Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Iwake before Damiano, my mind already racing. His arm drapes possessively over my waist, his breathing deep and steady against my neck.
Carefully, I slide out from under him, watching his face for any sign of waking. Last night replays in my mind as I gather my clothes, the tender moments between us making my mission all the more complicated.
Once I've slipped back to my own room and showered, I grab my laptop and retreat to a quiet corner of the library downstairs. With Damiano still asleep and the household barely stirring, this might be my only chance today.
I open my laptop and start searching. "Michael Travis murder New York 2012."
The same sketchy reports I've seen a hundred times pop up. A few brief news articles mentioning an "apparent drug-related homicide" in Manhattan, no suspects named. Nothing connecting Damiano to the scene. Nothing substantial at all.
I try different search terms. "Thanksgiving murder 2012 Manhattan." "Financial advisor killed New York 2012." Each search yields the same frustratingly vague results.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples.
For twelve years, Byron has told me Damiano Feretti killed my father over a drug shipment dispute.
Twelve years I've believed him, trained for revenge under his guidance.
Yet I've never found a single piece of evidence connecting Damiano to my father's murder.
And now Damiano's story about Bianca being murdered that same night, miles away in their country house, makes everything even hazier.
I search "Bianca Feretti murder 2012" and find absolutely nothing. Not a mention, not an obituary, not a single news report.
How is that possible? A woman is murdered, and there's not one word about it? Even with their connections, a complete information blackout seems unlikely.
I try "home invasion Westchester County Thanksgiving 2012" but again hit a wall. No incidents reported, no records of any such crime.
If Damiano was telling the truth about Bianca's murder, someone went to extraordinary lengths to keep it out of the news. But the same appears true about my father's murder—it barely made a ripple in the press.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as a new thought forms. What if Byron wasn't just training me for revenge? What if he was also controlling what information I could access?
I've never questioned why my father's murder received so little coverage. Byron always said Damiano's connections ensured the story was buried. But what if there was more to it?
I close my laptop as I hear footsteps approaching. All these years of digging, and I still haven't found anything concrete—just Byron's version of events and now Damiano's contradictory story.
Someone is lying. And I need to find out who before I lose myself completely in this game of deception.
Five days have passed since my library research session, and I'm no closer to the truth. The bug I planted in Damiano's office two days ago was a desperate move, but I needed to hear something—anything—to make sense of the conflicting stories.
My phone vibrates. Byron.
I take a deep breath and answer. "Hello."
"It's been a week," Byron says, his voice cold and cutting. "What do you have for me?"
I pace across my bedroom, grateful Damiano is downstairs in a meeting with Alessio. "I've been working on it. Their security is tight."
"That's not an answer, Zoe."
I think of the bug hidden beneath Damiano's library, the one I need to retrieve before the monthly security sweep.
I managed to catch snippets of conversations—mostly business dealings, distribution routes, profit margins—but nothing substantial enough to make sense of the contradictions I'm facing.
"They're planning to expand their operation into Atlantic City." I say, offering the smallest piece of information I gathered.
Silence hangs between us. Then: "That's it? After weeks inside that house, that's all you have?"
"I'm being careful," I say. "They're suspicious of outsiders. I can't just—"
"I didn't raise you to make excuses," Byron cuts in. "I raised you to complete a mission."
"I know, but—"
"I'm losing patience," he continues, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper I know too well. "More importantly, I'm losing control of the situation. We don't have time for these games."
"What do you mean, losing control?"
"Things are shifting. The Colombians are getting restless. The Volkovs are making moves in our territory. Your little arrangement with Feretti was supposed to give us an advantage, not become a liability."
I grip the phone tighter. "Just give me more time. I need—"
"You've had time," Byron says. "What you need is to remember why you're there."
My throat tightens. "I remember."
"Do you? Because it seems to me you've forgotten what Feretti did to your father. What he took from you. From us."
"I haven't forgotten."
"Then prove it. I want something substantial in a week, or I'll take matters into my own hands. And Zoe? You won't like my methods."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my mind racing. One week to figure out who's lying. One week before Byron does something we'll all regret.
I drop the phone onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. Years of training, of being molded into the perfect weapon, and now I'm crumbling apart at the seams. My chest tightens like someone's squeezing my lungs.
Who am I supposed to believe? Byron, who shaped me into what I am, or Damiano, the man I'm supposed to destroy? The weight of not knowing crashes down on me, and a sob escapes before I can stop it.
"Zoe?"
I jerk my head up to see Lucrezia standing in my doorway, her overalls splattered with fresh paint, concern etched across her beautiful face.
"Are you okay?" she asks softly.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the response programmed into me since I was thirteen. Never show weakness. Never let them see you break.
Lucrezia steps inside and closes the door. "You don't look fine."
Something in her gentle tone breaks the last thread of my control, and the tears start flowing despite my best efforts.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
Lucrezia sits beside me on the bed, not touching, just present. "Do you want to talk about it?"
I shake my head, then nod, then shrug helplessly. "I can't."
"You can tell me anything," she says. "I promise."
I look at her—this girl who's been nothing but genuine since I arrived—and envy floods through me. What must it be like to be Lucrezia? To know exactly who you are and where you belong? To have a family who loves you, even if they're overprotective?
"Do you ever wish you could be someone else?" I ask. "Someone normal?"
Lucrezia's eyes soften. "All the time."
"Really?"
She nods. "I love my brothers, but sometimes I wonder what life would be like without security details and background checks on everyone I meet." She pauses. "Is that what's bothering you? Adjusting to our world?"
"Part of it" I admit, wiping at my tears.
I've been living with this purpose for so long. This hate that's been driving everything I do. And now I'm not sure if it's even real. I've been carrying my father's death for twelve years. Sometimes I wonder who I'd be without it.