worked into the metal.
Armed guards step aside the moment they recognize the vehicle, each of them nodding with military precision.
The gate creaks open and we pull onto a driveway lined with trees, like some kind of fairytale path leading to a castle.
Except this isn’t a fairytale. It’s a fortress.
The house comes into view, lit by exterior sconces and warm light pouring from high windows.
It’s sprawling, elegant in a timeless, intimidating way.
Ivy climbs the walls, manicured hedges flank the stone steps, and I catch a glimpse of more guards stationed at the corners of the property.
There’s nothing subtle about it. This is the kind of wealth that doesn’t apologize for how it was earned.
Enzo helps me out of the car the moment it rolls to a stop in the wide circular driveway. He wraps an arm around me, guiding me up the stairs, whispering something to Lars as we pass. I don’t catch the words, but I don’t need to. Lars nods and disappears, barking orders to the men behind us.
Inside, the home is just as breathtaking.
The foyer is double-height with a sweeping staircase, the floors a glossy dark wood softened by rich Persian rugs. A chandelier hangs above us—crystal, not gaudy, casting dappled light across the cream-colored walls. Everything smells expensive. Clean. Safe.
Enzo leads me into a sitting room with soaring ceilings and a fire already crackling in the fireplace.
The space smells faintly of cedar and smoke, warmth layered over wealth.
A velvet couch sits angled toward the flames, oversized armchairs flanking it, and a tray of decanters gleams on a sideboard that probably costs more than my entire old apartment.
I sink onto the couch, muscles trembling with the leftover hum of adrenaline. My lungs drag in air, but it still feels shallow, like my body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the gunfire stopped. For the first time since our world shattered, my pulse begins to ease.
Enzo lowers beside me, then without a word pulls me fully into his lap.
His arms band tight around me, anchoring me against the solid wall of his chest. He exhales hard, the sound rough, like it scrapes him on the way out.
His eyes close, his jaw tense, one hand sliding into my hair as though he needs the contact as much as I do.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, my lips brushing his throat.
His jaw flexes. “You almost weren’t.”
“I know.”
The silence between us is heavy, thick with everything we’re not saying. My body softens incrementally against his, each second of safety loosening another knot inside me. I tilt my head, pressing my cheek to his chest, listening to the hard thud of his heart. He holds me tighter.
“But you got me out,” I say, gentler this time, my fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. “Like you always do.”
His eyes find mine then, storm-dark and stripped bare for just a second. The mask slips, and what I see beneath it makes my chest ache—fear, fury that hasn’t burned itself out, and something even more dangerous, devotion so consuming it feels like it could swallow us both.
“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he says, his voice low, harsh with promise. “Not while I’m breathing.”
It isn’t the first time he’s said it. He’s been repeating it ever since the bullets stopped. A vow. A warning. And part of me should be unsettled by the obsession in it. But I’m not. Because every time he says it, I believe him a little more.
I cup his face, guiding his gaze back to mine. “I know,” I whisper. “I hear you. And I’m safe, Enzo. Because of you. You didn’t fail me. You saved me. And I’m thankful for you.”
His throat works and his arms tighten until I can feel his pulse against every line of my body, until it’s impossible to know where I end and he begins.
For the first time since tonight’s chaos began, I let myself breathe. Really breathe. And I do it in his arms, exactly where I want to be.
I’m still trying to absorb the room when the sharp click of heels cuts through the air. A moment later, she appears. Tall. Glamorous. Slightly terrifying.
The woman sweeping toward me is all red silk and diamonds, her silver-blonde hair swept back in a twist that looks like it was sculpted by an artist. Her lipstick is bold, her expression bolder.
She stops in front of us, giving Enzo a cursory glance before locking eyes with me. And then she smiles. Wide, sharp, knowing.
“You must be Zara,” she says, voice smooth. “I’m Violette Marchetti. Matriarch, martini enthusiast, chaos curator…and apparently now a mother-in-law.”
I stand, because instinct tells me this woman commands respect—and maybe also because I’m a little afraid she’ll scold me if I don’t.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, trying to sound less shell-shocked than I feel.
She steps in, cupping my face between her palms like she’s known me for years. “Oh, sweetheart. You poor thing. Surviving a mafia wedding, a gunfight, and Enzo’s possessive streak in a single week? You deserve a goddamn medal.”
I laugh, shaky but genuine. “I’ll settle for a strong drink and a night without anyone shooting at me.”
Violette grins. “I knew I’d like you.” She pulls back, eyes softening as they flick over me. “You okay, bambina?”
The nickname nearly cracks something inside me. It’s warm and casual and maternal in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
“I think I’m still in survival mode,” I admit, “but…yeah. I’m okay.”
“Well, good. Because you’re staying,” she says matter-of-factly. “We’ve got you and Enzo set up in the south wing. Private enough for some peace, far enough that no one hears a thing if you’re screaming for fun or otherwise.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan.
She winks. “Ideal for baby-making. And before your husband chokes on his own tongue, let me clarify—I’m not rushing you. But if you do decide to cook up a little Marchetti, I will absolutely throw a party.”
“Ma,” Enzo mutters, running a hand over his face.
Violette waves him off. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not putting a deadline on it. Just a healthy amount of pressure.”
I can’t help it—I laugh again, and this time, it feels good. Like the edge of the tension I’ve been carrying is finally peeling away.
Violette leans in one last time and lowers her voice just for me. “Welcome to the family, Zara. I mean that. You’ve got guts. And good taste in men.”
“I’m starting to believe it,” I say, glancing at Enzo from the corner of my eye.
He raises a brow.
I smirk. “But I’m still keeping him on a short leash.”
Violette lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I really like you.”
She scans my attire, and I suddenly feel extremely exposed, only wearing Enzo’s shirt. She looks at Enzo. “You didn’t bring anything with you, did you?”
Enzo shakes his head. “I didn’t want to waste time leaving.”
“Understandable. Enzo, you still have things here, but we’ll have things delivered for Zara.”
“Oh, you don’t need to—”
She raises a hand to interrupt me. “Don’t tell me ‘no,’ that only drives me to spoil you more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed to the kitchen. I’m sure you two are ready to get some rest.”
“It was lovely meeting you, Violette.”
She wraps her arms around me. “I’m not happy about why you are here, but I’m happy you’re in our home.”
She struts off toward the kitchen with a flourish, probably in search of a martini—or mischief.
Enzo slides an arm around my waist, his thumb brushing lazy circles over my hip. “You okay?”
“Honestly? I’ve never felt safer.” I lean into him. “She’s going to dress me like Italian royalty, isn’t she?”
“Worse,” Enzo says. “She’s going to dress you like her.”
“I’ll need a stronger drink,” I mutter.
“You’ll need a damn security team to keep her from monogramming your panties,” he replies.
And somehow, despite the terror and the bullets and the goddamn helicopter, I laugh. “But if your mother starts handing out sex tips over dinner, I’m fleeing the country.”
Enzo laughs. “You think that’ll stop her?”
“I think it’ll delay the trauma.”
He pulls me closer, kissing my temple with a grin. “You’re gonna fit in just fine, Mrs. Marchetti.”
“Obviously,” I say, lifting my chin. “Now point me to the liquor or the dessert tray. I think I’ve earned both.”