Chapter 9 #2
Four pairs of eyes turn to me. Damiano sits at the head of the table, a newspaper folded beside his plate.
Enzo is to his right, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression.
Opposite him sits Alessio, whose dark eyes assess me with cool calculation.
And at the far end, Lucrezia brightens when she sees me.
"Good morning," I say, forcing confidence into my voice.
"Buongiorno," Damiano replies, his face unreadable. "Join us."
I take the empty chair beside Lucrezia, across from Alessio, feeling like I'm entering a lion's den rather than a family breakfast.
Ginerva appears with a steaming cup of coffee, placing it before me. "Would you like eggs this morning, Signora?"
"Just toast, please. Thank you."
When Ginerva leaves, Lucrezia leans toward me, excitement radiating from her. "Did you like your room?I helped decorate it myself. I wasn't sure about your taste, but I tried to make it comfortable."
Her enthusiasm catches me off guard. I didn't expect kindness from any of them.
"It's beautiful," I tell her honestly. "Thank you for taking the time. The sitting area by the window is especially lovely."
Lucrezia beams at my compliment. "I'm so glad! I wasn't sure about the color scheme, but I thought the cream would be calming. Do you like to read? I can help fill those bookshelves. The library here is massive—"
"Lucrezia," Damiano cuts in, his deep voice silencing his sister instantly. "Let Zoe eat her breakfast in peace."
He sounds almost protective, though I know better. It's all part of the performance.
A uniformed server appears with my toast and a selection of jams and honey. I murmur my thanks and take a small bite, though my appetite has vanished under the weight of these calculating gazes.
Alessio watches me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. The intensity of his stare makes my skin prickle with unease. Unlike Damiano, who can switch between charming and threatening with practiced ease, Alessio's focus remains steady and unnerving.
"I need to head to my office," Damiano announces, folding his newspaper and pushing back his chair. "Alessio, we'll discuss the Brooklyn situation at eleven."
Before he can leave, I set down my coffee cup. "Damiano, could I speak with you for a moment?" I keep my tone casual, polite, as if requesting nothing more significant than directions to the garden.
The table falls silent. Enzo raises an eyebrow, his gaze darting between his brother and me. Alessio's expression hardens, his thumb tracing slowly along his bottom lip—a gesture I've noticed he makes when thinking.
Damiano regards me with those dark eyes that reveal nothing. "Follow me," he says finally, not waiting to see if I comply.
I rise, smoothing my pants unnecessarily. "Excuse me," I say to the others. "It was lovely to chat, Lucrezia. Perhaps you can show me the library later?"
Her face brightens again. "Of course! I'd love to."
I follow Damiano's broad shoulders through the high-ceilinged hallways of my new prison.
His stride is purposeful, the expensive fabric of his suit emphasizing the power in his frame.
This is the man who murdered my father—walking ahead of me as if he owns not just this house but the very air we breathe.
I trail him down a corridor lined with what appear to be original Renaissance paintings, their gilded frames gleaming in the morning light. He stops at massive double doors of dark wood and pushes them open without breaking stride.
Damiano's office opens before me like a dark kingdom.
The space is massive—easily triple the size of Byron's study—with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains that filter the morning sunlight to a dim glow.
Books line the walls in built-in shelves of dark mahogany, and a massive desk dominates the center of the room.
Without invitation, Damiano walks to his desk, settles against its front edge rather than taking the throne-like chair behind it. His posture is casual but his eyes remain vigilant, watching my every move. The position gives him height advantage, forcing me to look up at him.
I remain standing just inside the doorway, refusing to take the visitor's chair positioned before him. Two can play this power game.
"What do you need?" His voice is flat, all pretense of the loving husband stripped away now that we're alone.
I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly.
"So," I begin, forcing a casual tone into my voice, "I assume I'm free to do whatever I want in my own time, right? Shopping with friends, maybe hit up a club or two?"
Damiano leans back, his fingers steepled in front of him. His eyes never leave mine, a mixture of amusement and irritation dancing in their depths. "Is that so, lupacchiotta?"
A low, humorless chuckle escapes Damiano's lips. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Let me make something very clear, Zoe. Whatever you want to do, you ask me first. And then, if I'm feeling generous, I might consider it."
My blood boils at his words and I clench my fists to keep from lashing out. How dare he treat me like a prisoner? I force myself to take a deep breath, reminding myself of the bigger picture. I can't blow my cover now, not when I've barely begun.
"I'm supposed to be your wife, not your prisoner," I snap, unable to completely mask my anger. "I didn't agree to be locked up in this mansion."
Damiano's eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. He rises from his chair, circling the desk until he's standing right in front of me. I resist the urge to shrink back, holding my ground as he looms over me.
"You agreed to be my wife," he says, his voice low and intense. "And that means you play by my rules."
I stand up, refusing to let him intimidate me. We're close now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "So what am I supposed to do? Sit around and embroider all day?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure we could find more... interesting ways to pass the time, lupacchiotta."
The suggestive tone in his voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I hate myself for it, for the way my body reacts to him despite everything he's done.
"You're unbelievable," I hiss, taking a step back to put some distance between us.
I feel my anger rising, threatening to boil over. Damiano's arrogant smirk only fuels my rage. I take another step forward, my fists clenched so tight my nails dig into my palms.
"You can't just keep me locked up here like some trophy wife," I spit. "I'm a person, not a possession."
Damiano's eyes flash dangerously. He closes the distance between us in one swift motion, his face inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek as he speaks, his voice low and menacing.
"You're right, you're not a possession. You're my wife. And in this world, that means something." His hand shoots out, gripping my chin firmly. "You think this is a game? That you can just waltz around the city without consequences?"
I try to jerk away, but his grip is like iron. "Let go of me," I hiss.
"Listen carefully, Zoe," he continues, ignoring my protest. "There are people out there who would love nothing more than to get their hands on you. To hurt you, to use you against me."
I glare at him, refusing to back down. "I can take care of myself."
Damiano laughs, a harsh, humorless sound. "You have no idea what you're up against. You don't know the rules, the dangers."
"I said let go of me," I snap.
Damiano lets me go with a smirk and says, "There will be a day that you'll beg me to touch you, Zoe!"
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I take a step closer to him, my voice low and venomous. "Go to hell, Damiano."
Without waiting for a response I spin on my heel and storm out of the office, slamming the door behind me.
I slam my bedroom door so hard the walls shake. My heart pounds against my ribs as I pace across the plush carpet, each step fueling my rage. The nerve of that man. The absolute audacity.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and punch in Scarlett's number, praying she's not on shift at the hospital. She answers on the third ring.
"Hey love, are you okay?"
"Can you believe this guy?" I fume, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles turn white. "He actually told me I need his permission to go out!"
Scarlett's sympathetic voice crackles through the speaker. "That's insane! What are you, a teenager?"
"Apparently in this house, I'm less than that." I stop at the window, staring out at the manicured gardens below—another beautiful prison. "He acts like I'm some delicate possession that might break if exposed to fresh air."
"What exactly did he say?" Scarlett asks.
"That I have to ask him before doing anything." My free hand balls into a fist. "He grabbed my chin, Scar. Like I'm some child needing discipline."
"He put his hands on you?" Scarlett's voice sharpens with alarm.
I swallow hard. "It wasn't..." I trail off, unsure how to explain. It wasn't violent, but it was controlling, possessive—a claim of ownership. "It wasn't like that. But it was humiliating."
"Zoe, maybe this whole revenge plan isn't worth—"
"Don't," I cut her off. "Don't say it."
Silence stretches between us. I can practically hear her concern through the phone.
"I knew this wouldn't be easy," I continue, softening my voice careful not to be heard. "I just didn't expect to feel so... trapped. It's only been one day and I'm already suffocating."
"So what's your plan?" Scarlett asks.
"I need to study him. Learn his weaknesses. Byron's intel was thorough about Feretti's business, but I need to understand the man himself."
"The way to a man's secrets is through his inner circle," Scarlett suggests.
The seed of an idea begins to take root. "If Damiano wants the perfect wife in public, I'll give him exactly that. I'll be so damn charming his family and associates will adore me. Then when he pulls his controlling bullshit, they'll see him as the problem, not me."
"Playing the long game," Scarlett says approvingly. "Smart."
"I've waited twelve years for justice," I remind her, my voice hardening. "I can be patient a little longer."
A knock at my door makes me jump. "I've got to go."
"Be careful, Zoe," Scarlett warns. "And call me—"
"When I can," I finish. "I promise."