Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Iwatch through the heavy silk curtains as Damiano Feretti strides out of our front door, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored suit with a predatory grace I hate myself for noticing. My pulse races, but not from attraction—from pure hatred.
This is the man who murdered my father.
This is the man I'm supposed to marry.
This is the man I've been trained to destroy.
I'd slipped back inside after he caught me at the pool, changed quickly, and positioned myself where I could observe without being seen. Byron insisted I know every detail about Feretti, including how he carries himself when he thinks no one's watching.
Right now, Feretti moves with contained power, like a caged animal that chooses not to strike—yet.
His consigliere follows a step behind, scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance.
They've clearly had a tense meeting. The rigid set of Feretti's shoulders tells me Byron has already made his proposition.
Just before sliding into his Aston Martin, Feretti pauses. He turns, looking back at the house, as though sensing my presence. His eyes sweep across the windows until—
They lock directly on mine.
My breath catches. I'm certain I'm hidden, yet somehow he's found me. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across Feretti's face.
I step back immediately, letting the curtain fall. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I press my palm against my chest, willing it to steady. The sound of the car engine growls to life outside, then fades down the driveway.
I wait exactly ten minutes before making the call. My best friend—Scarlett—keeps ridiculous hours at the hospital, and I've memorized her rotation schedule better than my own appointments.
The phone rings twice before she picks up.
"Zoe! I was just thinking about you. Hold on—" There's a shuffling sound, the background noise of a busy hospital fading. "Okay, I'm in the break room now. What's up?"
Just hearing Scarlett's voice loosens the knot in my chest. We met during my brief stint at Columbia before Byron pulled me out, claiming I needed specialized tutoring that better suited my "future role.
" Scarlett was the only friendship Byron couldn't completely sever, though he tried.
Even now, his security detail keeps tabs on our meetups, which is why we see each other so rarely in person.
"Scar, I..." The words stick in my throat. How do I even begin?
"Uh-oh. That's your 'Byron's being especially Byron' voice," Scarlett says. "What happened?"
I sink onto the window seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "Remember how I told you Byron's been especially focused on business lately?"
"The mysterious meetings you're not allowed to know about? Yeah."
"Well, turns out I'm central to his plans." I take a deep breath. "He wants me to get married."
"WHAT?" Scarlett nearly shouts. "To who?"
I close my eyes, the name bitter on my tongue. "Damiano Feretti."
The silence that follows stretches so long I check to make sure we haven't been disconnected.
"The man who killed your father?" Scarlett finally whispers.
"The very same." I've never kept that part of my history from Scarlett, though I've shielded her from the darker elements of Byron's world. She knows my father was murdered, knows who did it, but not the complex web of vengeance Byron has been weaving all these years.
"Zoe, you can't be serious. Tell Byron to go to hell."
I laugh without humor. "If only it were that simple."
"It is that simple. You're twenty-five, not some medieval princess. He can't actually force you to marry anyone."
But he can, in all the ways that matter. Byron Easton doesn't need physical chains to keep someone bound to him.
"It's complicated, Scar."
"Uncomplicate it for me." Her voice softens. "This is me you're talking to, remember? The one person in your life Byron doesn't control."
That's exactly why I've kept her at arm's length from all this. Scarlett is my one untainted connection to normalcy, the only relationship in my life not poisoned by Byron's influence or mafia politics. I've protected her from this world for years.
"Zoe, listen to me," Scarlett finally says, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm not sure about any of this. Byron has always manipulated you. You know that, right?"
I stand up from the window seat, pacing across my bedroom. "It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" Her voice rises slightly. "He's been controlling every aspect of your life since you were thirteen. Your schools, your friends—"
"He took me in when I had no one," I cut her off.
"And he's never let you forget it." Scarlett sighs heavily. "You don't even see what he's doing anymore. He's trained you to think exactly how he wants you to think."
My fingers tighten around the phone. These aren't new accusations, but something about hearing them today—after seeing Feretti in the flesh—makes them sting differently.
"You don't understand what's at stake," I say, keeping my voice low even though I know Byron's downstairs.
"Then help me understand," she pleads. "Because from where I'm standing, he's asking you to marry your father's killer. If that's not the most twisted thing I've ever heard—"
"We need to do this." The words escape through clenched teeth. "It's my choice too."
"Is it really?"
I press my palm against the cool wall, steadying myself. "This is my chance, Scar. Byron's plan gives me a way inside." I carefully measure my words, aware of how much I can safely say. "After twelve years of nightmares about my father, I finally get to do something."
"Revenge?" Scarlett whispers the word like it's toxic. "That's what this is about?"
"Justice," I correct her. "A chance to balance the scales."
"By sleeping with the enemy? Zoe, this isn't some spy movie. This is your life."
I close my eyes, seeing my father's face—the one from photographs, since my own memories have faded. "I know exactly what I'm doing," I lie, because the alternative—admitting how terrified I am—isn't an option.
"I don't think you do," Scarlett says quietly. "Byron's using your pain, your grief over your father, to make you do what he wants."
The silence between us stretches thin. I can practically hear Scarlett's mind working through everything I've told her.
"Zoe, I need you to promise me something," she finally says, her voice taking on that no-nonsense tone she uses with difficult patients. "Whatever happens next, whatever Byron has planned, you call me. Every step of the way, every new development—I want to know everything."
I sink onto my bed, my fingers tracing the intricate embroidery of the duvet. "It might be dangerous for you to know too much."
"I don't care," Scarlett says firmly. "Let me be clear—I think this entire plan is insane and I'm worried sick about you. But if you're determined to go through with it, I refuse to be kept in the dark."
"I'll call you," I promise. "But Scar, you have to stay completely away from anything to do with the Ferettis. I mean it. No research, no asking questions, nothing that would put you on their radar."
"What are you afraid of?"
I think of the photographs Byron showed me—the bloodied bodies of that family in Brooklyn. The cold efficiency of their execution. "These people don't leave witnesses, Scarlett. If they even suspected you knew anything..."
"I get it," she says softly. "I'll be careful. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you do this alone."
"You're the only real friend I have," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't afford to lose you too."
"Then don't shut me out," she replies. "That's all I'm asking."
Outside my window, I notice Carson crossing the grounds toward the security office. Byron will be coming upstairs soon to debrief me on the meeting, to tell me Feretti's reaction to his proposal. I need to end this call.
"I have to go," I say, straightening my posture as though Scarlett can see me through the phone. "Byron will want to talk soon."
"Zoe..." Scarlett hesitates. "Just remember who you are, okay? Not who Byron trained you to be."
The comment stings with uncomfortable truth. "I'll call you tomorrow," I say instead of addressing it.
We say our goodbyes and hang up. I place the phone carefully on my nightstand, then walk to the mirror to check my appearance. Nothing out of place. No hint of the turmoil inside.
Just as I'd been taught.
My phone buzzes with a text from Byron: My office. Now.
I take one last look in the mirror, smoothing my hands over my dress. The confrontation with Scarlett has left me rattled, but I can't let it show. Not now. Byron needs to see the perfect, composed daughter he's cultivated—not the mess of doubts Scarlett just stirred up.
I make my way down the grand staircase. As I approach his office, I can already feel the tension radiating from behind the heavy oak door.
Taking a deep breath, I knock twice.
"Enter," Byron's voice calls out, sharp as a blade.
I push open the door to find him standing behind his desk, hands planted firmly on the polished wood.
His normally composed features are twisted with barely contained rage—jaw clenched, eyes burning with cold fury.
The veins in his neck stand out prominently, and his knuckles have gone white where they press against the desk.
"Close the door," he orders.
I do as instructed, my heart hammering against my ribs as I move to stand before him. The office suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.
"I take it the meeting didn't go well," I say, keeping my voice steady.
Byron's laugh is bitter, devoid of humor. "That arrogant son of a bitch had the audacity to refuse." He pushes away from the desk, pacing like a caged animal. "Twelve years I've been planning this, setting everything in motion, and Feretti doesn't even consider it."
I stand perfectly still, watching him. "He rejected the marriage proposal outright?"
"Acted like I'd insulted him." Byron stops pacing, his steel-gray eyes fixing on me.
"I thought you planned it well," I offer carefully, watching Byron's expression darken. "The business arrangement sounded reasonable."
Byron whips around, his eyes flashing with rage. "Planned it well?" His voice cuts like shattered glass. "You think I brought you into my home, educated you at the finest schools, and groomed you for over a decade just to have Feretti dismiss my offer without a second thought?"
I flinch at his tone, taking an instinctive step back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Sorry doesn't fix this, Zoe." He advances toward me, jabbing a finger in my direction.
"Do you have any idea where you'd be if I hadn't taken you in?
After your father got himself killed, you would've ended up in some state-run orphanage or bounced between foster homes.
You'd have nothing—no education, no future, certainly not the life of privilege you've enjoyed in my care. "
Heat rushes to my cheeks as shame washes over me. "I know what you've done for me, Byron. I'm grateful—"
"Grateful?" He scoffs, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
"If you were truly grateful, you'd be more invested in making this work.
I saved you from poverty, from being just another forgotten child in the system.
Everything you have—the clothes on your back, your education, your very identity—is because of my generosity. "
"You're right," I whisper, lowering my eyes. "I'm sorry for questioning your plan. It won't happen again."
Byron's expression softens fractionally, but the cold calculation never leaves his eyes. "When I found you, you were a terrified little girl with nothing. Remember that, Zoe. Everything you are today is because I made you. Don't forget who owns your loyalty."
The word "owns" lands like a body slam, but I force myself to nod.
Byron turns away from me, moving back to his desk where he sifts through papers with agitation. His pointed silence feels heavier than his words.
My mind drifts to Scarlett's words. He's manipulating you, Zoe. Can't you see it? He's using your father's murder to control you.
I stare at Byron's back, his shoulders rigid with frustration. Is Scarlett right? Am I just a pawn in his game?
But then I remember everything he's actually done for me.
The best schools. Beautiful clothes. A future. He showed me how to stand tall in rooms full of powerful people. He made me... someone.
Would a man who only wanted to use me invest so much?
The man who murdered my father walks free, building his empire on blood money. Now I have a chance to dismantle it all, to finally get justice for Dad.
This isn't just about repaying Byron. This is about righting a wrong that's haunted me for twelve years.
"We need a new approach," I say, my voice firmer than I expect.
Byron turns, one eyebrow raised. "Oh?"
"Feretti rejected your direct proposal, but that doesn't mean we can't adjust our strategy." I move closer to the desk, heart pounding but resolve growing. "He saw me earlier, watching from the window. I noticed how he looked at me."
Interest flickers in Byron's eyes. "Continue."