Chapter 4: Zefiro

She’s asleep in the backseat, in my fucking coat. So much for wanting to flee from the sight of her and there she lies, snoring softly, her nightdress covering absolutely nothing as she turns, trying to get comfortable amongst my luggage.

Bloody, flying fuck.

“Sir, if I may—”

I raise a tired hand to the new chauffeur. “Leave it. Have the first room in the guest wing tidied.” I groan at the thought of her in my sheets, in my bed, in my fucking house, without clothes. “No, the last room should do. Have it freezing cold. Disconnect the heater.”

The middle-aged man arches a brow at me as I meet out more instructions, but he doesn’t ask questions as he hurries across the yard, past the front doors.

With a ragged sigh, I get out of the car and pull her door open. “Mrs. Hawke?” I call out. Her lips remain parted and her features peaceful. There are purple bruises along her cheekbones and cuts on her neck and arms. Breathing slowly, but steadily through her cut lips, her arms wrapped around her torso and her form curled into a ball, she looks so damned tiny. So vulnerable. Helpless.

I swallow, clenching my fists. This is dangerous territory. I shouldn’t have brought her to my estate, but I’d found myself driving down with all but a single thought. Protect.

Bending, I lean over her, and for the first time, I let myself smell her. She smells like summer. There are no colognes attached to her scent, only the soft smell of soap in her hair, mingling with sweat and the metallic smell of dried blood. It is oddly attractive. Not the blood—never mind.

I reach for her, unsure of if lifting her into my arms is going to give off the wrong message, when her eyes snap open. The light grey of them are glazed over and she screams when they focus on me, swinging her fists wildly, blindly.

Jerking back to avoid her fist ramming into my nose, I straighten, slipping my hands into my pockets. “You’re ruining the leather.”

She halts in her assault and squints at me. She turns her head around my home, confusion furrowing her brows. “This isn’t the bridge.”

“It isn’t,” I scoff. “This is Aquila. My estate.”

Clutching my coat around her shoulders, she steps out on bare foot, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes in the villa, the statues, the pool house, the fountains and cultivated oak trees hiding the race tracks. “Who did you kill to get a place like this?”

I shrug. “A few.” I meet her sterling grey gaze. “Not that it matters. I have it on good word that Jaxon is alive and well. At the hospital, but he has a concussion at best.” It had taken a few calls and pulling a couple of strings to get that information. Not that she needs to know I had eyes everywhere.

Her eyes flash with something kindling to fear. “You won’t tell him—"

“Not unless you want me to.” I purse my lips. “Is there someone I can take you to? A family member, perhaps? I’m sure you understand that you can’t stay here, and while I’d much rather prefer you gone by morning, I’d feel less guilty knowing you’re in safe hands.”

She pulls my coat around her tighter and her eyes turn shifty. “You do not need to worry about me. I’ll be gone by morning, sir.”

“Zefiro,” I bite out, a sudden need to hear her speak my name taking over.

The woman blinks, wrinkling her button nose. “Zefiro…” she murmurs, and she has no fucking idea how hard that makes me, saying my name like it’s a bloody caress. Her eyes flicks from the ground to mine and she bites her bottom lip absentmindedly. “Why bring me here if you cannot wait to be rid of me?”

I swallow, shifting my hip in a different direction to hide the growing bulge and it takes too much effort to keep my expression bored and stern. “Would you prefer I took you back to the bridge, Mrs. Hawke? I honestly don’t give two shits where you sleep tonight. I’ve long been criticized for being a heartless brute and I wanted to be something else for once. I’m not against remedying that mistake right now.”

One second, she’s a little woman with wide, fearful eyes. The next, she’s a dragon breathing so close to my face with an uncanny fire in her eyes as she tells me, “Do not call me a mistake. I appreciate your hospitality. No need to be a fucking jerk about it.”

I lean in, taking in her scent imperceptibly, and she holds the stare I’m best known for without flinching. The kind that makes men squirm in their boots. “Good to see there’s more fight to you than you let on, pertardo.”

“Sir?”

I rock back on my heels, angling my head towards the chauffeur and I wonder how long he’s been standing there for. I’m usually more keyed in to my surroundings. This, this is why I need this woman gone by morning. I can’t afford this sort of distraction.

“The guestroom is ready for use and you have a call from Signora Visconti.”

All of my previous amusement vanishes, leaving me with a gnawing pit of dread in my belly. I nod once, heading inside without giving the woman another glance. “Show her to her room. If she needs anything else, take care of it.”

My steps are unhurried as I approach my study. A call from a Visconti spells trouble, but one from my stepgrandmother? It means something’s wrong back at Milan. The woman never calls me unless things have spiraled out of control and I would like to know what the fuck that is.

I reach my desk and pluck the landline, pressing it to my ear. “Grandmother.”

“Your brother was shot on his honeymoon.”

My grip tightens on the phone and I suck in a deep, angry breath. “Is he dead?”

“No,” she says curtly, her voice empty and cold, as always. “But he might as well be. He’s in a coma, and though we have the best doctors tending to him, it is not assured that he will wake anytime soon. You must return home.”

“Nonna, I do not—"

A sharp hiss of displeasure greets me. “Zefiro Visconti Della Rocca.” My jaw clenches at the absolute power she wields with just one sentence. “I have lived. I have loved. I have buried my husband and children. I have grieved and I completely understand your aversion to this world we have built. But you cannot run forever from yourself. You are a Visconti. The heir to the Della Roccas. Do not sully our name with your act of cowardice and hide behind a mask of grief!”

“You will not speak to me that way!” I snap, breathing hard.

She falls silent and I try to shove my anger, frustration, grief and the blinding pain that threatens to eviscerate me every time I am reminded of Priya back in that damned box where all of my emotions hide. And I fail horribly. I grip the edge of the table, cussing at the pain in my chest. Physical and emotional. “Merda,” I whisper against the burn and I fall back in my chair, loosening the tie around my neck.

“Stellino mio,” she says, more gently. “I am much too old for all of this, don’t you think? Your flight has been booked for tomorrow. Do not let me down. If you do not wish to lead, you know what you must do.” The line disconnects and I hurl the phone into the wall, shattering it along with every bit of control I have left.

With Enzo in his current state and no other males in the family to lead, it rests upon my shoulders once more to take over, else, I leave my family vulnerable to the brutal politics and power struggle of the world I was born into. A world that learned to fear my very name. A world that became part of me, whether or not I wanted it to. The blood and Dio, the wealth. All mine again for the taking, if I wanted.

But now, it is no longer a matter of wants, desires or choices.

The next morning, I force myself up the stairs, to the door of my guest, half expecting to find her naked in my bed, but as I twist the doorknob and peer inside, I find that she kept to her word. She’s gone.