Chapter 17 #2
His teeth graze my lower lip, and I can't help the small sound that escapes me. His grip tightens possessively at the noise.
This doesn't mean anything. It's just physical.
I pull back slightly, needing air, needing distance, needing to think clearly. His dark eyes lock with mine, pupils dilated with desire. The raw heat I see there makes my stomach tighten.
"That was convincing," I whisper, trying to regain control of the situation—of myself. My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
His thumb traces my lower lip, still damp from his kiss. "That wasn't for them, lupacchiotta."
I pull away from Damiano's touch, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"I need to refresh my makeup," I manage to say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is chaos.
He studies me for a moment, his eyes unreadable, before giving a slight nod. I turn and walk toward the bathroom, feeling his gaze burning into my back with every step.
The bathroom is mercifully empty when I enter. I grip the marble countertop, staring at my reflection in the gold-framed mirror. My lips are slightly swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. I barely recognize myself.
Get it together.
I take a deep breath, then another. My hands are trembling as I reach for my clutch and pull out my lipstick.
This was just part of our act tonight. That's all it was. A performance for the eyes watching us. For the whispers that would follow. For the stories that would reach Byron's ears.
Nothing more than that.
I carefully reapply my lipstick, erasing the evidence of Damiano's possession. The woman in the mirror looks composed again, but inside, I'm still reeling.
It didn't mean anything. It was just a kiss. A strategic move in this dangerous game we're playing.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on why I'm here. On my father's face. On Byron's training. On twelve years of preparation for this exact mission.
He killed your father. I remind myself sternly.
He's a monster.
I splash cold water on my wrists, hoping to cool the heat still coursing through my veins. This reaction is nothing but biology—a primal response to tension and proximity. It has nothing to do with feelings.
I straighten my shoulders and adjust my emerald dress, becoming Zoe Feretti once more. The perfect, adoring wife. The ultimate deception.
I make my way back into the ballroom, scanning the crowd for Damiano.
The clink of champagne glasses and murmur of conversations fills the air as I spot him across the room, deep in discussion with three men I don't recognize.
His commanding presence draws every eye, even as he speaks in low tones, occasionally nodding at whatever they're saying.
A familiar sensation creeps up my spine—someone watching me. I turn slightly and meet Byron's gaze across the room. Of course he's here. I should have expected it.
Byron weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, his silver hair catching the light, his smile perfect and controlled. When he reaches me, he embraces me warmly, playing the role of proud father for anyone who might be watching.
"Magnificent performance," he whispers against my ear, his voice carrying just enough warmth to seem genuine. "The way you two looked at each other... even I almost believed it."
I pull back, keeping my smile in place. "It's all an act."
Byron's eyes flick toward Damiano, then back to me. "Perhaps. But I don't think our Italian friend is acting quite as much as you believe."
"What do you mean?" My stomach tightens.
"The way he looks at you." Byron sips his champagne, watching Damiano over the rim of his glass. "That's not performance, my dear. That's possession." He lowers his voice. "This is your chance, Zoe. Get closer. Let him think he's winning you over."
"He doesn't feel anything for me," I insist, though the memory of Damiano's kiss sends heat rushing through me again. "He's just playing his part."
Byron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've always been observant, Zoe, except when it comes to your own value. Trust me on this—I've been reading men like him my entire life." He places a hand on my shoulder. "Damiano Feretti wants you. Use that. It's the fastest way into his world."
I swallow hard, unsure how to respond. The thought that Damiano might actually desire me beyond our arrangement is both terrifying and... something else I don't want to name.
"This is your opportunity," Byron continues. "Don't waste it overthinking. Just do what needs to be done."
I can feel Damiano's presence before I see him. He moves through the crowd with that predatory grace of his, making his way toward Byron and me. The tension in my shoulders increases with each step he takes.
"Byron," Damiano says, his voice smooth as he extends his hand to Byron. "You came."
Byron's smile is perfectly calibrated—just the right amount of warmth. "Damiano. The Rossi Foundation does such important work. I wouldn't miss it."
I stand between them, acutely aware of the undercurrents flowing beneath their polite exchange. These are two sharks circling each other, testing for weaknesses.
"How's married life treating you?" Byron asks, his gaze sliding between us.
Damiano's hand finds the small of my back, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress. "Wonderfully," he replies, staring directly at me rather than Byron. "Zoe is everything I could have hoped for."
I force myself to smile, playing along while my skin tingles under his touch.
"Perhaps we should discuss how our business arrangements are progressing," Byron suggests, lowering his voice. "It's been nearly a month since the wedding."
Damiano nods. "My office, Tuesday afternoon. Two o'clock?"
"Perfect." Byron swirls his champagne. "I'm curious to see how our distribution channels in Queens are performing."
The business talk makes my presence awkward. This is my chance to escape, to regroup after that kiss that still has my head spinning.
"I'm going to grab a drink," I announce, stepping away from Damiano's touch. "You two can discuss the details without me."
I weave through the crowd, grateful for the momentary freedom. The weight of their expectations—Byron's and Damiano's—feels suffocating sometimes. Each wants something from me, and neither cares what it costs.
I scan the room for a waiter carrying champagne when a man steps into my path. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and an expensive suit, he smiles with practiced charm.
"Mrs. Feretti, I believe?" His voice carries a slight Italian accent. "Amerigo Rossi. This is my foundation's event."
I offer my hand. "Mr. Rossi. It's lovely to meet you. The gala is beautiful."
He takes my hand, holding it slightly longer than necessary. "Not nearly as beautiful as you are." His eyes trail over me appreciatively. "I must say, Damiano is a very lucky man."
His gaze lingers on my neckline, making my skin crawl. I've dealt with men like him before—powerful, entitled, convinced their attention is a gift.
"You must have guts to start flirting with Damiano's wife," I reply, my voice sweet but eyes sharp. I maintain my smile for anyone watching, but make sure Rossi sees the warning in my expression.
A flash of surprise crosses his face before he recovers with a practiced chuckle. "I was merely—"
"Is there something I could do to help you, Amerigo?
" Damiano's voice cuts through our conversation like a blade.
He materializes beside me, one hand sliding possessively around my waist. I hadn't noticed him approaching, but Rossi's widening eyes tell me he's just realized his mistake. "You seemed lost."
The temperature between the men drops several degrees. Though Damiano's tone remains conversational, the subtle threat beneath his words is unmistakable. His fingers press slightly firmer against my hip, a gesture that somehow feels both possessive and protective.
Rossi recovers quickly, raising his champagne glass in a toast. "Damiano! I was just telling your lovely wife what a fortunate man you are. She's absolutely stunning."
"You're right about that." Damiano pulls me closer, his eyes never leaving Rossi's face. "I am."
I manage a smile, injecting lightness into my voice despite the tension crackling between the men. "I think I need that drink now." I turn to Amerigo, offering a polite nod. "Goodnight, Mr. Rossi. Lovely event."
I slide my hand into Damiano's before he can escalate things further with the foundation head. His fingers close around mine automatically, warm and strong. The physical connection sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.
When I tug gently, Damiano resists for a moment, his eyes still locked on Rossi. The message is clear: mine, not yours. Only after Rossi takes a subtle step back does Damiano allow me to lead him away.
I stop when we're far enough from Rossi but still visible to the important guests. Turning to face Damiano, I meet his stare directly, refusing to look away first. His eyes burn with something fierce and possessive that makes my breath catch.
"That wasn't necessary," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "I can handle men like Rossi."
Damiano's jaw tightens. "I know you can."
We stand locked in this silent battle, neither willing to break eye contact. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I'm testing him, and he's testing me right back.
"Should we go grab those drinks?" he finally says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
A small victory, getting him to speak first. I allow myself a tiny smile in return.
"Lead the way, husband."