Chapter 46
The south wing is quiet. Secluded. The kind of silence money buys and power protects. Thick marble floors, dark wood paneling and artwork obtained through less than legal avenues.
Zara moves, her body still tense from the night. From everything. She hasn’t said much since my mother bulldozed through the sitting room like a diamond decorated hurricane, and I don’t press. I know her silence. I respect it. But that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her alone in it.
When we enter our suite, she sits on the edge of the bed, her shoulders rounded, fingers resting on the embroidered duvet like it’s unfamiliar territory. For her, it is. She was dragged into this world at gunpoint, married into a dynasty that bleeds secrets, and yet somehow, she’s still standing.
I slip off my jacket, toss it on the nearby chair, and cross to the en suite bathroom.
The tub in here is massive—deep enough to drown in, carved from a single slab of stone.
I start the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s just right, and pour in one of the overpriced bath oils I find in the cabinet.
The scent of rosewood and citrus fills the air.
When I step back into the bedroom, she hasn’t moved.
“Come here, Angel,” I say softly. “Let me take care of you.”
Her eyes lift to mine, uncertain but open. Always open with me, even when she wants to fight it. She rises, and I guide her toward the bathroom, fingers brushing along her spine as we walk.
The steam curls around us as I unbutton the shirt she’s wearing, letting it drop to the floor. Her skin pebbles under the warm air, and my hand skims down her arm, steady, gentle, reverent. She lets me remove her underwear. No protest. Just trust.
When she steps into the water, she lets out a soft breath, sinking into the heat like she’s finally starting to exhale.
I roll my sleeves up and kneel beside the tub, grabbing a sponge from the tray and soaking it. She leans forward and I run it over her back in long strokes. Her body relaxes under my touch, her eyes closing, head tipping back against the edge.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, voice thick.
She cracks one eye open, lips curving faintly. “Even like this?”
I smile and nod. “Raw. Real. Just you.” I trace the line of her collarbone with the sponge, then press a kiss to her shoulder. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you when you walked into my penthouse for the first time?”
“The ‘just dinner’ date?”
I grin. “I thought you were going to eat me alive.”
Her laugh is tired but soft, and it stirs something inside me I didn’t know I was still capable of—hope.
I ease the sponge lower, gliding over her chest, down her stomach. My palm replaces it, fingers splaying across her belly as I lean in closer. My voice drops, hushed and rough. “One day, I’ll see you full. Swollen with my child.”
She opens her eyes, and the vulnerability there guts me.
“You mean that?” she whispers.
“Every fucking word.” My thumb brushes across her skin. “You’ll be the most dangerous, beautiful mother this family’s ever seen. And I’ll make sure the world burns before it touches you or what’s ours.”
Her hand covers mine, fingers lacing tight.
“I didn’t think I’d ever want to marry, especially with someone like you,” she says softly. “But with you…it’s growing on me.”
I lean in, kiss her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. “Good. Because I want everything with you, Zara.”
And I’ll make sure she has it. Every last bit.
Zara’s body is warm and loose as I lift her from the tub, her arms wrapped around my neck.
I dry her off, wrapping her in one of the thick towels Violette insists on ordering by the hundred.
She tries to protest when I carry her to bed, mumbling something about being capable of walking, but I shoot her a look and she goes quiet, lips twitching into a sleepy smile.
"Bossy," she pokes as I settle her onto the mattress.
"Caring," I correct, tugging the blanket over her. "Big difference."
She snorts. “Still bossy.”
I slide in beside her, shirtless, pressing my chest to her back as I wrap an arm around her waist. Her damp hair smells like bath oils. Her skin is warm against mine, soft in a way that makes my chest ache.
She sighs as I pull her closer. “Are you always this clingy after gunfire?”
I press a kiss behind her ear. “Only with you.”
Her body softens further at that. I don’t say anything else. There’s something sacred in this quiet—the way she melts into me, the way her fingers find mine under the covers and links them together like it’s instinct.
For the first time in what feels like years, my heart can rest. Not because the world is safe—but because she’s here. All of the years of searching, wondering, all of the energy we put into rescuing her from Falco is starting to fall away.
She’s asleep within minutes.
I stay with her, watching her chest rise and fall, tracing the curve of her hip under the blanket.
The moonlight from the tall windows spills across her face, catching on her lashes, painting her in silver and peace.
But peace is temporary in my world. And I have work to do, judging by the text that came through from Lars.
Carefully, I slip out of bed and tuck the blankets around her. I brush a kiss over her shoulder, then grab a black hoodie and head out.
The estate’s war room sits deep in the west wing, walled in steel and concrete.
Reinforced walls. Biometric locks. Bulletproof glass.
My grandfather had it built in the eighties after a botched hit in Little Italy, and I gutted it when I took over the leadership—upgrades layered over paranoia until it’s more fortress than room. Now, it’s mine.
Lars is already inside when I push through the door. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, not looking up. “I texted you half an hour ago.”
“Had a naked wife to put to bed.” My voice is flat. “I’m sure you understand.”
He grunts, unimpressed. “Are you ready for this?”
I fold my arms, stepping closer. “Tell me.”
His fingers skim over the keyboard. The screens flare to life—folders, transaction logs, coded spreadsheets bleeding green and red.
“This flash drive is a fucking goldmine,” he says.
“Zara was right. Your instincts were right. Lachlan’s been moving money—large sums—through offshore channels. But it’s not just laundering.”
My voice drops, sharp as glass. “What then?”
“Trafficking. And not just weapons. Drugs.”
My jaw knots until I can taste iron. “We knew about the cocaine.”
“He’s ventured into other flavors. Opium, fentanyl.”
“Fuck.” I rub my jaw.
He scrolls again, clicking open another window. “And that’s not all. We tracked Falco after the shooting tonight. Our men followed him to a private airstrip outside the city. He boarded a plane—no tail number, no registry. Gone before we could close the net.”
Heat spikes through my blood, violent and immediate. “He fucking ran again.”
“Yeah,” Lars says, his eyes still on the screens. “And if he’s in a bird, it means he’s not just hiding. He’s moving pieces. My guess? He’s making himself useful to Lachlan, maybe even the Russians. That’s why they haven’t cut him loose. They need him.”
I lean over the table, close enough for my reflection to blur in the glow of the monitors. My hands curl into fists against the polished wood.
Falco thinks he slipped the noose. He doesn’t know I’ll chase him sky for sky, city for city, until there’s nowhere left to run.
“There’s also a list of aliases,” Lars adds. “Used for travel and transactions. One of them? Zara’s. He’s been using her name to move funds.”
My blood runs ice cold.
“Motherfucker,” I grit. “He probably knew where she was all those years. He just didn’t move to bring her home until he needed her.”
“Most likely. He probably always had eyes on her in case he needed a scapegoat. My guess is, Falco was sick of waiting and gave an ultimatum. Hand over Zara or he’s out.”
I stare at the screen, and the only thing I feel is rage.
Zara’s in the other room, curled in my bed, finally safe. And this bastard—her father—has been playing her like a pawn in a war she never asked to fight.
“No more delays,” I say. “I want Lachlan in my possession.”