We stayed like that for a while before the plane leveled out, and the seatbelt sign clicked off, the sky stretching infinitely around us. Lorenzo’s hand remained on my thigh, and the flight attendant continued to keep my champagne glass full.
When my heartbeat finally settled, I turned to face him fully.
“It’s been almost two weeks now,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “What else should I know about my mysterious husband?”
He smiled—slow, curling, devastating. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’ll tell you anything,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Mia Moglie.”
My stomach flipped. I didn’t know what the words meant, exactly—something Italian, something beautiful—but they settled into my bones like a promise.
“You can start,” I said, “with why you married a stranger. I’ve asked you a bunch of times, but I never get a straight answer.”
He leaned back, sliding his hand from my thigh and intertwining his fingers with mine. His thumb absently traced patterns on my skin as he considered my question.
“Because I saw you,” he said simply. “And I knew.”
“Knew what?” I was frustrated now, tired of asking the same question and getting the same vague response.
“That you were mine,” he said bluntly.
I opened my mouth to argue—I wasn’t anyone’s, didn’t belong to anyone—but his attention enveloped me, the intensity and warmth in his eyes slamming into my defenses until I wanted to believe.
“That’s not an answer,” I managed.
“It’s the only one I have.” He lifted my hand to his lips again, kissing my palm this time. “I’m not good with words, Zara. I’m not good with feelings. But I know what I want. And I wanted you.”
“And you knew all that from across a bar?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even know my name.”
“I knew your eyes.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I knew the way you held your glass. I knew you were hurting, and I wanted to be the one who put you back together.”
My heart stuttered. “That’s…”
“Too much?” He smiled, but there was something sad in it.
“I was going to say it’s romantic,” I admitted. “In a slightly terrifying way.”
His laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ll take terrifying.”
I shifted in my seat, tucking my legs beneath me. “Tell me something else. Something about your childhood.”
He was quiet for a long moment. I watched the shadows move across his face as he decided what to share, how much to hold back.
“I grew up in a family that didn’t believe in childhood,” he finally said. “My father—he wasn’t a father. He was a businessman. And the family business…”
“Crime,” I said softly.
“Yes.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you, Zara. My family has blood on its hands. Money that was made in ways that would make you sick. I’ve seen things I can’t unsee, done things I’m not proud of.”
I squeezed his hand. “Tell me, I want to understand.”
He looked at me then, really looked, as if he were searching for judgment, but he wouldn’t find any.
“I was fourteen the first time my uncle took me on a run.”
