She glanced at me, and I caught the hint of a smile—the first I’d seen from her. It was small. Faint, but it made my chest tighten.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For… this. Even if I don’t know why you’re doing it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too raw. Too dangerous. Too close to something I’d spent years pretending I didn’t want: someone to protect. Someone to claim. Someone to keep.
We reach the bar, and I held the door open for her. She slipped inside, allowing the warmth of the bar to wash over us.
Marco raised an eyebrow but said nothing as I led her past the empty tables, past the darkened booths, to a corner where the light was soft and the noise was low.
“Zara,” I said, grabbing her attention.
Her eyes meet mine and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
If I have any say in it, this girl would be a Falcone one day.
My wife. My future.
And I always have what I want.
Chapter Five
Zara
This was such a bad idea.
Yet for some stupid reason, I followed him anyway.
The bar was warm when we stepped inside, a wave of heat that hit my frozen skin, making me shiver. A few scattered patrons were nursing drinks at the far end, not paying us any attention.
Lorenzo.
I rolled the name around in my head. It didn’t fit. It sounded like something out of a romance novel, all dark and velvety and too much. And he looked it, too—tall, broad-shouldered, with that sharp jaw and those eyes that never stopped moving. A suit that probably cost more than my entire salary.
And he kept looking at me.
Not in the way guys at bars usually looked—not the quick, hungry scan that made me feel like a piece of meat. No, this was deeper. Like he was memorizing every part of me, cataloging it, filing it away for later.
It made my skin prickle.
It also made my stomach flip, and I loathed myself for feeling it.
Lorenzo led me past the main bar area, past the booths, to a corner with high-top tables. He pulled out a stool for me andgestured for me to sit before sliding onto the stool across from me.
“Order whatever you want. If it’s not on there, the chef can make it,” he said, sliding a leather-bound menu across the table.
I blinked. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
I opened the menu full of small plates and artisan this and handcrafted that, things I couldn’t pronounce. And prices that made my eyes water. On the last page of the menu was a section labeled Classics.
Classic Burger. Hand-pressed Angus beef, aged cheddar, caramelized onions. $18.
My mouth watered.
“Can I get a burger?” I asked, looking up. “And fries?”
