Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Itwist in front of the mirror, inspecting the black dress Byron selected for tonight's dinner. It hugs my curves perfectly—sophisticated without being overly revealing.
Just the way Byron likes it.
"The Brown family appreciates class," he'd reminded me this morning. "We represent old money, old respect."
I slide diamond studs into my ears, feeling their cool weight against my skin. These were a gift for my twenty-third birthday, part of Byron's mission to turn me into the perfect society daughter. The perfect weapon.
My fingers tremble slightly as I fasten the clasp of my bracelet. Twelve years living under Byron Easton's roof, and I still feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me. Twelve years since I lost my father. Since Byron took me in.
"You're all I have left of Michael," he'd told me at the funeral, his steel-gray eyes softening with what looked like genuine grief. "I promised him I'd take care of you if anything happened."
I trace the outline of my lips with red lipstick, the color bold against my pale skin. I don't remember my mother. She died in a car accident when I was two. Then it was just Dad and me against the world until I turned thirteen. Until he was murdered.
The lipstick tube clatters against the vanity as my hand shakes. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
"Zoe? Are you ready?" Byron's voice carries up the stairs, precise and commanding even when he's not raising it.
"Coming!" I call back, taking one final look in the mirror.
I see what everyone else sees—the polished daughter of Byron Easton, New York finance mogul. The girl who attends charity galas and speaks three languages and graduated summa cum laude from Columbia.
No one sees the girl who still wakes up screaming, dreaming of her father's blood soaking into the carpet.
I smooth my dress and put on my practiced smile. Tonight is important. Byron needs me to charm the Browns, to be the perfect hostess. It's what I do. It's who I am now.
For better or worse, Byron Easton saved me. And I owe him everything.
I gracefully steer conversations down the polished mahogany dining table, ensuring everyone feels attended to. The Browns drone on about their summer plans in the Hamptons, and I nod at all the right moments, my smile never faltering.
"Another glass of wine, Mrs. Brown?" I offer, already reaching for the bottle.
Byron watches me from the head of the table, approval glinting in his eyes. I've learned his lessons well—be charming but not flirtatious, intelligent but never intimidating, present but never dominating.
My mind drifts as Mr. Brown discusses some financial merger. The chandelier light catches my bracelet, sending fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth. Dad used to call me his little rainbow chaser. The memory stings.
"...and that's when Damiano Feretti stepped in and acquired the entire property portfolio."
The name slices through my thoughts like a knife.
Damiano Feretti.
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. The room seems to narrow, sounds becoming distant as blood rushes in my ears. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat pulsing with a single word: Murderer.
The man who put a bullet into my father. The man who robbed me of everything.
"His family's reach is expanding beyond their traditional territories," Byron adds smoothly, though I catch the tightness around his eyes. "The Ferettis are becoming quite... ambitious."
I set my glass down carefully, terrified it might shatter in my grip. My nails dig crescents into my palm under the table. I've trained for years for this—to hear that name and not let my face show the storm of rage I feel.
"I hear he's quite the eligible bachelor," Mrs. Brown says with a light laugh. "Dangerous but devastatingly handsome, according to Manhattan gossip."
Bile rises in my throat. Handsome? The monster who executed my father in cold blood?
The Browns finally leave after Byron walks them to the door, their effusive goodbyes echoing in our marble foyer. I begin collecting wine glasses, my hands still shaking slightly whenever Feretti's name replays in my head.
Byron returns, loosening his tie as he surveys the dining room.
"Leave that for Rosa," he says, watching me stack dessert plates. "We need to talk."
My stomach tightens. Byron's "we need to talk" conversations are never casual. I set down the crystal and follow him down the hall to his office.
His office is all dark wood and leather, walls lined with first editions behind glass. A sanctuary of power where Byron has taught me everything from stock market dynamics to how to fire a gun without flinching. I take my usual seat across from his imposing desk as he closes the door.
"You did well tonight," he says, pouring two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler. "But I noticed your reaction when Damiano's name came up."
I straighten my spine. "It was momentary. The Browns didn't notice."
"They didn't," he agrees, settling into his leather chair with the confidence of a man who's always in control. "But I did. And that concerns me, given what I'm about to tell you."
He slides a thick manila folder across the polished surface of the desk. My name is written across the tab in his precise handwriting.
"Zoe, it's time we discussed the next phase of your preparation."
"Preparation for what?" I ask, though something cold settles in my chest. I've always known my education—languages, firearms, social graces—was building toward something. I just never knew what.
Byron's eyes meet mine, steel-gray and calculating.
"For you to finally meet Damiano Feretti."
"Meet him?" I repeat, my voice surprisingly steady despite the thunder of my heartbeat.
Byron takes a slow sip of his scotch, watching me over the rim. "Not just meet him, Zoe." He sets the glass down with deliberate precision. "Marry him."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Marry... Damiano Feretti?" The name tastes like poison on my tongue.
"It's the perfect plan," Byron continues, as if he's discussing a business merger instead of my life. "I've been cultivating this opportunity for years. The Feretti family needs to strengthen their political connections and gain legitimacy with certain circles. My connections, my circles."
I stare at him, searching for any sign this is some cruel test. "He murdered my father."
"And that's precisely why this works." Byron leans forward, eyes suddenly alive with intensity. "He'll never suspect you, not when you're presented as my ward. The perfect Trojan horse."
My fingers dig into the arms of my chair. "You want me to marry my father's killer? To sleep in his bed?" My voice cracks on the last word as the full implications crash down.
"I want you to destroy him from the inside," Byron says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything I've taught you—observation, manipulation, firearms—it was all for this moment. This revenge."
I push back from the desk, my legs feeling numb beneath me. "This is insane."
"This is justice," Byron counters, opening the folder. "Damiano Feretti took everything from you. Now you'll take everything from him."
My chest tightens as the room seems to shrink around me. Twelve years of nightmares, of training and preparing for a purpose I never fully understood—it all converges into this moment.
"How would you even arrange such a thing?" I ask, fighting to keep my breathing steady.
Byron's smile is thin and cold. "That's already in motion. Damiano won't be able to resist what I'm offering."
"And what is that?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
"You," he says simply. "The beautiful daughter of Byron Easton, with connections to every power broker in New York."
The very idea of being close to Damiano Feretti makes my skin crawl.
"I can't do this," I whisper.
Byron leans forward, his eyes hardening. "Michael deserved better than dying like an animal on the floor. You remember finding him, don't you?"
The memory flashes unbidden—my father's body, the blood-soaked carpet, the hollow emptiness that followed. I was thirteen, coming home from school to a nightmare that never ended.
"Of course I remember," I say, my voice tight.
"Damiano Feretti put three bullets in your father's chest while he begged for mercy." Byron's voice drops lower. "He's lived twelve years in luxury while your father rots in the ground."
My fingers tremble against the armrest. "But to marry him..."
"Do you know what Feretti did two months ago?" Byron slides a photograph across the desk. "He executed a family—father, mother, teenage son. The father made the mistake of refusing to sell his restaurant property."
I look away from the crime scene photo, bile rising in my throat.
"This is who he is, Zoe. A monster who continues to destroy lives without consequence." Byron's voice softens. "Your father died because of a mistake."
The room feels too small, too hot. Rage and grief tangle in my chest, familiar companions I've carried since that day.
"How would this even work?" I finally ask, surprising myself.
Byron slides another folder across the desk—this one thicker, worn at the edges like it's been handled countless times.
"Before you can destroy him, you need to understand his world." He taps the folder with a manicured fingernail. "The Italian mafia isn't just brutality and violence. It's a business—complex, layered, and surprisingly fragile if you know where to apply pressure."
I open the folder, confronted by detailed maps of New York with colored markings, spreadsheets, and photographs of warehouses and docks.
"These are their supply chains," Byron explains, his voice taking on the same clinical tone he uses during my financial lessons. "The Feretti empire doesn't just run on intimidation. They control distribution channels for everything from construction materials to pharmaceuticals."
I trace my finger over a marked shipping route. "They import through these docks?"
"Yes, but notice how the cargo manifests route through three different shell companies before reaching their actual businesses.
" His finger taps a complex diagram. "Their key contacts include dock supervisors, customs officials, and transportation companies—all paid handsomely to look the other way. "
The level of detail is overwhelming. Byron has sketched out entire networks of corruption like a corporate organizational chart.
"Their methods of distribution are brilliantly disguised," he continues. "Legitimate businesses operating alongside illegal operations. Construction companies that transport more than building materials. Import-export businesses that handle specialty goods that never appear on any manifest."
I flip through pages of surveillance photos—men in suits exchanging briefcases, trucks being loaded at night.
"And their protection networks?" I ask, stomach churning at the clinical way we're discussing a criminal empire built on blood.
"The most sophisticated aspect." Byron pulls out another document. "Police captains, judges, city officials. Each receiving payments through elaborate channels—real estate deals, consulting fees, campaign contributions."
The precision of it all makes me dizzy.
"You'll need to memorize all of this." Byron's eyes are cold, calculating. "Every supply route, every key player, every method they use. Their weaknesses are hidden in these details."
My fingers close around the folder. "You want me to become an expert in his criminal operations."
"Not just an expert," Byron corrects. "I want you to become the weapon that dismantles them."
I stare at the wealth of information in my hands—the intricate web of Damiano Feretti's criminal empire mapped out like some corporate annual report. This folder represents years of Byron's meticulous surveillance and intelligence gathering. All for me. All for this moment.
"A slow destruction," I murmur, more to myself than to Byron. "Dismantling everything he's built piece by piece."
"Precisely," Byron confirms, his thin lips curving into what passes for his smile. "Total ruination before his eyes."
But something cold and hard settles in my chest as I flip through photos of Feretti at various locations—always surrounded by his men, always untouchable. The image of him standing over my father's body flashes through my mind.
"And after I've destroyed everything he cares about?" I look up, meeting Byron's steel-gray eyes. "What then? He'll still be alive. Still breathing the same air as me."
My fingers trace over Feretti's face in one of the surveillance photos. I press down until my nail leaves a small crescent indent in the glossy paper.
"I want more than his empire dismantled," I say, my voice dropping to match the darkness swelling inside me. "I want him dead, Byron. I want to watch the light leave his eyes."
Byron's expression remains unchanged, but I catch the slight tensing of his jaw.
"Death is quick, Zoe. Over in seconds." He leans forward. "Destruction is eternal. The man who murdered your father deserves to suffer."
"He deserves both," I counter, closing the folder with a decisive snap.
"I'll marry him. I'll learn his business from the inside.
I'll help you tear down everything he's built.
" I pause, letting my determination solidify into something deadly and certain.
"But when he has nothing left—when he's standing in the ruins—I want to be the one who puts a bullet in his head. "
The silence between us stretches taut and expectant. I don't blink. Don't yield.
Finally, Byron nods once. "When the time comes, you'll have that privilege."