Chapter 10 - An Unfinished War
Three weeks later, the mid-winter blizzard had finally surrendered to a bitter, crisp thaw. Lake Michigan was a vast sheet of fractured, shifting turquoise ice, groaning beneath the weak rays of an early spring sun.
The DeLuca estate was undergoing extensive repairs. The shattered stone was being replaced, the bullet holes in the grand staircase patched, and the perimeter security doubled with military-grade surveillance.
Enzo stood on the expansive stone terrace overlooking the frozen lake, wearing a tailored charcoal wool coat against the brisk wind. In his hand, he held a tumbler of bourbon, watching the ice floes drift toward the horizon.
A quiet sound of footsteps approached.
Harper stepped up beside him, wrapping a soft cream cashmere scarf tightly around her throat. She looked rested. The bruises had faded entirely, leaving behind the striking, breathtaking beauty that had first caught his eye in the cathedral. But the fragile, terrified socialite was gone forever; in her place stood a woman forged in fire, standing beside him as an absolute equal.
"Preston’s sentencing hearing concluded an hour ago," Harper said quietly, looking out over the water. "Forty-five years at ADX Florence. No parole. The judge accepted the full portfolio audit I submitted."
Enzo took a sip of his bourbon. "And the trust assets?"
"Fully absorbed into DeLuca Holdings," she replied, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips. "Technically speaking, Mr. DeLuca, I now own fifty-one percent of your maritime shipping division."
Enzo turned his head to look at her, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "Is that so? Should I be worried about a hostile takeover, Mrs. DeLuca?"
Harper turned to face him, leaning her back against the stone balustrade, looking up into his dark, scarred face.
"You survived my father, you survived the Morettis, and you survived a Russian extraction team," she murmured softly. "I think your position as head of the family is safe. For now."
Enzo set his glass down on the stone ledge. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his hands reaching out to cup her face. His palms were warm against her cool skin.
"When I stood in that bedroom on our wedding night," Enzo said, his voice dropping into a deep, earnest cadence, "I thought my life was over. I thought Nathan's death had turned me into a creature that could only destroy."
Harper reached up, covering his large hands with her own. "And now?"
"Now," Enzo whispered, his dark eyes softening with an emotion he had never permitted himself to feel, "I realize that the worst night of my life led me to the only person who could ever save me from myself."
Harper’s breath hitched. She leaned upward, closing the small space between them, and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was fierce, warm, and filled with the unspoken weight of everything they had survived—the grief, the violence, the betrayals, and the unexpected, profound love that had bloomed in the ruins of their war. For the first time in months, the cold seemed to vanish completely.
When they finally parted, Enzo kept his arms wrapped securely around her waist, Harper resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.
The terrace door clicked open.
Marco stepped out onto the stone, his expression unusually grim, holding a heavy, black wax-sealed envelope.
Enzo didn't release his hold on Harper, but his eyes narrowed. "What is it, Marco?"
"A courier delivered this to the front gate five minutes ago," Marco said, his voice tight with unease. "Bypassed all three perimeter checkpoints. No vehicle was logged on the shoreline cameras."
Enzo took the envelope with one hand, breaking the heavy black wax seal. Inside was a single piece of thick parchment and a high-resolution photograph.
Enzo pulled out the photograph first.
Harper gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
The photograph showed Nathan DeLuca, taken from a long-distance surveillance lens. But it wasn't from the night he died. The timestamp in the corner showed the photograph had been taken three days ago, outside a small, sun-drenched café in Marseille, France.
Beneath the photograph, the single sheet of parchment bore a short, handwritten message penned in elegant, foreign calligraphy:
*Preston Whitcomb was merely a distraction. Nathan’s debt was never about money, Enzo. It was about balance. Welcome to the real war.*
*— The Sovereign Syndicate, Geneva.*
Enzo stared at the photograph of his brother—the brother he had buried, the brother he had waged a war to avenge—standing alive under the Mediterranean sun.
May you like
Beside him, Harper looked from the photograph to Enzo’s face, the cold wind whipping her blonde hair across her cheeks as the vast, terrifying reality of an even greater conspiracy unfurled before them.
Enzo looked out over the freezing, shifting ice of Lake Michigan, his grip tightening around Harper’s hand, knowing that the nightmare was far from over. It was only just beginning.
