He turned the phone toward me. I leaned in, reading the article headline:Lorenzo Falcone: The Heir Who Walked the Edge—From Bar Fights to Boardroom Brawls.
There were pictures and news articles. Lorenzo, younger, with a black eye, grinning at the camera outside a club. Lorenzo being led away from a brawl by security. Lorenzo at a gala, looking bored and dangerous in a tuxedo. The article cataloged his reckless youth, his family’s ties, and his father’s attempts to clean up the image.
“He’s a bad boy,” Marcus said, his voice a mix of awe and warning. “Like,actuallya bad boy. Not just the kind who rides a motorcycle and has tattoos. The kind who probably knows people who make people disappear.”
I should have felt terrified. Should have listened to survival instinct, the chill that kept me safe after so many mistakes. But instead, wildness unfurled inside—heat, longing, rebellion.
“Ohhh shit, Zara likes a bad boy,” Marcus teased, but his eyes were sharp with concern. “But seriously, girl, the man is literally old enough to be your father,” he said, making an exaggerated expression.
“Marus, just last week, you were on a date with a 50-year-old. I don’t think it’s that bad.”
“Wait…you’re not actually going through with this, are you? Zara, this guy is dangerous. Like,actuallydangerous.”
I knew Marcus was right. I knew this is insane. I knew I should be running in the opposite direction, should be tearing up that contract, should be pretending I never walked into The Gilded Cage that night.
“I know it sounds crazy,” I said quietly. “But there’s something about him. Something that makes me feel… safe.”
“Safe?” Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s literally a mafia prince.”
“Safe,” I repeated, firmer this time. Sure, the man was clearly possessive, possibly borderline crazy. But he also wiped my tears while I cried about my shitty life and even shittier ex. And the way he agreed to every condition and boundary I set.
“Fine,” he added, his voice dropping to something more serious, “just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t care how many crime family connections he has. I will burn his pretty penthouse to the ground.”
“I promise.” I picked up my wine glass again, swirling the red liquid.
Marcus wass quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. But you’re my best friend, and I trust you. If you say he’s different, I’ll believe you.” He holds up a finger. “But I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ if this goes sideways.”
“Noted,” a laugh bubbled in my throat.
“And,” he added, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “I need updates on the sex. In detail.”
I threw a pillow at him. “There’s nothing to update.”
“Bullshit.” He caught the pillow, tucking it behind his head. “Hey, I’m just saying. If you’re gonna marry a crime lord, at least get some good stories out of it.”
“Marcus!” I bury my face in my hands, laughing despite myself.
We fell into our usual playfulness after that, the TV playing some reality show neither of us is watching while he told me all about his trip. I sat curled up against the arm of the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs, and let my mind drift.
Lorenzo Falcone. The name feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with history and violence and secrets I don’t yet know.
But when I closed my eyes, I don’t see the headlines. I don’t see the blood on his knuckles or the fire in his eyes.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Ohhh,” Marcus sang, wagging his eyebrows. “Is that daddy crime lord calling?”
“Shut up.” I pulled out my phone, and sure enough, there wass a text from Lorenzo.
Lorenzo
I’ll have a few dresses sent to your friend’s address for tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know.
I stared at the message, my heart doing that stupid flutter it always does when I think of him.
“Well?” Marcus prompted. “What’d he say?”
