Chapter 47
The scent of coffee and cologne lingers in the air.
When I stretch, the sheets whisper against my skin. A soft rustle draws my eyes to the wardrobe across the room. Enzo, shirtless, pulling a crisp button-down from a hanger. His tattoos shift with every move. His dark slacks hang low on his hips, tailored to bring a woman to her knees.
I push up on my elbows, eyes dragging over the way he moves, sharp lines in a tailored suit that looks like it was cut to intimidate. “You always get dressed like you’re about to deliver a verdict?”
He glances over his shoulder, mouth curving faintly. “No, Angel. This is me trying to look civilized when what I really want is to stay in bed with you all day.”
A laugh slips out of me as I swing my legs to the floor. “Good. Because I’m not spending the day wrapped in one of your shirts, no matter how much you get off on it.”
He tilts his chin toward the armchair. “Violette had these brought up.”
On the seat, a cream cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans. Designer, of course. I touch the fabric, soft enough to make my chest ache.
Across the room, Enzo finishes buttoning his cuffs, watching me in the mirror. His gaze tracks me without shame, not lust so much as fixation—like he’s engraving the sight into his bones.
When I’m dressed, he crosses the space in two steps, cups my jaw with his palm, and lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is brief, but it leaves me rooted to the floor.
“You slept well?” he asks, voice softer than it should be.
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Better than I have in weeks.”
“Good,” he says, thumb brushing once across my cheek. “You’ll need a clear mind.”
My brows lift. “For what?”
He doesn’t answer—just lets that dangerous smile play at the corner of his mouth before opening the door.
The dining room in the Marchetti estate is what most people would call a ballroom.
Ornate ceilings, a chandelier the size of my old Honda, and windows overlooking the manicured gardens.
At the long mahogany table, Lars is already seated, stretched out—barefoot, hair damp, shirt half-buttoned. He’s sipping coffee like it’s whiskey.
Violette is at the head of the table in an elegant satin robe and dramatic earrings, holding court like a mafia empress who just rolled out of bed and still looks better than most women at a gala.
“Good morning, my darlings,” she sings as we enter. “Zara, you look edible in cashmere. That color is divine on you.”
“Good morning, Violette.” I smile, trying not to flush as she pulls me into a surprisingly tender hug.
“I had them send over a variety—daywear, lingerie, everything in between. You’ve got at least two dozen pieces in the closet now.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little overwhelmed but genuinely touched. “You didn’t have to.”
“Oh, I did. Can’t have the mother of my future grandchildren wandering around in yesterday’s sins.”
I blink. Enzo chuckles.
We sit at the table, and the staff immediately begin setting down plates—eggs, pastries, fruit, fresh-squeezed orange juice, more coffee than even I can handle. Enzo’s hand settles on my back as I reach for a croissant, grounding me.
It feels…almost normal.
But the moment shifts when Enzo straightens in his chair, eyes sharpening. He lifts one hand and signals the staff. “Grazie. That’ll be all.”
They file out swiftly.
He glances at Lars. “Close the doors.”
Lars nods and pushes the heavy doors shut behind them with a quiet thunk. The mood in the room changes. Violette sits a little straighter. I feel Enzo’s hand brush mine under the table before he speaks.
“I looked through the flash drive last night.”
I glance at him, heart skipping.
He’s calm, but it’s the kind of calm that comes before a storm. And I know whatever he’s about to say, it’s going to change everything.
Enzo’s fingers tap once on the table. Then he lifts his eyes, scanning the room—starting with Violette, then Lars, and finally landing on me.
“It’s worse than we thought.” The sentence lands like a stone.
Lars leans forward, setting his mug down. Violette, who had been mid-sip, lowers her espresso cup with the grace of a woman used to bad news but never surprised by it. I hold my breath.
Enzo opens a black leather folder that had been sitting beside him on the table. Inside are a few printed pages. He pulls one sheet free and lays it flat on the table.
“Rowan was able to decode the encryption, Lars pieced it all together. What’s on here…
it’s not just dirty money or Falco affiliations.
It’s targeted asset transfers. Shell corporations.
Drugs. Laundered payouts to private contractors overseas.
And every one of those contractors?” He looks up. “Are tied to your father, Zara.”
My stomach flips.
“What kind of contractors?” Violette asks, tone clipped.
“Hit squads. Arms dealers. Politicians. Cartel members. One of the transactions traces back to a company that has—until recently—been on the FBI’s radar. Lachlan wasn’t just bankrolling political favors. He was funding paramilitary activity. Under the radar, off the books.”
Violette exhales sharply. “Jesus Christ.”
Enzo continues, calm but charged. “There’s more.
The timeline matches several recent events—incidents that made news in other countries.
The kind of tragedies that spark chaos and then disappear under red tape.
Lachlan didn’t just plan to take power here.
He wants leverage beyond Chicago. He wants international reach.
And those plans began over seven years ago.
Who knows what he has his hands in now.”
I can’t swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Are you saying my father was planning to expand the Kavanagh power structure globally?”
“I’m saying he already started.” Enzo slides another document toward me. I glance down at it—numbers, names, offshore accounts. My name is on one.
My blood goes cold.
“We were able to hack into the accounts we found on the drive. All of them are still open, but this one stuck out from the others. He tried to move money in your name,” Enzo says.
“Three days before the wedding. A shell account opened in Luxembourg. Which means he was trying to build a financial backdoor using your identity.”
My breath catches. “He was laundering through me?”
“And when you ran…” Enzo nods. “He panicked. Tried to reroute. But by then, I had you.”
Violette’s lips press into a thin line. “He used his own daughter as a fucking pawn.”
“That’s all I ever was to him,” I snarl. “A piece to move around the board.”
Enzo’s hand finds mine under the table, his grip firm, grounding.
“We have enough now to expose him,” he says, voice sure. “If we want to go that route. Or we use this information another way—pressure, trade, leverage.”
“I want him dismantled,” I say quietly. “I want everything he built to burn.”
Enzo looks at me like I’ve just handed him a gift.
“You’ll get it,” he promises. “But we do it smart. Calculated. I’ve already had Rowan start pulling additional files. Lars has men checking the physical accounts. We’ve got the upper hand now.”
“Any word on Falco?” Violette asks.
Enzo shakes his head. “He left the city last night. I have the ghost team tracking him down. I want the family focused on containment for now. Zara stays here. This is the most secure, safest space she can be in.”
“I already set up additional motion detection across the perimeter,” Lars confirms. “And Dante has eyes on the gate and drones covering the back acreage. No one’s getting in without us knowing.”
Violette nods, her expression tight but composed. “Then it’s settled. We circle the wagons, we protect our girl,” she gestures toward me with a dramatic sweep, “and we prepare to destroy two vile men.”
I look around the table—at the violence, the strategy, the cold calculations formed over juice and melon—and I realize this is what family looks like here.
Blood. Loyalty. And revenge. And I’m not just watching from the sidelines anymore. I’m willingly becoming a part of it.