Chapter 11 #2
As we head down the stairs, I feel a growing warmth in my chest. Part calculation, yes—Lucrezia could be my window into Damiano's world. But there's something else there too, something genuine that I don't want to examine too closely.
"Thank you," Lucrezia says suddenly as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
"For what?"
"For this." She gestures between us. "For being someone I can talk to. Someone who doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass." Her eyes shine with sincerity. "Damiano and Enzo... they mean well, but sometimes I just need someone who sees me as an actual adult."
The guilt returns, heavy in my stomach. But I push it down, reminding myself why I'm here.
"So Damiano's overprotective about everything, then?" I ask as we enter the kitchen. The sleek marble countertops gleam under the pendant lights, and the space feels warm despite its size.
Lucrezia snorts, heading straight for the massive refrigerator. "That's putting it mildly. You have no idea."
I hop onto one of the barstools at the island while she pulls out milk, ice cream, and chocolate syrup. "Tell me more. I want to understand what I'm dealing with here. Maybe it'll help me figure out how to navigate around him."
She laughs, a light, tinkling sound that fills the kitchen. "Good luck with that. Even I haven't mastered it after all these years."
Lucrezia dumps several scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender. "He doesn't just keep me out of business stuff. He gets involved in my personal life too—and I mean really involved."
"Like what?"
"Like the Nick incident." She sighs dramatically as she pours in milk. "Did I tell you about that?"
I shake my head.
"Nick was this guy I met at a charity gala last year. Super sweet, studying architecture at NYU." Her eyes get a faraway look. "We talked all night about Renaissance buildings and traveling through the world. He asked for my number, and for once, I actually gave it to someone."
"Let me guess—Damiano found out?"
"Oh yes." She hits the blender button, and the whirring fills the room for a moment. When she stops it, she continues, "Nick called me the next day to set up a coffee date. I was so excited—I even told Damiano I was going out with a friend."
She pours the thick milkshakes into tall glasses.
"Two days later, Nick calls me in tears.
Apparently, Damiano and Enzo paid him a visit at his apartment.
" She hands me a glass. "They threatened to break every bone in his fingers—which, you know, is kind of important for an architecture student—if he ever contacted me again. "
My eyes widen. "That's extreme."
"That's Damiano." She sticks a straw into her milkshake with more force than necessary. "When I confronted him about it, he just said, 'I checked him out. He wasn't good enough for you.' Like that's his decision to make!"
I take a sip of my milkshake, trying to hide my disgust. Not at the drink—which is delicious—but at Damiano's behavior. "That's terrible, Lucrezia."
"The worst part? Nick was genuinely nice. Not like the usual entitled rich boys I meet." Her voice drops. "I still have his number, but I've never called. I don't want to get him hurt because of me."
I'm curled up in bed later that night, pillows propped behind me and a small reading lamp casting a warm glow over the pages of "The Art of War." After my conversation with Lucrezia, I've been thinking about strategy more than ever. Sun Tzu might have some insights that Byron's training missed.
"'All warfare is based on deception,'" I read aloud, tracing my finger along the line.
"Interesting bedtime reading choice."
I look up with a start. Damiano stands in my doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered in intricate tattoos.
"Do you make a habit of lurking in doorways, watching women read?" I ask, not bothering to close my book.
His eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my silk nightgown and bare legs. Heat crawls up my neck despite my determination to remain unfazed.
"Only when they're reading ancient military strategy in my house." He steps into the room without invitation. "Sun Tzu. Planning a war, lupacchiotta?"
"Maybe." I set the book on my nightstand. "Knowledge is power, isn't that what they say?"
"They say a lot of things." His mouth curves into a smirk. "Most of it bullshit."
I arch an eyebrow. "And what wisdom does the great Damiano Feretti have to offer instead?"
He moves closer.
"Experience trumps theory every time." His voice drops lower. "I could teach you things Sun Tzu never dreamed of."
"Experience, huh?" I shift on the bed, letting my nightgown ride up slightly. Two can play this game. "And what kind of experience would the mighty Don Feretti want to teach his fake wife?"
"You're playing with fire, Zoe." He moves closer, his presence filling my bedroom like a gathering storm.
I tilt my head, allowing my hair to cascade over one shoulder. "I've been told I have a talent for getting burned."
His hand comes up, not touching me but hovering near my face. I refuse to flinch.
"Is that what you want?" His voice drops lower. "To cause trouble?"
"What I want..." I say holding his gaze. "Is for you to get out of my room."
Damiano's laughter fills my bedroom, rich and deep, echoing off the walls before he backs away toward the door.
"Sweet dreams, lupacchiotta," he says, his eyes still gleaming with amusement as he pulls my door closed.
I flop back against my pillows with a frustrated groan. The man is infuriating—dangerous and arrogant and completely unpredictable. I pick up my book again, but the words blur together. After reading the same paragraph three times, I snap it shut and turn off the light.
Sleep refuses to come. I stare at the ceiling, my mind replaying Damiano standing in my doorway, the way his eyes traveled over me, how my body responded with that unwelcome heat.
"Stop it," I whisper to myself. "He's the enemy."
But my traitorous mind keeps circling back to those dark eyes, the tattoos on his forearms, the way his voice drops when he's trying to intimidate me.
I roll over, punching my pillow into shape. I need to focus on something else—anything else.
My father's face appears in my mind's eye. Dad as he was when I was little—laughing as he taught me to bait a hook at our lake house upstate.
"Hold it firmly but gently, Zoey-bird," he'd say, his hands guiding mine. "That's it. You've got a natural talent for this."
I smile in the darkness, remembering those golden summers. We'd spend whole days on the lake in our little rowboat. Dad would tell me stories about his childhood, about meeting my mother, about adventures in places I'd never been.
At night, we'd build a campfire and roast marshmallows. He'd point out constellations, making up silly stories about the stars that had nothing to do with the actual mythology.
"See that one? That's Zoey the Brave, who fought off a dragon with nothing but a fishing pole."
Tears prick behind my eyelids. My father was my rock, my everything. When nightmares scared me awake, he'd sit beside my bed and tell me there was nothing in this world I couldn't face.
"You have your mother's heart and my stubborn chin," he'd say, tapping me gently under my chin. "That's an unbeatable combination, kiddo."
I wonder what advice he'd give me now, lying in the home of the man who murdered him, playing this dangerous game. Would he tell me to run? To fight? Or would he simply hold me and tell me I was strong enough to handle whatever came my way?
I turn over again, hugging a pillow to my chest, trying to imagine it's his comforting embrace. Sleep feels impossibly far away.
My thoughts drift to the day everything changed. I was thirteen, sitting on the couch in our little apartment, eyes fixed on the clock. Dad was late—three hours late. He was never late, especially not without calling.
I kept dialing his number, watching the hours tick by. Six o'clock. Seven. Eight.
Then came the knock.
I rushed to the door, relief flooding through me—but it wasn't Dad standing there. It was Byron Easton in an expensive suit, his face a careful mask of sympathy.
"Hello, Zoe," he said, his voice gentle in a way that made my stomach twist. "Your father and I had business together. May I come in?"
I stepped back, confused. Dad had mentioned his associate a few times, but they weren't close friends—at least not that I knew.
"Where's my dad?" I asked, my voice small.
Byron's eyes changed then, softening with something that looked like pity. "I'm afraid I have some very difficult news."
The words that followed tore my world apart. My father, murdered. Found in an alley near the docks. Police were investigating, but Byron already knew who was responsible.
"The Italian. Damiano Feretti," he'd said, the name falling like poison from his lips.
I remember how the room seemed to tilt. How Byron steadied me, his hand firm on my shoulder.
"You have no other family," he said. "I was your father's associate. I'll take care of you now." And he was right. My mother died when I was a baby. She got hit by a car. I had no other relative. It was just me and my dad.
Within hours, Byron had packed my things and brought me to his mansion. Everything happened so fast—there was no time to process, no time to truly grieve. Just empty reassurances that justice would come someday.
Twelve years of training, education, and preparation for this moment—marrying my father's killer. Well, I didn't know that I was going to marry him, but that little changes.
I wipe away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. The weight of Byron's expectations crushes down on me. This isn't just about vengeance anymore. It's about honoring Dad's memory, completing the mission that consumed my entire youth.
I'll finish this.
No matter what it costs me, I'll make him pay for taking you away.