Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Istare at the folder Enzo slammed onto my desk, its contents spread across the polished surface like a disease.
"You need to handle this," Enzo says, his voice tight with anger. "Now."
But he doesn't understand what this means to me. The past few weeks replay in my mind—her smile in Chicago, her body against mine, the way she looked at me this morning—all lies.
"Leave me alone and when she returns send her in." I order, my voice colder than I intended.
Alessio glances between me and the photos. "Damiano—"
"Out."
They exit silently, closing the door behind them. I remain motionless behind my desk, suddenly aware of how the room feels like a coffin. The whiskey bottle sits nearby, tempting me, but I need clarity for this.
Fuck. I knew better than to let anyone in. I've spent twelve years building walls around myself after Bianca, only for Zoe to slip through them with ease. Each memory of her cuts deeper now—her laugh, her scent on my sheets, her fierce defiance that made me want her more each day.
All calculated. All part of her plan.
The same rage that consumed me when I found Bianca threatens to overtake me now. My fingers itch toward my Beretta, the weight of it promising relief from this hollow feeling in my chest. But I won't make it that easy for her.
Minutes tick by on the grandfather clock in the corner. The sound echoes in the silent room, reminding me of the heartbeat I once listened to against her chest, believing something real existed between us.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey but don't drink it. Just stare at the amber liquid, wondering how I let this happen again.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
The sound of that knock—hesitant, uncertain—floods me with contradicting emotions. Fury at her deception. Disgust at my own weakness. And beneath it all, a sickening desire to be wrong about all of this.
I take a breath, forcing ice through my veins to replace the fire.
"Come in," I say, my voice betraying nothing of the storm inside me.
The door opens and Zoe steps in. Her eyes find mine and something in her expression shifts—her lips part slightly, her shoulders tense. She can sense something's wrong.
She takes a step toward me. "Damiano, what's—"
"Stop." My voice cuts through the air like a blade. "Stay where you are."
She freezes, one foot forward, her body caught in the no-man's land between the door and my desk. Her eyes flick to the scattered photos, the folder, and something like resignation passes over her face.
"Tell me your father's name."
The question hangs between us. Through the windows, I can hear birds in the garden. It feels like the world is continuing while mine shatters.
She doesn't hesitate. "Michael Travis."
Not Easton. Not some bullshit cover. My fingers tighten around the edge of my desk until my knuckles turn white.
"And when did he die?"
Her chin lifts in that defiant way I've come to both love and hate. "Twelve years ago. Thanksgiving night."
The same night as Bianca. The same fucking night that has haunted my dreams for over a decade.
"How?"
"He was murdered." Her voice doesn't waver, but I see her hands trembling at her sides.
I rise slowly from my chair, the rage pulsing through me with each heartbeat. "And who killed him?"
She meets my gaze directly, her eyes burning with an intensity that matches my own.
"You did."
I slam my palm against the desk, the sound echoing through the office like a gunshot.
"Bullshit!"
Her eyes widen at my outburst, but I don't give a fuck about scaring her anymore. The careful control I've maintained around her shatters like glass.
"I didn't even know his name until today," I snarl, jabbing my finger at the folder Enzo dropped. "Michael Travis? That name meant nothing to me until Enzo finally dug it up and here it comes, the face of the bastard who took my entire life. YOUR FUCKING FATHER."
She takes a step forward. "Damiano, please—"
"Don't." My voice drops to a deadly whisper. "Don't come any closer."
She freezes, her hand suspended in midair like she was reaching for me. The gesture makes my chest ache with a pain I refuse to acknowledge.
"Everything was a lie," I say, each word coated in ice. "Every word, every touch, every momenT."
I can't even finish the sentence. The memory of her body against mine in my childhood home makes me sick now. How she let me bare my soul while plotting my destruction the entire time.
"It wasn't like that," she says, her voice breaking. "If you'd just let me explain—"
"Explain what?" I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "How you've been playing me? How you fucked me while planning to put a bullet in my head?"
"Damiano, please, I was going to tell you. I—"
He cuts me off with a laugh that chills my blood. Not the warm chuckle I've heard in quiet moments together, but something bitter and broken.
"You were going to tell me?" He slams his hand on the desk again. "That's what everyone fucking says when they're caught. Save it."
"You don't understand." My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "Things changed. I started to doubt—"
"Doubt what?" Damiano snaps, grabbing the folder. "That I was the monster you thought I was? Or that your precious plan would work?"
I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. This isn't how I planned for him to find out—not when everything's become so complicated, so confused.
"Let me explain," I start again, my words rushing out. "Byron told me you killed my father that night in Manhattan. But then you told me about Bianca, and it didn't make sense how you could be in two places—"
"Shut the fuck up!" Damiano roars, closing the distance between us in two swift strides.
I jump backward, my spine hitting the bookcase behind me. The violence in his voice makes my skin prickle with fear. His face is inches from mine now, his dark eyes almost black with rage. The scent of expensive cologne and whiskey surrounds me, once comforting but now suffocating.
"Every. Word. Out of your mouth has been a lie," he hisses through clenched teeth.
I press myself harder against the bookcase, feeling the sharp edges of volumes dig into my back. My body remembers his gentleness from just hours ago, making this fury even more terrifying by contrast.
"It wasn't all lies," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Not everything."
"I let you in," he says, his voice dropping dangerously low. "I showed you parts of me no one sees."
The quiet way he says it cuts deeper than his shouting. I can see his hands shaking slightly, whether from rage or something else, I can't tell.