“You did punch a man in a restaurant,” I quipped.
His nostrils flared. “He touched my wife.”
“There it is,” I shot back softly. “That possessive caveman thing you do.”
For a second, I thought he might actually explode. I could see the violence in him then—not directed at me, never at me, but there under the surface like a restrained storm.
And the worst part?
It thrilled me.
My chest rose too fast, breath catching somewhere between fear and anticipation.
His gaze dropped briefly, tracking the quick rise and fall of my chest, the heat flushing beneath my freckles.
Lorenzo stepped away abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair like he was angry at himself.
“That’s not me anymore, Zara.” His voice was rough. “I’m no saint. I’ve done things I’m not proud of.” He looked at me then, eyes stripped bare. “But I’m trying. For you, Mia Moglie,” he said gently.
My wife.
The tenderness in it hit harder than the anger had.
He let out a sharp breath and looked away, then back at me, something dark and conflicted burning in his eyes.
“Unless,” he said slowly, “you want me to be the man you think I am.”
The words wrapped around my throat.
A warning or a temptation — suddenly broken by the ringing of Lorenzo’s phone for the third time since he stepped into my space.
“Cazzo!” he muttered as he snatched the phone off the counter, glancing at the screen.
His expression darkened instantly.
“What?” he answered flatly.
I watched the change happen in real time.
The softness vanished from his face; the vulnerability gone. The man who’d just admitted he was trying for me disappeared behind something colder, harder.
Dangerous.
He listened silently, eyes narrowing.
Then, very calmly, “Get them out.”
A pause.
“I don’t care who started it.”
Another pause, longer this time.
His shoulders went rigid.
“Anyone recording?” His voice dropped lower. Sharper. “Confiscate the phones. Delete the footage.”
My stomach tightened.
