Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Igrip the steering wheel, watching the road ahead as we make our way to Byron's house. Zoe sits beside me, quiet for most of the drive. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable—more like the calm before a storm.
"Lucrezia told me about Nick," she says suddenly, breaking the silence.
My jaw tightens at the mention of that name. "Did she?"
"She seemed pretty upset about how you handled it." Zoe turns to face me, those green eyes studying my reaction. "She said you threatened to break his fingers."
"I did more than threaten."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "So you admit it? You scared off some college kid because your sister liked him?"
I let out a laugh that holds no humor. "Is that what she told you? That Nick was just some innocent student?"
"Wasn't he?"
I take a corner harder than necessary, letting the Aston's engine growl. "Nick Harmon was hired by the Volkovs to get close to my sister."
"What?"
"The Russian family has been trying to get information on our operations for years." I glance at her, gauging her reaction. "Their newest strategy was using a clean-cut college boy to romance my sister."
Zoe looks skeptical. "How can you be sure? Maybe you're just overprotective."
"Because I had him followed for two weeks before I confronted him." My knuckles whiten on the wheel. "He met with one of their men three times at the time she was talking to him."
"Jesus," Zoe whispers.
"So yes, I threatened to break his fingers. One by one. Then both his hands. Then his legs." The memory of that night burns cold in my gut. "If Enzo hadn't been there, I might have done all of it."
"Did you tell Lucrezia?"
I shake my head. "What good would it do? She'd be devastated to know someone used her that way. Better she thinks I'm just an overprotective asshole."
"But she's heartbroken."
"Better heartbroken than dead." The words come out sharper than I intend. "The Volkovs don't play games. If they got what they wanted from Nick, she'd have become a liability."
Zoe falls silent, processing this information.
"So you see," I continue, keeping my eyes on the road, "there are things in this world that even Sun Tzu couldn't prepare you for. Sometimes experience is the only teacher worth a damn."
I pull into Byron's driveway, cutting the engine as we arrive. Neither of us moves to get out.
"So you're not just a control freak," Zoe says, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You actually have reasons."
I turn to her, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone. "I protect what's mine."
"And am I yours now, Damiano?" Her voice drops lower, taking on a teasing quality I haven't heard before. She tilts her head, those green eyes sparkling with challenge.
My body tenses at her words. "You signed the papers, Zoe. That makes you mine."
"On paper." She leans slightly closer. "But we both know this marriage is just business."
Heat builds in my chest as she plays this dangerous game. I reach over, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. "Is that what we know?"
Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch for just a moment before catching herself.
"You like playing games, don't you?" I growl, my voice dropping an octave.
"I could ask you the same thing." She holds my gaze, defiant and provocative at once.
My thumb traces her jawline, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch. "Careful, Zoe. You might not like what happens when I stop playing nice."
"Maybe that's exactly what I want to find out." She challenges me with those words, her lips curving into a smile that's half-taunting, half-invitation.
Fuck. Every instinct tells me to pull her across the console and show her exactly what happens when she pushes me like this. The car suddenly feels too small, the air between us charged with electricity.
I stare at her lips, so close I can feel her breath against my skin. The air between us crackles with tension, drawing me in like a magnetic force I can't resist. My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her soft hair as I pull her toward me.
But just as our lips are about to touch, reality crashes through the haze of desire.
This isn't real. None of it is.
I freeze, jaw clenching as I remember what this arrangement truly is—a business deal. A strategic alliance. Nothing more.
Slowly, I pull back, dropping my hand from her neck. The loss of contact feels like being doused in ice water, clearing my head but leaving a bitter chill behind.
Zoe watches me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I knew you'd back up," she whispers, her voice carrying a hint of victory.
Her words hit like a bullet, tearing through the last of my self-control. She was testing me. Playing me. And I fucking fell for it.
Rage builds inside me, hot and dangerous, like molten steel ready to burn through everything in its path. Every muscle in my body tenses with the effort to remain still. To not show her how deeply she's gotten under my skin.
I wrench the car door open, needing to escape the suffocating tension. The night air hits me like a physical blow, cooling the heat that's built under my skin. I adjust my jacket, straightening the lapels with quick, sharp movements.
Zoe slides out gracefully from her side, that satisfied smirk still playing on her lips. She knows what she did. She knows exactly how close I came to breaking.
And she is fucking right.
I follow Byron into the formal dining room, trying to mask my irritation after the tense moment with Damiano in the car.
The massive mahogany table gleams under crystal chandeliers, set with the Limoges china and sterling silver that Byron reserves for important occasions.
Everything about this dinner feels like a performance.
"Straighten your shoulders, Zoe." Byron's voice carries that familiar instructional tone as he gestures to my chair. "And remember to keep your elbows off the table."
I catch Damiano's expression darkening at Byron's words. He pulls out my chair with unexpected gentleness, his fingers briefly brushing my shoulder.
"I believe Zoe knows how to sit at a table," he says coolly.
Byron smiles thinly. "Of course she does. I spent years ensuring her deportment is flawless." He says.
The familiar knot forms in my stomach. This is how it's always been—Byron treating me like a porcelain doll he's programmed to perform. Usually, I accept his corrections without question, but tonight, with Damiano watching, the humiliation burns deeper.
I fold my hands in my lap, keeping my expression neutral despite the shame flooding through me.
"Zoe has her own mind," Damiano says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "She can do whatever she wishes."
"In certain settings, perhaps," Byron responds, signaling for the server to pour wine. "But a woman of her position must understand when discretion is appropriate. I've taught her well."
My chest tightens as I watch this power play unfold. Byron is deliberately provoking Damiano, using my supposed submission as bait. It's working. I can see the muscle ticking in Damiano's jaw, the tightening of his knuckles around his wine glass.
Yet beneath my calculated facade, genuine hurt bubbles up. Regardless of audience, Byron has always treated me like this—a project to perfect rather than a person to respect. Damiano's defense, however self-serving, highlights just how demeaning Byron's treatment truly is.
The first course arrives—lobster bisque that smells divine but turns my stomach. I lift my spoon, careful to follow every rule of etiquette Byron drilled into me.
"I've arranged for photos at the charity gala next week," Byron says, addressing Damiano. "Zoe will wear the sapphire set. It complements her coloring beautifully."
"We'll make our own decisions about appearances," Damiano replies flatly.
Byron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You'll find Zoe performs exquisitely when properly instructed. She's been trained to follow direction."
Something dangerous flashes across Damiano's face. He sets his spoon down with deliberate control.
"We're leaving." Damiano's voice leaves no room for argument. He stands, placing his napkin beside his barely-touched soup.
"We've hardly begun dinner," Byron protests.
"I've lost my appetite." Damiano moves behind my chair. "Zoe?"
I hesitate, torn between Byron's expectations and Damiano's command. In this moment, Damiano offers escape from Byron's suffocating control, even if it's only exchanging one cage for another.
"Of course," I say, rising from my chair.
I storm out of Byron's house ahead of Damiano. The cool night air hits my face as I step outside, but it does nothing to calm the fire burning inside me. I don't wait for Damiano. I yank open the door and slide into the passenger seat.
Damiano follows shortly after, his movements controlled and precise as he starts the engine. We drive in silence for several minutes, tension filling the space between us. I stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, my thoughts racing.
"Are you okay?" Damiano finally asks, his deep voice breaking through the silence.
The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected concern from him. I turn to study his profile, the strong jaw, the intensity in his eyes as he focuses on the road.
"Why do you care?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Because you look like you're about to shatter that window with your bare hands." There's no mockery in his tone, just observation.
Something breaks loose inside me. "He treats me like I'm some kind of doll," I say, the truth spilling out unchecked. "Something to be handled, positioned, instructed. Like I don't have thoughts or feelings of my own."
Damiano remains silent, listening.
"Years of 'Sit up straight, Zoe.' 'Don't speak unless spoken to, Zoe.' 'Remember your training, Zoe.'" I mimic Byron's condescending tone. "And you—if you thought you were defending me back there, congratulations. You've just proven you're as much of an asshole as he is."
Damiano's knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. "How's that?"
"You weren't standing up for me. You were marking your territory." I turn fully toward him now, my voice rising. "I'm not Byron's possession, and I'm not yours either. I'm tired of men deciding how I should be handled."
I realize I've said too much, revealed too much genuine feeling. This wasn't part of the plan. But in this moment, I don't care. The words feel true coming out of my mouth, even if they weren't part of my script.
Damiano pulls the car over to the side of the road and turns to face me. His dark eyes search mine, and for a second, I think I see something besides the cold calculation I've come to expect.
"You're right," he says finally, the words dropping between us like stones in still water. "You're not a possession. You shouldn't be treated like you don't matter or like you're just something to be owned."
I blink, surprised by his concession. This isn't what I expected from him.
"But," he continues, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous, "don't ever compare me to another man. Not to Byron. Not to anyone." His eyes burn into mine. "Not even if it's God himself."
The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"You have no idea who I am or what I'm capable of," Damiano says.
"And trust me, Zoe, I am nothing like Byron Easton.
There's a difference between protection and control.
Easton shapes you into what he wants. I'm trying to keep my family alive in a world that would eat them alive without thinking twice. "
I laugh bitterly. "That's a convenient explanation."
I stare at Damiano, waiting for his sharp response, his usual quick retort that would put me in my place. But it doesn't come.
Instead, his expression shifts in a way I've never seen before. The hard lines of his face seem to soften slightly, his eyes losing their predatory intensity. For a fleeting moment, I glimpse something entirely unexpected—vulnerability.
He looks away, his gaze fixing on some distant point through the windshield. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Damiano?" I find myself saying his name, unsure why I'm even trying to reconnect.
He doesn't look at me. His jaw works slightly, as if he's chewing on words he can't quite bring himself to say. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his features.
Is that... disappointment? Not anger, not calculation, not the cold indifference I've come to expect—but genuine disappointment.
For the first time since our arranged marriage began, I'm seeing a crack in his carefully maintained facade.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than I've ever heard it.
"It doesn't matter."
Three simple words, yet they carry a weight I wasn't prepared for. The dismissal stings more than his usual sharp remarks would have. He puts the car in drive and pulls back onto the road, effectively ending our conversation.
I turn toward the window, wrapping my arms around myself.
Something has shifted between us, but I can't quite identify what.
That glimpse of disappointment in his eyes has thrown me off balance.
It suggests depths to him I haven't considered—depths that might complicate my carefully constructed plans for revenge.