Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
"Your father killed Bianca," Damiano growls, his face twisted with savage pain.
I can't breathe. Can't think. I thought about it but my father would've never done something like that. No, my father was the greatest person I've known.
"You came here to destroy me." He slams his hand against the bookcase beside my head. "So do it."
"What?"
"Kill me." His voice rises to a roar that reverberates through my bones. "That's what you wanted, right? Your fucking revenge?" He yanks a gun from his waistband and thrusts it into my trembling hands. "Do it!"
"No!" I scream, the gun heavy and cold in my grip. "I can't—I don't—"
"DO IT!" His face is inches from mine, veins standing out on his neck, spittle flying from his lips.
"No!" The gun clatters to the floor as I push it away. "That's not—I need to understand what happened!"
With a guttural howl of rage, Damiano whirls around and drives his fist into the bookcase. Wood splinters, books tumble, and dust fills the air as his knuckles leave a crater in the wood. The sound of destruction echoes through the room like a gunshot.
Blood drips from his knuckles as he turns back to me, eyes glazed with fury.
"Alessio!" he barks, never taking his eyes off me.
The door swings open immediately. Alessio appears, his expression granite-hard as he takes in the scene—the destroyed bookcase, the gun on the floor, my tear-streaked face.
"Take her to the basement holding room," Damiano orders, his voice eerily calm now. "Lock her in."
"Damiano, please," I beg, reaching for him. "I need to explain—there's so much I don't understand—"
Alessio grabs my arm, his grip firm but not bruising.
"You've explained enough," Damiano says, turning his back on me. He stares out the window, shoulders rigid. "I don't want to hear another fucking word from you."
"At least tell me the truth!" I cry as Alessio pulls me toward the door. "If my father really—"
"Get her out of my sight," Damiano says, his voice hollow.
Panic surges through me as Alessio's strong hands grip my arms. "Damiano, please," I beg, struggling against Alessio's hold. "Just let me explain!"
My heart hammers against my ribs as Alessio leads me from the office. I dig my heels into the carpet, twisting to look back at Damiano's rigid silhouette against the window.
"You need to calm down," Alessio mutters, his breath warm against my ear.
I stumble alongside him down the hallway, mind racing. Everything's collapsing around me. Byron lied. Damiano lied. My father... could he really have killed an innocent pregnant woman?
"Alessio, please," I whisper as we reach the stairs leading down to the basement. "Something doesn't make sense. Why would my father—"
"Not my place to discuss," he cuts me off, guiding me down the stairs with firm efficiency. His face betrays nothing, but his grip loosens slightly. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
The basement corridor stretches before us, dimly lit and smelling of concrete and something metallic. My stomach churns when I realize what that smell might be. How many people have been brought down here, never to return?
We pass several heavy doors before stopping at one near the end. Alessio pulls out a key and unlocks it, revealing a small room with nothing but a cot, toilet, and sink.
"I don't want to hurt you," I say, my voice cracking. "I just need to understand what happened that night."
For a brief moment, sympathy flickers in Alessio's eyes.
"The truth isn't always what we want it to be," he says quietly. "Sometimes it just destroys everything."
He guides me inside, his touch almost gentle now. "There's water in the sink. Someone will bring food later."
"How long will he keep me here?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold seeps through my clothes.
Alessio pauses in the doorway. "Until he decides what to do with you." His eyes meet mine. "Pray he cools down before then."
The door closes with a hollow thud, the lock clicking into place with devastating finality.
I curl up on the hard cot, my body trembling through waves of shock. The concrete walls press in around me, cold and unforgiving like Damiano's eyes when he discovered who I really am.
My father. Bianca. Thanksgiving night.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
I pace the small room, measuring it with desperate steps. Five paces across. Three paces wide. A cage for a traitor.
Hours pass, marked only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the pipes and the occasional shift of weight from the guard stationed outside my door. I try the handle once, knowing it's futile. The lock holds firm.
A key scrapes in the lock, and I scramble to my feet, heart racing. Is it Damiano coming to finish what we started?
The door swings open to reveal Ginerva carrying a tray of food. Her normally warm brown eyes won't meet mine as she steps inside. The guard's shadow stretches across the threshold behind her—I catch a glimpse of his holstered weapon before he pulls the door partially closed.
"Ginerva," I whisper, stepping toward her. "Please talk to me."
She sets the tray down on the small metal table bolted to the floor. Steam rises from a bowl of pasta, the smell triggering a hollow ache in my stomach that I choose to ignore.
"What's happening upstairs? Is Lucrezia okay?" I try again, moving closer. "Does she know I'm down here?"
Ginerva's hands tremble slightly as she arranges the silverware, but her expression remains carved from stone.
"Ginerva, please. Just tell me something—anything."
She turns finally, her eyes flicking briefly to mine before darting away. Her lips press together tightly, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly before stepping back toward the door.
"I didn't know," I say desperately. "About my father, about Bianca—I swear I didn't know."
Her hand pauses on the door handle, but she doesn't turn around.
The guard's voice rumbles from the hallway. "Everything okay in there?"
Ginerva nods and steps out, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. The lock clicks, finalizing my isolation once more.
I sink down next to the tray, staring at the homemade pasta that would normally make my mouth water. Now it might as well be sawdust. My appetite vanished the moment Damiano's eyes went cold.
I push the tray away, untouched, and return to the cot. The food sits there, cooling and forgotten, while my mind races through a labyrinth of lies, trying desperately to find the truth at its center.