43. GABRIEL Damianos son #2
His hand finally closes. Not on the kid. On his own knee. Gripping hard. Like he needs something to hold onto.
"All this time…" he breathes, staring at the boy like he's seeing a ghost. "All this?—"
His voice cuts off. He doesn't finish. Can't.
He looks at me. "That's mine."
Not the ring.
The kid.
Damiano pulls himself together long enough for us to enter the house—mansion would be more accurate.
Not that I'd ever say that to his face. The place is exactly what you'd expect once you know his roots.
Not Vegas flashy. Not gold-plated bullshit.
Old world. Italian. Power without needing to prove it.
The entrance alone could swallow most penthouses whole.
Marble floors stretch out beneath us, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the soft glow of a chandelier that looks like it belongs in a cathedral, not a private residence.
The air is cool, faintly scented with something clean and expensive, leather, maybe, and citrus.
Two sweeping staircases curve upward on either side, deliberate and symmetrical, imposing enough to have come straight from one of those villas on Lake Como.
They meet halfway up, forming a wide balcony that overlooks the entire entrance, perfect for watching who comes and goes.
Or who gets dragged in. Below it, the space opens like a hub.
Hallways branch off left and right, disappearing into the deeper parts of the house.
Straight ahead, an open archway leads into a sitting room, low lighting, clean lines, the kind of space designed for quiet conversations that don't stay quiet for long.
Everything about this place says the same thing. Money. Control. Legacy.
None of it touches him. It's like all the things in Damiano's life; once he possesses it, it loses its appeal to him.
He is the most restless person I've ever met.
Never one to sit still or lean back. Not even for a moment to enjoy a victory.
The moment he achieves his goal, he's already looking for a new challenge.
I jerk my head toward the woman and the kid, nod at Mauro. "Take them to the east wing. Guest room. Lock it down."
Mauro nods once, already moving.
"Watch them," I add, my gaze flickers briefly to the woman. "Especially her."
She glares at me like she'd rip my throat out if she could. I'd be disappointed if she didn't.
Damiano has already moved through the archway into the large sitting room overlooking a wide terrace, which opens onto a luscious backyard that would be more at home in California than the desert.
Wordlessly, I move to the bar. Pour two fingers of bourbon.
On second thought, I add another. Fuck it. Make it four.
I grab a second glass, pour that too, and turn. Damiano hasn't moved much. But he's not the same man who stepped out of the Escalade. Not even close.
I hold out the glass. He takes it. Doesn't thank me. Just stares at it for a second before knocking it back in one go. I do the same. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then I lean back against the wall, arms crossed. "Explain."
He exhales. Trying to piece himself back together.
"I didn't know." His voice is rough. Stripped down.
My patience snaps immediately. "Didn't know what?"
His jaw tightens. A muscle ticks.
"I didn't know," he repeats, quieter now. "I swear to God, Gabe. I didn't know."
I push off the wall. Take a step closer.
"This"—I gesture vaguely toward the other room, toward everything that just happened—"this is not you." My eyes narrow. "You don't lose control. Not like that."
He lets out a humorless breath.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Well. Looks like I do."
He stares at me for a long time, and I allow it.
Wait with more patience than I thought myself capable of.
I don't do emotions. We don't do emotions.
But it seems there is a first for everything, and Damiano just took a jab that, from the looks of it, has thrown him against a wall.
No, scratch that, he had a wall fall on him. A massive wall.
Time stretches, and he finally makes up his mind to confide in me. "I need to tell you something." His gaze lifts. Meets mine. And there's something there I don't like. Not one fucking bit. "You're not going to like it."
I snort, tipping my empty glass slightly. "That's never stopped you before."
"This is different."
Something in my chest shifts. I'm not sure I want to hear what he has to say. Still, I nod, "Try me."
He drags a hand over his face. For a second, he looks… tired. Not physically. Emotionally drained.
"Before she disappeared," he says slowly, like each word costs him something, "Catarina and I…"
He trails off. His jaw works, like he's trying to form words but can't get them out. Just the mention of my sister's name stirs up a shitstorm in my gut. Her name has been coming up too often lately for my liking. I stare at him. Waiting.
"We had a… thing."
"A thing." I repeat flatly.
His silence is answer enough. Something cold settles in my chest. Slow. Heavy. I stare at the man I've known for ten years, been through hell with. We've bled together, fought together, drank together.
"You had a thing," I echo, pushing off the wall completely now. Closing the distance. With a herculean effort, I manage to give him one more chance to explain. "Define thing, Damiano."
He doesn't flinch. He looks straight into my eyes. "We were involved." He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck, it was more than that. We were in love."
He shakes his head. There is a distant shimmer in his eyes I've never seen before. At least not on him. Massimo has been wearing it a lot lately.
That does it. A sharp, humorless laugh tears out of me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and pace the room once before turning back to him.
Suddenly, I'm not here anymore. I'm back there.
With her. My sister. My fucking twin. We shared everything.
Or at least… I thought we did. The important things.
The things that mattered. The things that hurt.
And this? This wasn't small. Her banging one of my friends?
Fuck.
I glare at Damiano, and he looks his defiant self. His entire posture screams, bring it on. If she was with him, if they kept it quiet, if he was that infatuated with her, that can only mean one thing: she was in love with him.
The realization hits like a punch straight to the gut. Hard. Sudden. Knocking the air out of me. Cursing, I pace once more, trying to shake it off, trying to make it make sense. It doesn't. None of it does.
How the fuck did I miss that?
How did I not see it?
And worse?—
Why did she hide it from me?
Did she think she had to?
That thought digs in deeper than anything else. I stop pacing. Turn back to him. "Did you make her hide it?"
"What? No. Fuck no. I wanted to scream it from the rooftops, but she wasn't ready." Damiano shakes his head. There is a low curve to his lips. I've never used this word before, and didn't think I ever would, but here it is. He looks… whimsical. I narrow my eyes.
"You were fucking my sister?"
For the first time since I've known him, Damiano doesn't have a smart answer. Doesn't deflect. Doesn't provoke. He just stands there.
"Yeah," just one word. Low. Rough. Unapologetic.
The urge to hit something, somebody, is strong, and there is a perfectly good target right in front of me. My fist connects with his jaw. Hard enough for him to go down. He lands on his ass, rubbing his chin. "I guess I deserve that one."
He eyes me warily, wondering if I will stop or continue. I hold out my hand and help him up.
"How long?" I grind out.
"We'd been in love for a long time, but neither one of us admitted to it."
I keep staring. He keeps rubbing his chin where my fist hit him. My knuckles sting, and his chin is already swelling.
"Two months." He walks over to the bar, grabs some ice, puts it into a towel, and repeats the process. He hands one to me and presses the other against his chin.
"We were going to tell you. But…" Again, that whimsical look. Fuck me.
If it wasn't for that, I'd beat the shit out of him. But I know two things. One, my sister wouldn't have taken this lightly. She must have been in love. Two, as much as Damiano is an uncontrollable pain in the ass, I can see that he loved her, too.
My jaw tightens. Hard enough it aches. "And you didn't think to mention that? After she went missing? After we found her dead body? After I don't know, fucking everything?"
A helpless look I've never seen on him before ghosts across his face and stops me cold.
"I couldn't, Gabe. I just couldn't."
For a long moment neither of us says anything.
Damiano drags a hand over his face. "It was ours," he says quietly. "Catarina wanted to keep it private until we were ready to tell everyone."
I open my mouth.
He shakes his head. "No. Let me finish."
Something in his voice makes me shut up.
"When she disappeared, it didn't matter anymore. Telling you wouldn't have helped find her. It wouldn't have changed anything." He looks away. "If anything, it would have just distracted you and the others."
The words hit harder than I expect.
"When she went missing, I kept telling myself she's coming back. That she's hiding. That somebody grabbed her. That she's hurt." His laugh is short and bitter. "Anything but dead."
My anger starts to bleed away.
"And then we found her." His voice roughens on the last word.
For a second, I see it. Not the arrogant pain in the ass standing in front of me, but the man who was there when I got the phone call. Who went to the morgue with me.
"She wanted to keep us quiet." His gaze drops to the floor. "So I honored her request."
"Damiano—"