Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Damiano unlocks the front door with a key he produces from his pocket. The security system beeps once before falling silent as he enters a code. He flicks on a light, illuminating a foyer with hardwood floors and cream-colored walls.
I step inside cautiously, taking in the simple elegance of the place. The furniture is covered with white sheets, giving the space a ghostly quality, but I can make out the shapes of a comfortable living room beyond.
"What is this place?" I ask again, my voice hushed in the stillness.
Damiano walks a few paces into the living room, his fingers trailing over a sofa. Something about this space has softened him—the hard lines of his face have relaxed, his posture less rigid than usual.
"This was my parents' first home," he says finally, his deep voice filling the quiet room. "My father bought it for my mother when they were young, before the family business expanded to what it is today."
I stand still, surprised by this glimpse into his past. This doesn't feel like the home of a mafia family—it's too normal, too peaceful.
"They called it il loro rifugio—their haven." Damiano continues, moving toward a fireplace where a few framed photos stand. "If I had to name it, I'd say it was their happy place. The only place where they could just be Giusseppe and Sophia, not Don Feretti and his wife."
He picks up one of the frames, wiping dust from the glass with his thumb. The tenderness in the gesture catches me off guard.
"Enzo and I were born here." His voice carries a wistfulness I've never heard before. "After that, this place became their escape. They would come here on weekends, sometimes just the two of them."
I step closer, drawn by this unexpected openness. The Damiano standing before me now seems worlds away from the cold, controlling man I married.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask quietly.
He sets the photo down and turns to face me, his dark eyes searching mine. "I don't know," he admits, vulnerability flashing across his features. "I haven't been here since they died. I keep it maintained, but I never..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. I understand what it means for him to bring me here, to this place he's kept preserved but hasn't visited himself.
"Could I see more of the house?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Damiano hesitates, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm horrible with home tours."
"What does that even mean?" I laugh, the sound strange in this preserved space. "It's not like you need special qualifications. Just show me around."
His lips quirk up at one corner. "I don't remember what's in half these rooms. And I've never understood why women want to know every detail—what year the fireplace was built, where the curtains came from."
"Oh, because all women care about is decor?" I roll my eyes. "Maybe I just want to understand more about where you came from, Damiano."
He studies me for a moment, then gestures toward the hallway. "Fine. But don't expect the HGTV treatment."
I move past him, feeling the heat of his body as I squeeze by. The hallway is lined with more framed photos—glimpses of a life before violence took over. Young Damiano and Enzo, grinning with missing teeth. Their parents at what looks like an anniversary dinner.
"They looked happy," I murmur, pausing at a photo of his parents dancing.
"They were." His voice is right behind me, closer than I expected. "Until the end."
I turn and find him inches away, his gaze intense. The narrow hallway leaves little space between us.
"Is this the reason you keep this place? To remember what happiness looks like?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Damiano steps even closer, backing me against the wall. His hands come up to frame my face, not roughly like before, but with a gentleness that's somehow more unsettling.
"No, lupacchiotta," he says, his breath warm against my skin. "I keep it because someone taught me the value of knowing where you come from—even when you're trying to burn it all down."
My heart pounds against my ribs. Does he know? Has he figured out my plan?
"What does that mean?" I whisper.
His thumb traces my lower lip. "It means we all have secrets, Zoe. Even you."
My pulse hammers in my throat. His eyes hold mine, dark and knowing in a way that chills me. I need to regain control of this situation before I lose myself in it completely.
"Your little power games will have to wait," I say, placing my hand against his chest and gently pushing him back. "I want to explore the house properly first."
"Power games?" His voice drops to that dangerous purr. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?" I raise an eyebrow, ducking under his arm to continue down the hallway. "Everything's a game with you, Damiano. Everything's about control."
He follows me, his footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. "And you're above such things?"
I glance at him over my shoulder. "I didn't say that. I just want to see the rest of the house first. This place..." I gesture around us. "It's like seeing a side of you."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening I've rarely witnessed. He steps back, giving me space.
"Fine. Kitchen's through there." He points to a doorway at the end of the hall. "My old bedroom is upstairs, second door on the right. Bathroom across the hall. Nothing special."
I move toward the kitchen, needing distance from him and his unsettling perceptiveness. The kitchen is small but charming, with faded yellow tiles and an old-fashioned stove. A wooden table sits in the center, scratched from years of family meals and homework sessions.
"They used to make pasta here every Sunday," Damiano says from the doorway. "My mother would roll out the dough by hand. Said the machines couldn't feel when it was right."
"It's strange," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "Having someone except my family in this space."
She turns to me, curiosity softening her features. "Strange good or strange bad?"
"Just strange." I don't elaborate. How could I explain that bringing her here feels like crossing some invisible line I'd drawn for myself?
The tour continues as we move upstairs, Zoe pausing at each family photo, asking questions I sometimes don't have answers to. My childhood bedroom brings a smile to her face—the faded soccer posters, the twin bed that seems impossibly small now.
"I can't picture you as a normal kid," she admits, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I wasn't." The truth slips out before I can stop it. "Not really."
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as we move through the preserved memories of my past. It's exhausting, this unveiling. By the time we've circled back to the living room, I feel stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
Zoe runs her hand along the sheet-covered sofa, turning to face me with an unexpected suggestion.
"Let's watch a movie," she says. "Here. Tonight. We could make popcorn."
A laugh escapes me—genuine, surprised. "Movie and popcorn? I haven't done that since—" I shake my head, memories flooding back. "Christ, probably since I was sixteen. Before everything went to shit."
"So that's what—fifty years?" Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
"Watch it," I growl, but there's no real menace in it. "I'm thirty-six, not ancient."
"Then prove it," she challenges. "One normal night. Movie and popcorn. No business calls, no security details hovering, no power plays."
I study her face, trying to decipher her angle. Is this another test? Another attempt to find my weakness? But the simplicity of it appeals to me in a way I hadn't expected.
"Fine," I find myself saying.
I shake my head as Zoe bounces up from the couch, her sudden enthusiasm catching me off guard.
"Wait, do you have any snacks here?" she asks, already moving toward the kitchen. "We need snacks for a movie night."
"I have no fucking idea," I call after her. "Enzo and Lucrezia come here once a year for sure, but I doubt they stock the pantry."
The sound of cabinet doors opening and closing echoes through the house. I follow the noise to find her standing on tiptoes, rifling through an upper shelf.
"Aha!" Her triumphant voice rings out as she pulls down a bag of chips. "These haven't expired yet. Only two months left before they do."
She turns, holding the bag up like it's a trophy. "See? The universe wants us to have a movie night."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The universe doesn't give a shit about our snack situation, lupacchiotta."
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe not, but these chips do. Come on."
Back in the living room, I find myself pulling off the dust covers while Zoe sets up the ancient DVD player. The couch underneath is surprisingly well-preserved, a reminder of my mother's insistence on quality furniture.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I mutter, settling onto the cushions. My six-foot-two frame looks ridiculous in this domestic setting, knees too high, elbows too wide for the space. "Don Damiano Feretti watching a fucking rom-com while eating stale chips."
Zoe plops down beside me, closer than necessary. "Is that what the newspapers would say if they caught you now?"
"They'd need a minute to recognize me without someone bleeding at my feet."
She opens the chip bag with a loud crinkle. "Is this how the fearsome crime lord spends his downtime? Eating chips and complaining about movie choices?" She's angry but she tries to hold back.
Why are you angry Zoe?
Finally, you'll tell me.
"Hardly." I reach for a handful. "Usually I'm planning someone's demise while drinking whiskey in a dramatically lit room. Much more on-brand."
The movie starts, and I find myself relaxing into the absurdity of it all.