The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting golden patterns across Hazel's bedroom floor. She stirred gently beneath the soft linen sheets, her body slowly waking to the calm serenity around her. For the first time in days, her sleep had been uninterrupted, dreamless. Peaceful.
She stretched, relishing the quiet hum of the mansion and the softness of the air that hinted at summer. No gunfire. No raised voices. No accusations. Just stillness.
Slipping out of bed, Hazel padded barefoot across the marble floor to the en-suite bathroom. She took her time—brushing out her hair, washing her face, and slipping into a flowy sundress. A part of her still didn't know how to feel. She had a child growing inside her and a man outside her door who had proposed with a ring… but she'd said no. And he hadn't pushed.
Not yet, anyway.
When she descended the grand staircase, a delicious aroma greeted her from the dining room. Breakfast—already prepared. A tray of fresh-baked croissants, scrambled eggs, sliced avocados, and prosciutto had been laid out elegantly along with a carafe of orange juice and a steaming pot of herbal tea.
A small note rested against the napkin in elegant handwriting.
Thought you might be hungry. Take your time. — E.
Hazel's stomach fluttered, but not from the pregnancy this time.
He's still trying.
She settled into the chair and ate slowly, savoring each bite. The silence of the house both comforted and unnerved her. It was so unlike the chaos she associated with Enzo's world. No guards loomed over her, no staff bustling about. It almost felt... normal.
When she finished her meal, she stood and wandered through the halls with her hands trailing over the ornate wood panels. The mansion was massive—easily over ten bedrooms—and despite its size, it felt lived in. Paintings of Roman cities and misty Italian coasts lined the walls. Family portraits hung discreetly in corners, some featuring Enzo as a boy, his smile guarded even then.
She hadn't seen him all morning. Maybe he'd left for business already.
Hazel turned down a long hallway she hadn't explored yet and pushed open a heavy double door. Her breath caught.
A library.
The room was floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelves, brimming with books of every size and language. Plush armchairs rested near a massive window, and in one corner stood a ladder that slid across the shelving on polished brass rails.
She ran her fingers over the bindings, savoring the comforting smell of old pages and leather.
One book caught her eye—a worn copy of Il Nome della Rosa by Umberto Eco. Italian literature. Classic mystery. She smiled to herself. With a book in hand and sunshine calling her name, she turned toward the back of the house.
A door led to the veranda, and just beyond it, a stone path wound through hedges and flowers toward the pool. The sky above was cloudless, the water glistening like melted sapphire.
No one was around.
Hazel returned upstairs briefly to change into her bikini—an elegant black two-piece with a gauzy white cover-up—and brought the book with her to the poolside. The warmth of the stone beneath her feet, the gentle ripple of water, and the calm breeze through the trees made everything feel like another world.
She settled onto a lounge chair beneath a wide umbrella, pushed her sunglasses up, and cracked open the book. Within minutes, she was lost in the story.
Unbeknownst to Hazel, Enzo was very much still in the house.
In his office on the second floor, a sleek modern room overlooking the pool terrace, he was in the middle of a virtual strategy meeting with two lieutenants and his consigliere.
A projection of maps, weapons routes, and encrypted names lit up the black glass table in front of him. Enzo had barely spoken, letting his men discuss options. His mind was elsewhere—floating somewhere between the echo of Hazel's rejection and the haunting memory of the curve of her hand on her stomach the night before.
He hadn't even noticed the flicker of motion outside until it crossed into the corner of his vision.
Enzo glanced toward the window—and froze.
There she was.
Hazel.
She had her hair pinned loosely atop her head, a book in her hands, and her legs stretched out on the sunbed like she belonged there—like the chaos of the world didn't exist. Her cover-up slid off one shoulder, revealing the bare curve of her skin beneath the sun.
She was stunning. Unaware. Peaceful.
Enzo stood up so abruptly that the conversation in the room halted.
One of the lieutenants, Matteo, looked startled. "Signore Pierce?"
Enzo didn't answer at first. He walked toward the window, his hand pressed against the glass as Hazel reached out to turn a page in her book.
"Sir?" the consigliere asked, clearing his throat. "Is something wrong?"
Enzo didn't tear his eyes away. "No," he said flatly. "Nothing's wrong."
The men exchanged glances as he waved a hand over his shoulder. "Continue the meeting without me. I'll review the recording."
Matteo blinked. "But—"
"I said continue."
Enzo's tone left no room for argument. He remained still at the window, watching as Hazel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and laughed softly at something in the book. She dipped her toes into the water, still reading, still utterly unaware of the pull she had on him.
She had said no. She had doubted him.
And yet, here she was—still here. Still in his home. Still carrying his child.
Enzo turned from the window, his chest tight. He had faced killers, betrayed allies, lied to the press, and negotiated with men twice his age—but it was the look in Hazel's eyes when she'd said "I can't trust that you'll love only me" that haunted him.
He needed to win that trust back. Not with promises. Not with rings.
But with presence.
He left the office without another word, heading down the stairs with one thing in mind: her.