Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I'm stretched out on my bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Scarlett's contact. I need to talk to someone who isn't part of this twisted world I've found myself trapped in. Someone who still sees me as just Zoe, not Damiano's wife or Byron's weapon.
My phone lights up with an incoming call, and my stomach drops when Byron's name flashes across the screen. I've been avoiding his calls for days now, letting them go to voicemail and sending vague text responses later.
But I can't keep dodging him forever.
I take a deep breath and press accept.
"Hello, Byron." I keep my voice neutral, giving nothing away.
"Zoe." His tone is sharp with disapproval. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."
I sit up straighter against the headboard. "I've been busy."
"Too busy to update me on your progress?" The familiar guilt-inducing cadence is there, the subtle reminder of everything I supposedly owe him. "It's been two weeks since your last report."
"The Ferettis don't exactly leave their secrets lying around," I say, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. "I'm still earning their trust."
"And how exactly are you doing that?" His voice drops lower. "On your back?"
Heat flashes through my body—anger, not shame. "That's none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business, Zoe." The silky danger in his voice makes my skin crawl. "I made you who you are. Or have you forgotten that too?"
"I haven't forgotten anything," I say, thinking of Damiano's confession about Bianca's murder. The timing that doesn't match what Byron told me about my father's death. "In fact, I've been learning quite a lot."
"About the Ferettis' operations, I hope."
I grip the phone tighter. "Actually, Byron, I wanted to ask you something."
A beat of silence. "What is it?"
"Tell me again how my father died." I keep my voice steady, careful not to reveal my doubts. "I need to remember exactly what happened that night."
Byron sighs heavily. "We've been through this before, Zoe. Many times."
"I know, but I want to hear it again." I push harder.
"Why now?" His voice sharpens with suspicion. "Has something happened?"
"No," I lie smoothly. "Being around Damiano just brings it all back. I need to remember why I'm doing this."
Another silence, longer this time. I hold my breath, afraid I've pushed too far.
"Fine," he finally says. "Your father made a mistake with a drug shipment to the Italians. The product wasn't pure enough, and they lost money. Feretti, in his paranoia, decided your father was trying to cheat him."
I close my eyes, trying to piece together the timeline. "And this happened on Thanksgiving night? Twelve years ago?"
"Yes," Byron confirms. "Damiano Feretti personally executed your father in his Manhattan apartment that night. I told you this when I found you. I showed you the police reports."
"I remember," I say softly, though the memory feels distant now, filtered through years of Byron's careful training.
"Your father made one critical error in judgment, and Feretti killed him for it. That's the kind of man you're sharing a bed with, Zoe. Don't you forget it."
The accusation stings, especially now that I'm questioning everything. "I won't forget."
"Good," Byron says, his tone shifting to something harder. "Now stop asking questions about the past and start focusing on your mission. These pointless trips down memory lane won't get us what we need."
My fingers tighten around the phone. "I was just—"
"You were just wasting time," he cuts me off. "Have you learned anything useful in these weeks? Anything about their operations, their suppliers, their distribution networks?"
I swallow hard, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in the Feretti mansion. The room Lucrezia decorated for me with such care. The home where I've been treated like family despite being an intruder.
"I'm working on it," I say finally. "These things take time. They don't exactly discuss business in front of me."
Byron makes a dismissive sound. "You've had ample time to gain Feretti's trust. I expected results by now."
"I said I'm working on it," I repeat, a sharp edge creeping into my voice.
"Good girl.We'll talk soon."
The line goes dead before I can respond. I lower the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen.
I immediately dial Scarlett's number, needing to hear a voice that doesn't twist reality. She picks up on the second ring.
"Hey love!" Her cheerful voice is an instant balm.
I curl my legs underneath me. "I've missed you."
"Same here. So what's going on? You sound off."
I take a deep breath. "Scar, I just got back from Chicago with Damiano, and I don't know what to think anymore."
"What happened? Did he hurt you?" The concern in her voice is immediate.
"No, the opposite actually. He... he took me to his childhood home. He showed me photos of his parents, told me stories. He was vulnerable with me, Scar."
"Okay..." She stretches the word out cautiously.
"And then he told me something that maybe changes everything." My voice drops to barely above a whisper, though I know no one is listening. "Remember how Byron always told me Damiano killed my father in Manhattan on Thanksgiving night twelve years ago?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Well, Damiano just confessed that on that exact same night, he was in his country house outside the city when someone broke in and killed his pregnant fiancée, Bianca."
Silence stretches between us before Scarlett speaks. "Wait, what? That's not possible. He can't be in two places at once."
"Exactly," I say, my hand gripping the phone tighter. "Either Damiano is lying about Bianca, or Byron lied about my father."
"Holy shit, Zoe." Scarlett sounds genuinely stunned. "Are you sure about the dates? Maybe one of them is mistaken?"
"No, both were very specific about it being Thanksgiving night twelve years ago. Damiano even described finding Bianca's body, killing the intruder. It was too raw to be made up."
"But why would Byron lie about something like that? What would he gain?"
I stare at the ceiling, the question I've been asking myself for days. "Control over me? A weapon against the Ferettis? I don't know, but I'm starting to think my entire life has been built on a lie."
"Jesus, Zoe." Scarlett pauses. "What are you going to do now?"
"I need to find out the truth without tipping off either of them." I say. "If Byron lied, then everything is based on nothing."
"And if Damiano's lying?"
"Then I continue as planned." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. The man who held me in Chicago, who opened up his past to me, who looked at me with such tenderness... could he really be playing me this effectively?
"Whoa, slow down," Scarlett says, and I can almost see her holding her hands up. "You need to figure out what's actually going on before you make any big decisions. This isn't an either-or situation yet."
I flop back on my bed with a groan. "What do you mean? Either Byron lied to me or Damiano's lying now."
"Or there's something you're missing," Scarlett says carefully. "You've been living on Byron's version of events for twelve years, Zoe. The story of your father's death has been the foundation of everything you believe about yourself and your mission."
"You think I don't know that?" My voice cracks.
"Look, I'm not saying Damiano's a saint. He's still a criminal, regardless of whether he killed your father or not. But if Byron manipulated you this whole time..." She trails off, letting the implications hang between us.
I press my palm against my forehead, trying to ease the pressure building there. "Then my entire life has been a lie."
"Not your entire life," Scarlett says firmly. "Just the parts Byron constructed. The revenge mission, the hatred for Damiano. But who you are at your core? That's still you, Zoe."
I bite my lip, tears threatening. "What do I do, Scar?"
"You need proof," she says decisively. "Actual evidence, not just competing stories. Police reports from both incidents. Newspaper articles. Something concrete that places Damiano in one location or the other that night."
"Byron showed me police reports years ago," I murmur, remembering the manila folder with its grainy black and white photos. The official-looking papers with timestamps and signatures.
"Then find them again. Or better yet, find the originals. And look for evidence about Bianca's murder too. There has to be a paper trail somewhere."
She's right. I need facts, not feelings. Not Damiano's tender confessions or Byron's manipulative commands.
"You're still you, Zoe," Scarlett repeats softly. "Whatever the truth is, you'll handle it. But please, please don't do anything rash until you know for sure."
I take a deep breath, feeling slightly steadier. "Thanks, Scar. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably something dramatic and ill-advised," she teases, and despite everything, I laugh.
"Probably," I agree. "I need to go."
"Be careful, okay? And call me the second you find anything."
"I will," I promise, ending the call.
I stare at the ceiling, Scarlett's words echoing in my mind. Find proof. Don't act rashly. Remember who I am beneath all the lies.
But who am I, really?
I drag myself up the stairs. The doubt Enzo planted about her true intentions gnaws at me, but my heart refuses to accept it.
My hand pauses on the doorknob to my bedroom. I'm too fucking tired for this tonight. Too tired to think, to question, to doubt.
As I enter my room, exhausted from the day's tensions, I'm caught off guard by Zoe's presence. She's perched on the edge of my bed, wearing nothing but her underwear.
"I was waiting for you." she says.
For a moment, Enzo's warnings flash through my mind.
"Damiano?" She tilts her head, concern crossing her features at my silence.
I'm drawn to her like a moth to flame, my body responding before my mind can catch up. As I close the distance between us, I'm acutely aware of the danger in this attraction. This woman could be my undoing, yet I can't bring myself to care.
"What are you doing to me, lupacchiotta?" I murmur, standing before her.
Her fingers reach for the buttons of my shirt, eyes never leaving mine. "I could ask you the same thing."
My tattoos catch the lamplight as she undoes each button, revealing the scars and ink that tell my life's story. Her touch burns against my skin.
"You should be afraid of me," I tell her, my voice rough.
"Maybe." She pushes the shirt from my shoulders. "But I'm not."
I thread my fingers through her golden hair, tilting her face up to mine. "You should be."
Everything in me screams this is dangerous—that I'm playing with fire. That she might be the knife aimed at my heart. But as her hands slide up my bare chest, I know I'm already lost.
I tear my gaze from hers, just for a moment. Everything about this feels like walking into a trap I've set for myself. But fuck, I don't care anymore.
"Last chance to walk away," I growl, knowing I won't let her even if she tries.
Her answer is to reach for my belt, slowly undoing it. The sound of leather sliding through fabric fills the quiet room. My self-control snaps.
I push her back onto the bed, my body covering hers. Her skin burns against mine, soft where I'm hard, yielding where I'm unyielding. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, tasting her gasp.
"Mine," I breathe against her lips. My hands slide up her sides, memorizing every curve, every shiver.
She arches into my touch, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. "Prove it."
The challenge in her voice sends fire racing through my veins. I trail my mouth down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my lips. Each kiss is a claim, each touch a brand.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. I'm drowning in her—her scent, her taste, the sounds she makes when I find that spot beneath her ear.
"Damiano," she gasps.
I lift my head to watch her face, needing to see the moment her walls come down. Her green eyes are dark with desire, her lips parted.
"Tell me what you need," I demand, my voice barely recognizable.
"You," she whispers, reaching up to trace the tattoo over my heart. "Just you."
I capture her wrist, pressing my lips to her palm. The tenderness of the gesture surprises us both.
For tonight, I silence the warnings in my head. I ignore the voice that sounds like Enzo's telling me this is a mistake. Instead, I lose myself in her—in the way she moves beneath me, the way she whispers my name like a confession.
My hands and mouth worship every inch of her, claiming territory no one else will ever touch. When I finally join our bodies, the sensation is almost too much to bear. She's perfect—warm and tight and mine.
"Look at me," I command when she closes her eyes. "I want to see you."