43. GABRIEL Damianos son #3
He raises a hand. "That's not all. I also couldn't do it.
I just couldn't, Gabe." His eyes lift to mine.
For the first time since I've known him, there isn't a trace of cockiness in them.
Just pain. "I wouldn't have been able to stand there while people looked at me with pity or tell me how sorry they were. Not without killing them all.
"I loved her." His voice is barely above a whisper now. "And if nobody knew she was mine, then I got to grieve her in private. I didn't have to watch people mourn her. I didn't have to hear them say it out loud."
I stare at him. At the exhaustion carved into his face. At the grief he's been carrying by himself for three fucking years. Damiano has always been a lone wolf. The kind of man who would rather bleed out than ask for help.
I don't agree with what he did. But I understand. There were times I would have loved nothing better than to shoot the next asshole who told me how sorry he was. I get it.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head once, trying to recalibrate.
Trying to make sense of something that keeps shifting under my feet.
Suddenly, my mind goes to Ezara. The man who has been the grieving fiancé for the past three years.
The one I've been picking off the streets and police departments.
The one I thought I was keeping alive because Catarina loved him. Where does he fit?
"What about Ezara?" The name drops between us like a grenade.
Damiano stills. Just for a fraction of a second. But I see it. Guilt. My stomach drops.
"No…" I murmur, already shaking my head. "No, don't—don't tell me?—"
"Catarina broke it off," he doesn't stop. "A month before she and I…"
The rest doesn't even matter.
"A month," I repeat slowly. Too slowly. Dangerously slow. "And she—what?" I let out a sharp breath, disbelief turning into something darker.
Damiano doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
"Three months?" I press, my voice rising now. "Three fucking months, and I didn't know?"
What the fuck?
Ezara.
Crying.
Breaking down.
Clinging to me like his world had ended.
Was it all bullshit?
No.
A muscle jumps underneath my eye, because that part I don't believe. His grief was real. I know it was. I saw it.
"And you knew? All this time?"
Damiano shrugs. Almost casual, almost back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self.
He knew. And he let me babysit that piece of shit.
Probably laughing his ass off. The room feels too small.
Too tight. I move before I think. Again.
My fist drives forward. Aimed straight for his face.
This time, though, he's ready. Damiano shifts just enough. The punch cuts through the air.
"Careful," he warns. "You get one because I figured I deserved it. Nobody gets a second." A flicker of a smirk. "Do it again, and people might think I let you."
I stare at him. My chest is heaving with anger; my blood is roaring in my ears.
"One?" I echo, a humorless laugh slipping out. "You fucked my sister. You hid it. You let me save that asshole over and over." He smirks. "And you think you get to put a limit on how many times I hit you?"
Damiano studies me for a second, weighing my words. He exhales. Slow. Resigned.
"Alright…" he mutters. "Maybe I deserve a second." He shifts, turning his head slightly and tapping his jaw. "Here." He grins. "But make it count. I'm not doing a third."
Fuck—for a split second—despite everything—I almost laugh.
I actually consider it. My chest is still heaving; my pulse is pounding hard enough I can feel it in my teeth.
Anger still claws its way up my throat, demanding release.
It would be easy. One step forward. One clean hit. Maybe it would take the edge off.
But it's Damiano. What the hell did I expect?
And more importantly, there are bigger problems sitting in the next room. I drag a hand over my face, exhale hard, and turn away from him instead.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Keep dreaming."
I move back to the bar, grab the bottle, and pour myself another glass. Behind me, I hear him shift. He clears his throat. I glance over my shoulder. You've got to be kidding me.
Damiano raises his empty hand expectantly. "You're pouring anyway."
I snort. "Get your own."
His grin is still off. "Had to try."
But that familiar, irritating edge slides back into place like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just implode five minutes ago.
I shake my head, taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. When I look back at him, he's steadier.
Not calm. Not even close. But contained enough to function. For now.
"So," I lower the glass. "You gave Catarina your ring."
Saying the words out loud, I realize something. That ring, that wasn't nothing. That was his pride. His claim. His fucking identity. And he gave it to her. I catch myself before I go any further down that line of thinking.
It doesn't matter right now.
"Then what?" I continue, sharper now. "How the hell does it end up around the kid's neck?"
He just looks at me. Like I'm the one who's lost it. Like I've suddenly become the idiot in the room. It takes me a moment for it to click. I remember what he said outside. That's mine.
Not talking about the ring, but the kid.
My grip tightens slightly around the glass. "…You're serious."
It's not even a question. But I ask it anyway. Because the alternative is a whole different level of problem. Damiano doesn't answer right away. He doesn't need to. The look he gives me says enough. Flat. Certain. Already possessive in a way that makes something cold settle in my gut.
Yeah. He's serious. Which means…
I let out a slow breath, staring into my glass for a second before looking back at him. The ring. Catarina. The kid.
My nephew!
Fuck.
Catarina and Damiano's son.