Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Itake another drag of my cigar, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling as I lean back in my leather chair.
The weight of family business settles around me like a familiar shroud.
Across the desk, Enzo thumbs through financial reports while Alessio stands by the window, his profile sharp against the afternoon light.
"The Colombians are pushing again," Enzo says without looking up. "Their new guy thinks he can negotiate better terms."
I exhale slowly. "Let him think that for now."
Three days since the wedding. I've barely seen Zoe except at dinner, where she sits across from me with those defiant green eyes that spark something primal inside me. She's been spending most of her time with Lucrezia, charming my sister completely.
"Damiano? Did you hear what I said?" Enzo's voice pulls me back.
"The Colombians can wait."
Alessio shifts his stance, catching my attention. "Zoe seems to be settling in." His tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the question beneath.
"Lucrezia loves her new project," I say, tapping ash into the crystal ashtray. "They've been redecorating the east wing."
What I don't say is how I find myself looking for Zoe throughout the day.
"You trust her with Lucrezia?" Alessio asks.
"I trust Lucrezia to tell me everything." I take another drag. "Besides, it keeps Zoe occupied."
I think of yesterday afternoon, catching sight of them in the garden. Zoe's head thrown back in laughter at something Lucrezia said, sunlight catching in her blonde hair. The way her dress hugged curves that my hands itch to explore.
I want to bend her over this desk until she screams my name. Until those defiant eyes glaze with pleasure and that sharp tongue begs for more.
"Earth to Damiano," Enzo waves a hand in front of my face. "Where the fuck are you today?"
I straighten in my chair, pushing the image away. "Right here. The Colombian situation needs handling. Send Ricci to meet with them."
"You look distracted," Enzo says, narrowing his eyes at me. "Something wrong?"
The concern in his voice is laced with suspicion. My brother knows me too well—knows I never lose concentration during business discussions. Not until recently, anyway.
"Nothing's wrong," I say, crushing out my cigar with more force than necessary. "Just considering all angles of the Colombian situation."
Alessio watches me, his eyes missing nothing. His silence is more unnerving than Enzo's questions.
"Bullshit," Enzo leans forward. "You haven't heard a word we've said for the last five minutes. Is it the new wife? Is she causing problems?"
I don't want to discuss Zoe with them—don't want to admit that thoughts of her keep invading my focus at inappropriate moments.
"Let's keep talking business," I say firmly, pulling the stack of papers toward me. "The Colombians are just the beginning. What's the situation with the dock workers' union? And the Queens territory Easton promised—have we started moving our people in?"
Alessio exchanges a glance with Enzo but mercifully takes my cue. "The union leader is being difficult. Wants more than we initially offered."
"Double what we offered, but make it clear it's a one-time adjustment," I say, grateful for the return to familiar territory. "As for Queens, I want us to move cautiously. Easton gave up that territory too easily."
The rhythm of business steadies me. This is what I know—what I control completely. Not the unpredictable green-eyed storm currently living under my roof.
"We should do a sweep of the area first," Enzo suggests. "Make sure we're not walking into a trap."
I nod. "Send our best people. And I want daily reports."
This is better. The world aligning as it should, with me at the center, pulling the strings. Not thoughts of blonde hair spread across my pillow or defiant eyes that see too much.
"Now," I say, "tell me about the shipment coming in next week."
My heart hammers against my ribs as I press my ear to the heavy oak door of Damiano's office. I hadn't planned this—was just walking by when I heard the Colombians mentioned. Now I'm frozen in place, barely breathing, straining to catch every word.
"...the Colombians can wait," comes Damiano's voice, deep and commanding even through the barrier between us.
I shift my weight, careful not to make a sound. This is exactly what I need—proof of his criminal dealings, information I can feed back to Byron. Every detail matters.
"...trust her with Lucrezia?" Alessio's voice, though I can barely make it out.
My pulse quickens. They're talking about me.
"I trust Lucrezia to tell me everything," Damiano says, his voice clearer now. "Besides, it keeps Zoe occupied."
Heat rises to my cheeks. Of course he'd use his sister to spy on me. I've been playing right into his hands, thinking my time with Lucrezia was building useful alliances.
The conversation shifts back to business. I catch fragments about dock workers and Queens territory. My fingers itch for my phone to record this, but I hadn't come prepared. Next time I will.
"...Double what we offered, but make it clear it's a one-time adjustment," Damiano's voice drifts through. "As for Queens, I want us to move cautiously. Easton gave up that territory too easily."
Queens territory. The agreement with Byron. I need to tell him they're suspicious.
My heart nearly stops as footsteps echo down the hallway. Someone's coming. I straighten up, panic flooding my system as I frantically search for an excuse to be standing outside Damiano's office like some desperate eavesdropper.
Think, Zoe. Think.
In a split-second decision, I step back, take a deep breath, and throw open the door with all the force my anger can muster. The heavy oak slams against the wall with a thunderous bang.
"Damiano!" I snap, striding into the room.
The reaction is immediate and terrifying. Three guns appear, pointed directly at me—Damiano's from the desk, Alessio's from beneath his jacket, and Enzo's from a holster at his ankle. Their movements are fluid, practiced, lethal.
My heart lodges in my throat, but I force myself to ignore the weapons, channeling genuine fear into manufactured fury.
"Your goons are suffocating me!" I continue, my voice impressively steady despite staring down three gun barrels. I plant my hands on my hips, refusing to back down even as adrenaline courses through my veins.
Damiano's eyes flash dangerously, his finger still on the trigger. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Put those away," I say, gesturing at their weapons with a dismissive wave that I hope masks my trembling. "If you wanted to kill me, you've had plenty of chances."
Alessio's eyes narrow, his gun still trained on me, but Damiano slowly lowers his gun. After a moment's hesitation, Enzo follows suit, though Alessio keeps his weapon out longer, his gaze calculating and cold.
"You don't burst into a room full of made men, principessa," Alessio says, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "Not if you want to keep breathing."
Damiano's gaze shifts to Enzo and Alessio. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens.
"Leave us," he says, his voice deceptively calm.
Enzo gives me one last suspicious glance before nudging Alessio toward the door. "Come on."
I watch as they exit, the door clicking shut behind them with finality. The sudden silence in the room feels weighted, dangerous.
Damiano's face transforms the moment we're alone, all pretense of control vanishing as rage darkens his features. He stalks toward me like a predator cornering its prey.
"Never enter this office without permission, Zoe. Is that clear?" His voice drops to a menacing growl, so low I feel it more than hear it.
I lift my chin defiantly, refusing to be intimidated even as my instincts scream at me to retreat. "I'm not your pet, Damiano. You can't keep me on a leash."
A dangerous smirk plays on his lips as he steps closer, invading my personal space until I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"No?" The word falls from his lips like a threat. "A rope could fit perfectly around that little throat of yours, lupacchiotta. Don't tempt me."
I blink, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Did he just threaten to strangle me? The casual way he mentioned putting a rope around my neck sends ice through my veins, but I refuse to show fear. Showing weakness to Damiano Feretti would be a fatal mistake.
Instead, I force myself to smile, leaning slightly closer to him.
"Is that what you think about at night, Damiano?" I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Tying me up?"
The shift in his expression is subtle but unmistakable—a flicker of surprise, then something darker crossing his features. His eyes drop to my lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up.
"Don't play games you can't win," he warns, his voice rougher than before.
I reach up and adjust his tie, letting my fingers linger against the expensive silk. I can feel his steady heartbeat beneath my hand, while mine races like a frightened rabbit's.
"Who says I'm playing?" I counter, tilting my head. "And who says I can't win?"
The tension between us crackles like electricity. For a dangerous moment, we're locked in place—his dark eyes searching mine, trying to strip away my facade.
"You have no idea what game you're playing," Damiano says, voice dropping an octave lower. His breath fans warm against my face, smelling faintly of coffee and mint. "Or what the consequences might be."
I force myself not to step back despite every instinct telling me to retreat. My fingers are still on his tie, and I give it a slight tug before releasing it.
"Maybe I'm making up my own rules," I reply, summoning confidence I don't feel. "After all, isn't that what powerful people do?"
His hand shoots up, capturing my wrist in an iron grip that doesn't hurt but makes escape impossible. "There's only one person making rules in this house."
I let my eyes drift deliberately to his lips, then back to his eyes. "For now."
Something flashes across his face—surprise, maybe even a grudging respect—before his mask of control slips back into place. He releases my wrist slowly, his fingers dragging across my pulse point where my heart hammers traitorously.
"Don't push me, Zoe," he warns, but there's a new note in his voice I can't quite identify.
I take a deliberate step back, allowing a small smile to play on my lips. "Funny. I was about to say the same to you."
I turn away, heading for the door with unhurried steps, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rush.