I nodded because I can’t speak.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and I feel his hands slide down to my hips, pulling me against him.
“Now,” he said against my mouth, “I believe I promised to make up for my absence.”
“You did.”
“Then let me keep my promise.”
He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. I didn’t think about tomorrow or the day after or any of the uncertainties still lurking in the shadows.
I just let myself be wanted.
And for the first time in my life, that felt like enough.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lorenzo
The thing about Zara is that she doesn’t know how to be spoiled.
I’ve watched her for days now: watched her flinch when Mariella brings her breakfast, watched her hesitate before stepping into the boutique in Milan, watched her apologize for wanting things. Like wanting is a sin, like happiness is something she has to earn.
It made me want to burn down everyone who ever made her feel that way.
Tonight, she asked me to send the staff home. I saw the words forming on her lips before she spoke them, saw the way she twisted her fingers together, the way she bit the inside of her cheek. Bravery, I’ve learned, looks different on her than it does on most people. It’s quiet, trembling, flickering in her eyes. But it’s there, always there, underneath that fragile shell she’s built around herself.
“Can it be just us tonight?” She asked, and I would’ve given her the moon if she’d asked for it.
So I sent Mariella home, sent the chef and the groundskeepers home with instructions to return tomorrow.
And now I’m standing in the kitchen of the villa with my sleeves rolled up , hands in warm, soapy water. My wife sits on the marble countertop, her posture tense, watching as I wash the dishes.
She’s wearing my black dress shirt. On her, it’s oversized, the hem brushing her thighs. Bare legs, ankles crossed, toes flexing against the cool stone as she watches me rinse the last of the risotto from a pan.
We made together.
I was still adjusting to the domesticity of it. The way she handed me a wooden spoon, told me to stir while she chopped herbs, her tongue caught between her teeth in focus. She laughed when I salted the pasta water too late. The way she tasted the sauce from my finger, no hesitation, her lips warm, eyes finding mine and holding there.
It was dangerous, this feeling. Wanting more than her body. This craving her laughter, her comfort, her trust.
“She’s still struggling with the lifestyle,” I had told my cousin on the phone yesterday. He laughed and said, “She’ll get used to it. They always do. And then you’ll wish they didn’t.”
But she’s not them. She’s not a woman who marries for wealth, who spends freely without questioning its origin. Zara flinched at price tags. She thanks me for every gift, as if I’d given her a kidney.
The money, the power, the family name—it’s all just noise. Status I never asked for, responsibilities I never wanted. My father’s voice is always there, reminding me that everything I do is for the Falcone legacy, that any weakness is a crack in the family’s foundation. Every decision weighed against the expectations of generations, every move shadowed by the threat of disappointing men who value tradition over happiness. But her? Zara, with her broken heart and her fierce, fragile hope? She’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.
“This is weird, right?” She asked now, watching me scrub a pan. “The head of the Falcone empire, washing dishes.”
I glanced over my shoulder at her. “I’ve washed dishes before.”
“Bullshit.”
“I have. In college, before I dropped out.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You went to college?”
“For a year.” I handed her a plate to dry. “Business. My father’s idea. I spent most of it drinking and fighting and fucking my way through the female population of Florence.”
