Chapter 63
The hospital bracelet still clings to my wrist. I turn it absent-mindedly with my thumb as I sit in the corner chair of the discharge suite, dressed in soft black leggings and one of Enzo’s sweaters.
The scent of him is baked into the cotton—cologne, gunpowder, something darker I can’t name but have always known.
The weight of it settles on me like a shield.
Violette is smoothing my paperwork at the counter, a force of grace and intimidation in a tailored coat and heels.
Enzo stands with one hand in his pocket, barking instructions into his phone, uninterested in niceties.
Lars leans against the far wall with a cup of hospital coffee and the glazed-over look of a man who has not slept properly in four days.
I’m cleared to leave. Healed enough to walk, stitched up, carrying more than just scars now.
“Where are we going?” I ask, glancing at Enzo. “The estate or the penthouse?”
His eyes flick to me, dark and direct. “Penthouse. I need to stay close to the city.”
I nod. The estate was quiet. Private. But the penthouse means movement. Activity. Syndicate presence. Power.
“Do I need to clear out drawers for weapon storage?” I ask. “Or will they all be hidden in your suits?”
“You can have your own drawer,” he deadpans. “Think of it as domestic armament.”
“Romantic.”
Before I can say more, Violette turns, her smile small but assured. “Don’t worry, Zara. The top four floors of the building belong to the family. One of them is mine.”
I blink. “You live there?”
“Not full time,” she replies. “But the space is mine when I want to be in the city. The Marchettis don’t share walls with strangers. That would be uncivilized.”
“She has a wine vault larger than most city apartments,” Lars adds. “And two chandeliers in the bathroom.”
Violette shrugs like she’s embarrassed by neither. “One does need options.”
Enzo ends his call with a final clipped command, then glances toward the doorway. “He’s here.”
I tilt my head. “Who’s here?”
Before Enzo can answer, the door opens and the temperature of the room drops ten degrees
A man steps inside. Tall. Built from thick muscle that strains against clean, fitted black clothing.
Not the theatrical kind of black some bodyguards wear to look menacing—this is practical, functional, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation.
He moves without waste, every step precise, carrying the kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself so much as seep into the room.
His eyes sweep first—pale, steel-gray, scanning with methodical precision, cataloging everything before landing on me. His face is all angles and hard shadows, the kind of features that look carved instead of born. His appearance is sharpened by his buzz cut hair and scar on the side of his throat.
Enzo’s voice cuts through the silence, calm but carrying weight. “This is Dante.” He steps closer, his gaze locked on me while the man remains still, silent. “He’s my most trusted. From this moment forward, he doesn’t leave your side.”
Dante says nothing. Just nods once, eyes never leaving mine.
I raise a brow. “Is he always this chatty?”
“He speaks when it’s necessary,” Enzo replies. “Which, for him, is rare.”
Lars chuckles. “He once took out a weapons dealer in Budapest without saying a single word. The man thought Dante was mute. Last thing he heard was a silenced shot between the eyes.”
“Great,” I say. “Love that for me.”
Enzo crouches beside me, ignoring the others. His voice is warm against my skin. “You’ll be safe. He’s the best. Invisible when you need him to be, a force when you don’t.”
I glance at Dante again. He hasn’t moved.
“I feel like I should offer him a muffin or something. Welcome him to the team.”
Enzo smirks. “He doesn’t eat carbs. Or smile. Don’t take it personally.”
I narrow my eyes at Dante. “Blink twice if you’ve killed someone in the last twenty-four hours.”
His lips twitch. Barely. But enough.
Enzo straightens, satisfied. “You’ll get used to him.”
I don’t have a choice.
Because if I’m going back into the world—the penthouse, the Syndicate, the shadows waiting outside this clean white room—I don’t need normal. I need someone who’ll make sure I live long enough to raise this child. Someone who doesn’t run at the sight of blood, or threats, or ghosts from my past.
If my husband trusts him, then I’ll trust him as well.
The elevator doors glide open, same as they always have—silent and seamless, opening into the penthouse like it’s some sacred, steel-lined vault.
I step inside without pausing. No hesitation this time.
Just steady feet and a quiet awareness that the last time I crossed this threshold, I was a stolen bride in a dress I never wanted to wear.
Dante enters first, his black-clad figure moving with silent efficiency as he sweeps the space.
He checks the windows, the corners, the hidden doorways—methodical, quick, not a single word spoken.
He’s a shadow dressed like a soldier, and by the time Enzo and I finish stepping inside, Dante is already stationed in the hallway, arms crossed, back straight, eyes forward.
I watch him for a second, brows raised. “Does he sleep standing up?”
Enzo closes the elevator behind us, mouth twitching. “He sleeps when I order it.”
“I feel like he has kill stats listed somewhere online under an alias like SilentDeath27.”
“If he does, I haven’t found it. And I’ve looked.”
I smile faintly and turn back toward the penthouse.
The glass that shattered around us is repaired, no hint of the violence that occurred that night remains.
For the first time, I take in the main room with a clear head.
The furniture is sleek, clean, sharp-edged and intentionally unwelcoming.
Everything smells faintly of leather, espresso, and Enzo’s cologne—rich, dark, and masculine.
It’s all exactly the same.
I move through the living room slowly, fingertips grazing the back of the sofa. “Okay. First of all, we need to talk about this color palette. Everything in here looks like it was designed by a hitman who just discovered minimalism.”
Enzo moves up behind me, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over a nearby chair. “It’s clean.”
“It’s cold,” I say, spinning around to face him. “You have two colors in this entire space: black and whatever shade of boredom this wall is painted in.”
“I’ll have you know that’s gunmetal gray.”
I raise a brow. “So, regret with a body count. Got it.”
“You loved it last time.”
“I was concussed from emotional whiplash and deeply compromised by your jawline. Let’s not count that.”
His smirk spreads, unapologetic. “If you want to change it, go right ahead, Angel.”
I wave him off and turn, eyes sweeping across the room. “We’re warming this place up. Area rugs, layered textures. Plus, we need to think about babyproofing everything.”
His eyes light up and he brushes his thumb along my cheek. “You’re beautiful when you’re determined.”
“Don’t sweet talk me right now, Mr. Marchetti.” I step back out of his reach, which judging by the look on his face, only amuses him. “This place isn’t just a penthouse anymore. It’s where I’m carrying your heir. And our baby deserves more than steel, shadows, and a bulletproof bassinet.”
“You say that like I didn’t already order the custom Kevlar crib.”
I stop just outside the bedroom, half-laughing, half-serious. “We’re getting a proper nursery, Enzo. Something soft. Safe. I’m thinking of sage green walls. A rocker. Natural light. Curtains that don’t look like they were pulled from a hostage negotiation room.”
Enzo’s palm skims over my lower back, pulling me in until I’m flush against him. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, his stubble scraping in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “You’ve ruined me for living alone,” he says, voice dark like he’s confessing something sinful.
I tip my head toward him, smirking. “Ruined you? I’ve been here, what, an hour? That’s all it took for you to fall in love with the idea of throw pillows and scented candles?”
His lips curl against my skin. “I don’t give a fuck about throw pillows. I care about walking into a room and smelling you. Hearing you. Knowing you’re here where you belong, not out there where I can’t touch you.”
“Possessive much?”
He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing like humor.
“You have no idea how bad it is, baby. You’ve got me thinking about things I can’t stop wanting.
Like how I’m going to fuck you in every inch of this place until the walls remember us.
Until I can walk into any room and know exactly where you came apart for me. ”
My breath catches at the raw certainty in his voice, but I keep my chin up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep it cuts. “You talk a big game.”
His hand slides lower, gripping the curve of my ass like he’s already signing his name there. “Not talk. A vow.” Then his mouth crashes onto mine—hard, hungry, taking until my knees threaten to give out. He swallows the sound I make, kissing me like he’s marking territory he’ll never surrender.
When he finally drags his lips from mine, his breath is hot against my ear. “Every inch of this place will smell like sex, soundproofed or not. I’ll fuck you loud enough the city hears you scream my name.”
A shaky laugh escapes me, though my pulse is anything but steady. “Poor Dante.”
Enzo’s teeth graze my jaw, his voice dropping lower. “Let him hear. Let him know exactly who you belong to.”
The shiver that runs through me is instant, sharp. “You’re insane.”
“No, baby.” His mouth curves against my skin, pure possession in the shape of a smile. “I’m in love.”