A dark laugh escaped him. “You don’t know that yet.”
“I do.”
His gaze searched mine like he was trying to understand how I could possibly believe that.
Then, softer this time, “You’re changing me.”
The confession stole the air from my lungs.
Lorenzo looked away briefly, jaw flexing as if the admission itself unsettled him.
“I used to think love made men weak,” he said quietly. “Now I think it just makes them terrified.”
Emotion climbed painfully into my throat.
“Terrified of what?”
His eyes met mine again.
“Losing the one thing that finally matters more than yourself.” He looked at me, and there was so much emotion in his eyes it almost hurt to see. “I’m trying, Zara. Trying to be better, gentler. Trying to be the man who earns your love, not takes it. I really am.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his and letting silence say what words couldn’t. For a moment, we simply looked at each other, hearts pounding, the space between us full of complicated hope.
When I pulled back, his eyes were dark, hungry, but he didn’t move to take more.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For telling me.”
“You asked.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “I told you. I’ll give you everything, Tesoro. Everything I have. Everything I am.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You’re worth it.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder, watching the clouds drift by outside the window. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and I felt something settle in my chest.
Safety. That was new.
“Tell me more,” I said. “About the good parts.”
He chuckled softly. “The good parts…”
And as the plane carried us across the ocean, he talked. About summers in Italy, swimming in the sea. About his grandmother’s cooking, the way she’d pinch his cheeks and call him bambino. About the first time he’d seen the Gilded Cage, a run-down bar that he’d poured every ounce of himself into.
I listened. I laughed. I held his hand.
And somewhere above the clouds, surrounded by champagne and leather and a man who looked at me like I was the answer to every question he’d ever asked, I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be loved.
Really loved.
By a man who saw my broken pieces and wanted to hold them, anyway.
Chapter Thirty-One
Zara
Six hours: champagne, cloud-speckled skies, Lorenzo’s thigh pressed against mine with every bump. Six hours of asking,“Where are we going”, and receiving only his beautiful, infuriating smile.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
