Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Istep under the hot spray of the shower, letting the water fall over my body and wash away the sweat and dirt from the shooting range. My muscles ache pleasantly as I reach for the shampoo, working it into my hair.
The house is quiet with Damiano gone. He'd kissed me quickly before heading out, mentioning something about grabbing groceries for lunch. "I'll cook for you," he'd said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
I close my eyes, letting the water run over my face.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair. The bathroom is all vintage tiles and fixtures, preserved from decades ago when Damiano's parents lived here.
The Damiano from Byron's files – the cold-blooded killer, the ruthless don – seems disconnected from the man who held me last night. The man who looked at me with something like wonder in his eyes when he said he was falling for me.
I hear the front door open and close downstairs. Damiano is back. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. One step at a time.
I help Damiano in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while he seasons chicken breast. We skipped breakfast focusing on dinner instead. The domesticity feels strange—almost normal—in stark contrast to the deadly precision with which he handled his gun just hours ago.
"You're good with a knife," Damiano observes, watching my hands work.
"Byron believed proper knife skills were part of a lady's education," I say, the lie slipping easily from my lips. In truth, Byron had taught me how to wield a knife for more lethal purposes than dicing peppers.
"You mentioned I had nightmares again," he says suddenly, his voice low. "Does that happen often?"
I set down my knife. "More than you probably realize. Sometimes you call out in your sleep."
"What do I say?" His back is to me, shoulders tense.
"Mostly just sounds. But sometimes... you call for Bianca."
The wooden spoon in his hand stills. For a moment, I think he might break it, his knuckles white with pressure.
"Who was she?" I ask, though I already know from Byron's files. I need to hear it from him.
"My fiancée." The words come out rough, like they're being torn from him. "She was pregnant when she died."
My heart pounds in my chest. "How did she die?"
Damiano takes a deep breath, still facing the stove. "Twelve years ago. Thanksgiving night. We were at our country house upstate. A man broke in." He pauses, adding the vegetables I've chopped. "I killed one of them, but the other... he shot her before I could stop him."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "Thanksgiving? Twelve years ago?"
He nods, finally turning to face me. His eyes are haunted. "November 25th. I killed the man. But it was too late."
My hands feel numb. November 25th, twelve years ago. The exact date Byron told me my father was murdered. By Damiano.
"Did you know the man you killed?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damiano shrugs. "Some hired gun. I never knew his name." He turns back to the stove. "I dream about it sometimes. Finding her there, bleeding. Not being able to save her."
I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. My father was supposedly killed by Damiano on that exact night. But if Damiano was at his country house, finding Bianca, killing her attackers...
Something doesn't add up. Either Damiano killed two different people that night, or...
My throat feels tight.
Damiano sets the wooden spoon down and turns to face me. His brow furrows.
"Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I press my palm against the cold countertop, needing something solid to ground me. My mind races, trying to process what I've just heard. The date, the timing—it can't be a coincidence.
"I'm just... shocked," I say, and it's not a lie. "The cruelty of it. Killing a pregnant woman."
My voice catches. I'm being honest about that part—the horror of it makes me sick. But there's more swirling in my mind that I can't share.
My father was killed in the city that night.
In Manhattan. November 25th, twelve years ago.
"I don't talk about it anymore." His voice is flat, controlled. "My heart died that night. I buried it with Bianca."
I stay silent, watching him. Everything Byron told me is crumbling under the weight of this new information. If Damiano wasn't in Manhattan that night, he couldn't have killed my father. But if he didn't, then who did? And why did Byron lie?
"Since I've met you," Damiano continues, softer now, "I'm starting to feel some broken parts coming back alive." He looks up, meeting my eyes. "I didn't think that was possible."
I feel terrible. Confused. The mission I've dedicated my life to suddenly seems built on quicksand. If Byron lied about Damiano killing my father, what else has he lied about?
"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else to offer. The words feel hollow, inadequate for either his pain or my turmoil.
My hand shakes as I pick up the knife again, trying to focus on the simple task of chopping vegetables while my entire world tilts on its axis.