Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The limo glides through Manhattan's streets, silent as a tomb despite the faint sounds of New York nightlife filtering through the windows.
Damiano sits across from me, not beside me. His eyes fixed on something outside the window. He hasn't spoken a single word since we left the reception. Not even a goodbye to our guests. Just a swift exit, his hand gripping my elbow a little too tightly as he guided me to the car.
All because of Diego.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What the hell was that jealousy show about? We aren't even really married. This whole thing is a business arrangement—a chess move. Nothing more. Yet he acted like some possessive caveman because I was laughing with an old friend.
Diego and I met in Florence during my semester abroad.
He was studying international security while I focused on art history.
We bonded over being Americans in Italy, shared a few coffee dates, visited museums together.
Nothing romantic ever happened. Byron hired him after graduation, impressed with his credentials.
And now Damiano's sulking like a child who had his toy taken away.
What a prick. He assumes that with a fake marriage I won't talk to other people? That I'll just be his silent, obedient wife whenever we're in public?
"You're being ridiculous," I finally say, breaking the silence.
Damiano's eyes snap to mine. "Excuse me?"
"This silent treatment. Diego is an old friend. We studied together in Florence. There was nothing inappropriate about our conversation."
"You're my wife now." His voice is low, controlled. "Act like it."
"I am acting like it. In case you've forgotten, this isn't a real marriage." I lean forward. "We have an arrangement. I didn't agree to stop speaking to men."
His eyes darken. "When we're in public, you're mine. You don't hang on another man's every word, laughing like he's the most fascinating person you've ever met."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He cuts me off. "And it ends tonight. What people see matters in our world. Appearances matter."
I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "So I'm just supposed to ignore everyone but you for the rest of my life?"
"Not everyone. Just men who look at you like they've seen what's under that dress."
I stare at Damiano, my blood boiling at his possessive attitude. Who the hell does he think he is? This "marriage" might be for show, but I'm not about to let him control every aspect of my life.
"Fuck you," I hiss, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The temperature in the limo seems to drop twenty degrees. Damiano goes utterly still, his face transforming into something dangerous and predatory. He leans across the space between us, invading my personal space until his face is inches from mine.
"What did you just say to me?" His voice is deadly quiet, almost a whisper.
I should back down. I should apologize. But something burns inside me—twelve years of rage and grief and loss—and I can't stop myself.
"I said..." I lean even closer, our noses almost touching, "fuck. you."
Each word comes out slow, precise, dripping with all the venom I've stored up since the day my father was murdered. My eyes lock with his, refusing to back down even as every survival instinct screams at me to retreat.
For a moment, I think he might actually hurt me. His eyes have gone almost black with anger, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. A low, rumbling sound that doesn't reach his eyes.
"There she is," he says softly. "The real Zoe Easton. I was wondering when you'd show up."
Before I can respond, the limo rolls to a stop. The driver announces our arrival, breaking the tension between us.
Damiano exits first, then offers his hand to help me out. I ignore it, climbing out on my own.
I stand frozen, taking in the Feretti mansion for the first time.
It's not what I expected. I'd imagined something ostentatious and gaudy—the kind of place that screams "look how much money I have.
" Instead, I'm facing a breathtaking blend of old-world elegance and modern luxury.
The massive Italian Renaissance Revival structure sprawls before me, honey-colored limestone glowing warmly under strategic lighting.
Classical Corinthian columns frame the entrance, and floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the moonlight.
The grounds are immaculate—formal Italian gardens stretching in every direction, with geometric hedge patterns and a central fountain that creates a gentle background melody of falling water.
But I don't miss the security measures either. Behind the beauty lies purpose—high stone walls surrounding the property, discrete cameras hidden in decorative elements, guards positioned strategically around the perimeter.
This isn't just a home. It's a fortress.
I realise as we are entering that the interior is even more impressive than the exterior—soaring ceilings with intricate coffers, marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and furniture that probably costs more than most people's homes. The air smells of lemon polish and fresh flowers.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Feretti," Damiano says, his voice low and mocking.
I resist the urge to correct him. This isn't my home. This is enemy territory.
My stomach tightens as Damiano leads me up the grand staircase. This is it. The moment I've been dreading since this whole charade began—sharing a bedroom with a monster.
We walk down a long corridor lined with what look like original oil paintings. The rugs beneath our feet muffle our footsteps, and sconces cast soft, golden light on the walls.
"Your things arrived this morning," Damiano says, breaking the silence. "The staff has unpacked everything."
I nod, not trusting my voice. My heart hammers against my ribs. I'm trying to prepare myself for what's coming, to remind myself that this is just part of the mission. That sometimes sacrifices must be made for justice.
Damiano stops in front of a set of double doors, his hand still resting on my back.
"This is your room," he says, pushing the door open.
I blink. "My room?"
"Yes." His eyes find mine, unreadable. "My room is on the other side of the floor."
Relief washes over me so suddenly I almost stumble.
"I'll see you in the morning," he continues. "Breakfast is at eight."
"Good night," I manage to say, stepping quickly into the room and closing the door—no, slamming it—behind me.
I lean against it, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. My legs feel weak. I won't have to share his bed. I won't have to pretend in the dark. At least not tonight.
A soft knock pulls me from sleep. I bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding as I try to remember where I am. The Feretti mansion. My wedding night. Separate rooms.
"Signora? Are you awake?" The voice is gentle, maternal, lightly accented.
"Yes," I call out, my voice still rough with sleep. "Come in."
The door opens to reveal a plump woman in her sixties with silver-streaked brown hair pulled into a neat bun. She wears a crisp black uniform with a white apron and carries herself with quiet dignity.
"Good morning, Signora Feretti. I am Ginerva, the head of household staff." Her kind brown eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes. The family is gathering in the main dining room."
The family. My stomach tightens. I'm now part of the Feretti family—at least on paper.
"Thank you, Ginerva. I'll be down shortly."
She nods, hesitates, then adds, "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. I've been with the family for thirty years." Something in her expression suggests genuine concern.
"I appreciate that," I reply, surprised by her warmth.
After she leaves, I take my first real look at my new living quarters in the daylight. Last night, I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to notice details.
The room is breathtaking—larger than my entire apartment at college.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the manicured gardens.
The walls are painted a soft cream color that makes the space feel both elegant and inviting.
A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, dressed in linens so fine they feel like water against my skin.
Across from the bed stands an antique vanity with an ornate mirror, displaying my personal items perfectly arranged—someone took care to place my perfumes and makeup exactly as I had them at Byron's house.
The sitting area features a chaise lounge and two velvet armchairs positioned near a white marble fireplace. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, still empty, waiting for me to fill them.
Two doors lead off the main room—one to a walk-in closet where my clothes hang in perfect order, and another to a private bathroom with a soaking tub and separate shower.
It's beautiful, luxurious, and utterly impersonal—like an extravagant hotel suite.
I rush to the bathroom, freshen up, and pull on a simple emerald silk blouse with tailored black pants. My wedding ring catches the light—an enormous diamond that feels like a shackle rather than a symbol of love. I twist it absently, reminding myself why I'm here.
Fifteen minutes. I need to find the dining room in this mansion that's bigger than some museums I've visited.
I step into the corridor, trying to recall the path from last night.
The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with artwork and antique furniture that probably costs more than most people's houses.
The marble flooring gleams under my feet as I choose to go left, following the scent of coffee and pastries.
After two wrong turns and finding myself in what appears to be a formal sitting room and then a library, I finally hear voices. I follow the sound down a grand staircase and through an arched doorway that opens into a splendid dining room.
The conversation stops abruptly when I enter.