ZOE DEAN'S POV
When I woke up, I already felt like I'd been hit by a truck. Every muscle in my body ached, my throat was dry, and my stomach twisted painfully with hunger. It honestly felt like I had flown all the way from Dubai to Thailand using my own wings instead of a jet.
A long yawn escaped my lips as I stretched out on the bed, my joints cracking one by one in protest. The sheets were soft and cool against my skin, which only made it harder to move. But when I finally pushed myself up, my hair tumbling forward, my eyes landed on the tall figure sitting by the balcony door.
Nero.
He sat with his back half-turned to me, the glow from his laptop screen lighting the sharp lines of his face. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, his focus unwavering. For a second, I just watched him—his calm presence, the faint tension in his shoulders, the way the evening light made his dark hair glint faintly gold at the tips.
The air in the room felt… different. Not strange exactly, just unfamiliar. Then it hit me—we were in Thailand now.
My gaze drifted slowly around the room. It was spacious and elegant but carried an old-world charm, the kind you'd find in vintage European mansions. Wooden beams crossed the high ceiling, the furniture carved with intricate details. The large balcony doors let in a wash of dusk light, turning the air hazy and soft.
"You're awake?"
His voice pulled me back.
I looked over to find his eyes already on me, the laptop closed now. He was no longer wearing the leather jackets of earlier just a black shirt and loose trousers, while I was still in my nightdress. I suddenly became aware of how thin the fabric was, and how his gaze seemed to notice that too before he politely looked away.
"Hm," I managed, my voice hoarse. My stomach grumbled in agreement.
"Come here," he said quietly, his tone softer than usual.
I swung my legs off the bed and padded over to him, still half-asleep, my hair a tangled mess. The moment I sat opposite him, the knock came.
"Master Russo, dinner," a man's voice announced from the door.
Dinner? My brows furrowed. Wait, had I slept through an entire day?
"Come in," Nero said.
The door opened to reveal a man in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair slicked back neatly, his posture impeccable. Behind him came a young maid pushing a trolley laden with covered dishes.
"Hello, Mrs. Russo," the man greeted politely.
I blinked, offering a small, awkward smile. Mrs. Russo. That still didn't sound real.
Under his instructions, the maid began setting the table with elegant precision. The smell hit me before I even saw the food—warm, savory, mouthwatering. My stomach growled so loudly I wanted the floor to swallow me.
Before the maid could even finish setting down the last plate, I was already reaching for the cutlery.
I heard Nero's quiet chuckle but ignored it, focusing on the steaming dish in front of me.
"Any other thing, Master Russo?" the man asked in a respectful tone.
"No, thank you, Butler Thyme. That'll be all."
The butler nodded, then left with the maid, the door closing softly behind them.
The moment they were gone, I dug in like someone who hadn't eaten in years—which wasn't far from the truth. Every bite tasted like heaven.
"Slow down," Nero said with another amused chuckle.
I pretended not to hear him, finishing one plate and reaching for another. My hunger didn't care about manners.
When I finally leaned back, full and utterly satisfied, I let out a small sigh, rubbing my stomach. "That was so good," I murmured, closing my eyes.
Another soft laugh came from him.
I peeked one eye open. "What's funny?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stood, taking a napkin from the table. Before I could ask what he was doing, he was beside me.
His hand rested lightly on the armrest of my chair, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. With his other hand, he gently tilted my chin up and wiped the corner of my mouth with the napkin.
The air stilled.
He was so close I could feel his breath ghost against my cheek. My heart stumbled, thudding faster, louder, until it filled the silence between us. His eyes locked with mine, dark and unreadable, and I forgot how to breathe.
He hesitated for just a second, then leaned in.
Our lips brushed, soft and uncertain, like a question waiting for an answer. My pulse roared in my ears. Every thought vanished, leaving only the press of his mouth, the faint tremor in my hands, the warmth curling low in my stomach.
When he pulled back slightly, his gaze searched mine like he was seeking permission.
And that, more than anything, made the butterflies in my stomach swell until it felt like they might burst. With me, Nero was always gentle. He wasn't the cold, dangerous mafia Don everyone feared.
I blinked up at him, searching his face. It struck me then—since the night of the race, he hadn't kissed me again. Not once. He hadn't even tried.
It wasn't that he didn't want to. I could feel it, in the way his gaze lingered sometimes, in the way his touch would hover, hesitant, before pulling away. He was holding himself back. But why? Men like him didn't hold back. Men like Nero took.
So I did the one thing he couldn't without my permission.
I leaned forward, heart pounding, and caught his lips with mine. Slowly. Carefully.
It wasn't rushed or wild—it was searching. Soft and hesitant at first, like we were both testing something fragile, something that could break if we weren't careful.
For a moment, everything else disappeared. The fear. The danger. The reason we'd left Dubai in the middle of the night. I forgot who he was—the man people whispered about, the one who made others disappear. Right now, he was just Nero. And I was just me.
And I wanted this.
When he didn't pull away, relief washed through me. Instead, he exhaled shakily, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. His fingers slid into my hair, and he kissed me back—slowly, deeply—like he'd been waiting for this moment as much as I had.
The kiss deepened, unhurried yet filled with something that burned quietly between us. I could taste the faint trace of coffee and mint on his lips, could feel the tremor that passed through him when I moved closer.
Without breaking the kiss, he slipped an arm around me and lifted me effortlessly from the chair. My breath caught, but he was careful, always careful, as he carried me toward the bed.
He set me down gently, like I was something precious. Our lips still found each other in slow, lingering movements, until finally he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine as we both caught our breath.
My chest rose and fell in rhythm with his. My heart was racing, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
Were we… really about to—?
But Nero didn't move. He didn't push. He just stared down at me, breathing a little unevenly, his eyes soft but searching. Then, with a tenderness that caught me off guard, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"Zoe," he whispered, his voice rough in the quiet.
"Yes?" My voice came out barely audible.
"Thank you… for doing this with me."
For a second, I could only stare at him. No one had ever said something like that to me before. A simple thank you. Not for what I could give, or do, or be—but just for being here. With him.
I felt my lips curve into a small, trembling smile. My cheeks were warm. My chest ached in that sweet, heavy way that only came from being seen—truly seen.
Before I could speak, his voice came again, soft, almost uncertain.
"I love you, Zoe."
The words hung in the air between us, fragile and real.
My breath caught. He loves me?
We hadn't talked about love since we were together. Why was he saying this now?