Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
We arrive at Marea a few minutes earlier, deliberately timing our entrance to establish control over tonight's encounter. The restaurant's polished interior gleams with understated luxury—exactly the kind of neutral territory that puts everyone on their best behavior.
The hostess leaves us alone in the elegant space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Central Park, the city lights beginning to twinkle as dusk settles. I unbutton my suit jacket and sit, signaling the waiting server.
"Macallan. Neat," I order, then glance at Enzo.
"Same."
When the server leaves, Enzo leans forward. "I dug deeper into Easton's financials. Nothing suspicious. His legitimate businesses are thriving."
"That means nothing. The best criminals keep spotless books." I drum my fingers on the table.
The server returns with our drinks. I take a sip, letting the smoky liquid burn down my throat.
"Maybe he's getting old," Enzo suggests. "Looking to secure his legacy before he checks out."
I shake my head. "Men like Easton don't retire. They die with their fingers still pulling strings."
"What did Lucrezia say when you told her about tonight?" Enzo asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"That I'm a stubborn fuck who should've settled down years ago." I snort. "She thinks this is karma coming to bite me in the ass."
Enzo laughs. "She might be right."
"Fuck you."
"What's your plan with the girl? If this goes forward?"
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. "Keep her close. Let her think she's part of the family while we monitor every move she makes."
"And when Easton inevitably tries to use her against us?"
"Then we'll know exactly what he's planning." I finish my drink and set the glass down. "Before he even makes his move."
Enzo checks his watch. "They'll be here soon."
I straighten my tie and button my jacket. "Remember—tonight we're gentlemen. Charming, respectful. Save the threats for when we know what game Easton's really playing."
Enzo's eyes narrow. "And the girl?"
"Leave her to me."
The hostess appears at the door. "Mr. Feretti, your other guests have arrived."
I stand, adjusting my cuffs.
"Showtime."
Byron Easton strolls in like he owns the fucking place. But it's the woman beside him who catches my eye.
Zoe Easton.
Christ.
She's wrapped in a blue dress that hugs every curve like a jealous lover. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, and those green eyes—fuck me—sweep the room before landing on me.
My cock twitches with interest.
Fuck.
She moves with careful grace, like a dancer who knows she's being watched. Her legs are long, toned, and I can't help imagining them wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her ass as I bend her over my desk.
I clear my throat, buttoning my jacket.
Focus.
This isn't about getting my dick wet. This is business.
"Mr. Easton," I extend my hand. "Thank you for joining us."
"Mr. Feretti." His handshake is firm, calculated. "I believe you've not formally met my daughter, Zoe."
She offers her hand, and I take it. Her skin is soft, but her grip is stronger than I expected.
"Mr. Feretti," she says, her voice cool and controlled.
I bring her hand to my lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. "Ms. Easton. A pleasure to finally meet you."
Something flashes in her eyes—fear? It's gone before I can identify it.
I could have her. I could have any woman I want for a night of meaningless fucking. That's all I've allowed myself since Bianca died. Quick, anonymous encounters that satisfy the physical need without the emotional entanglement.
But this woman isn't here for my pleasure.
She's a chess piece.
"Please, sit." I gesture to the chairs. "I've taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Barolo. I hope that meets with your approval."
I watch her slide into her seat, the fabric of her dress riding up just enough to reveal more of those legs. My mind wanders to how they'd feel pressed against my sides, how she'd taste when I—
Stop. Focus on the threat, not the packaging.
I'm not some horny teenager who can't control himself.
I'm Don Damiano fucking Feretti.
I run half of New York.
I realize I've forgotten my manners. Family business has made me rusty with social niceties.
"This is my brother, Enzo Feretti," I say, nodding toward him. "He handles our financial operations."
Enzo gives them his practiced business smile and shakes both their hands. "A pleasure to meet you both."
The sommelier approaches with the wine I've selected, presenting the bottle with practiced elegance. "Barolo Monfortino Riserva, 2010," he announces.
I nod my approval, watching as he uncorks the bottle and pours a small amount for me to taste. The rich aroma of cherries, roses, and subtle oak rises from the glass. I swirl, inhale, then take a measured sip, letting the complex flavors unfold across my tongue.
"Excellent," I murmur, and the sommelier proceeds to fill our glasses.
Zoe watches the ritual with quiet interest. When her glass is filled, she lifts it with practiced grace, inhaling before taking a small sip.
"You appreciate fine wine, Mr. Feretti?" she asks, her eyes fixing on me over the rim of her glass.
"I do." I hold her gaze. "This particular vintage comes from a small vineyard in Piedmont. The family has been making wine for six generations."
"And how did you discover it?" she presses, clearly fishing for personal information.
I take another sip before answering. "I travel to Italy frequently. Business and pleasure often intersect there." I deflect and pivot. "I understand you spent time in Florence? What drew you to study there?"
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "The art, the history, the language. I've always been fascinated by Italian culture."
"è stata un'esperienza che ha cambiato la tua vita?" I ask, testing her. Was it an experience that changed your life?
Without hesitation, she replies in perfect Italian, "Assolutamente. Mi ha insegnato a vedere il mondo in modo diverso." Absolutely. It taught me to see the world differently.
Her accent is flawless – not the stilted formality of a classroom learner but the natural cadence of someone who has lived the language.
"Your Italian is exceptional," I say before I can stop myself. "Most Americans butcher it beyond recognition."
The compliment hangs in the air between us, unexpected and genuine. I hadn't meant to give her anything real, yet here we are.
She blinks, surprise flitting across her features before that practiced poise returns. "Grazie, Signor Feretti. I had excellent teachers."
Byron clears his throat, cutting through the moment between me and Zoe. He's been watching our exchange like a hawk.
"I appreciate the pleasantries, Mr. Feretti," Byron says, setting his wine glass down. "But perhaps we should address the reason for this dinner. Have you reconsidered my proposal regarding an arrangement between yourself and my daughter?"
The old man wastes no time getting to business. Typical. I lean back slightly, studying him.
"Mr. Easton," I say, deliberately using his formal name, "I believe we should enjoy our meal first. Business discussions are better suited for after dinner, don't you agree?" I gesture to the menus. "Marea's seafood is exceptional."
Apparently he's used to people jumping when he speaks.
"Of course," he says with a thin smile. "Though I'd appreciate knowing if my trip here tonight will be productive."
I take my time with another sip of wine before answering.
"I'll give you my answer at the end of dinner," I say finally. "It deserves proper consideration."
My brother picks up on my cue immediately.
"So, Ms. Easton," Enzo says, turning his attention to Zoe. "Florence is one of my favorite cities. What did you think of it? Did you have a favorite district?"
I watch her as she answers. The way her hands move expressively when she describes the Oltrarno district. The slight softening around her eyes when she mentions stumbling upon a tiny restaurant near Santo Spirito, where an elderly woman served the best pappardelle she'd ever tasted.
The passion in her voice sounds genuine, but there's something calculated in how perfectly crafted her answers are. Like she's been prepared for exactly this conversation. Or maybe I'm overthinking it.
"The light there is different," she's saying to Enzo. "Artists have known it for centuries. There's a golden quality to it, especially in late afternoon."
Our empty plates are whisked away by the attentive staff as I drain the last of my wine. The dinner has been filled with careful conversation, each of us measuring every word like we're negotiating a hostage release rather than discussing a marriage.
I've been watching Zoe all evening. She's beautiful, yes, but it's the calculation behind her eyes that intrigues me. The way she answers questions perfectly. The practiced smile that never quite reaches those green eyes.
There's more to her than Byron's perfectly groomed heiress.
And I have a need to see beyond that.
"Well, Damiano," Byron says, folding his napkin with precise movements. "I believe you promised us an answer regarding our arrangement by the end of dinner."
I meet his gaze directly. "Yes, I did."
The table falls silent. Even the restaurant seems to quiet around us, as if holding its breath.
"I will accept your proposal," I say finally. "The marriage arrangement between myself and Ms. Easton can proceed."
Byron's face betrays a flash of triumph before settling into practiced satisfaction. Beside him, Zoe's expression remains perfectly composed, though I catch the slight tightening of her fingers around her water glass.
She doesn't want that.
Good.
Cause I fucking don't too.
Enzo shifts beside me, covering his surprise with a sip of wine.
"Excellent," Byron says, extending his hand across the table. "I believe this arrangement will be beneficial for all parties involved."
I shake his hand, my grip firm. "We'll need to discuss logistics. Prenuptial agreements, timing, public announcements."
"Of course," Byron nods. "My legal team can meet with yours as early as tomorrow."
"I'll have Enzo handle the details," I say, then turn to my brother. "Can you coordinate with Mr. Easton on the finer points?"
Enzo nods, professional as always despite the bombshell I've just dropped. "Absolutely."
"Perfect," I say, then turn to Byron. "Before we conclude, I'd like a few minutes alone with my future wife."
Byron's eyes narrow slightly. "I'm not sure that's necessary tonight—"
"It's fine," Zoe interrupts, surprising us all. Her voice is steady, controlled. "I don't mind."
Byron looks like he wants to object, but after a moment he nods stiffly. "Very well. We'll wait by the car."
Enzo follows Byron toward the exit, leaving me alone with Zoe for the first time.
I lean forward, studying her face. She meets my gaze without flinching.
"How do you feel about this marriage, Zoe?" His voice is lower now, intimate, as if we're sharing secrets.
I feel like I want to watch you bleed out slowly for what you did to my father.
I meet his gaze directly, understanding the test behind his question. He wants to see if I'll break character, if I'll reveal something genuine.
"I was born and raised in this world, Mr. Feretti. You must know better than most that when business requires something of us, we follow." I pause, allowing a small smile to touch my lips. "It's what we're taught from the beginning."
His tattoos catch my attention as he tilts his head slightly—intricate designs crawling up his neck like dark tendrils.
Roman numerals on one side, an ornate cross with rosary beads on the other.
The word "Vendetta" disappears into his hairline.
The ink marks him as what he is—a killer who wears his violence on his skin.
"This marriage won't be real, you understand that?" He leans closer, his cologne—expensive and subtle—reaching me across the table. "But everyone else needs to believe it is. The public, your father's associates, they all need to see a united front."
I understand perfectly. I'll play the loving wife while plotting your destruction.
"I'm prepared for that," I say, voice steady despite the hatred burning through my veins. "I can be convincing when necessary."
His lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk. "Can you?"
"Yes," I answer simply, resisting the urge to reach across the table and tear those smug eyes from his skull. The same eyes that watched as my father begged for his life. The same eyes that showed no mercy.
Instead, I mirror his posture, leaning forward slightly. "I understand what's required of me, Damiano. I always have."