Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The morning air bites at my skin as we step out of Scarlett's apartment building. Lucrezia hugs her light jacket tighter around her slender frame, her dark hair partially hidden under a baseball cap. I tug my own cap lower over my eyes, a precaution that feels both necessary and futile.
"You sure about this?" Scarlett asks for the third time, her bright red hair tucked under a beanie, worry creasing her brow. "I could come with you, sit at another table maybe."
"No," I say firmly, squeezing her hand. "I've kept you away from all this for years, Scar. I'm not risking it now."
"But what if—"
"We'll be fine," Lucrezia cuts in, her voice steadier than I expected. "Damiano won't hurt us."
"It's not just him I'm worried about," Scarlett counters, glancing nervously at the street. "What if Byron's people are watching?"
"That's exactly why you need to stay here," I tell her. "If anything happens, we need someone who knows everything."
Lucrezia nods. "Damiano will be watching for Byron's men. Actually, that might be the one thing we can count on."
Scarlett doesn't look convinced, but she pulls me into a tight hug anyway. "Call me the second you're done," she whispers. "And if you're not back in two hours, I'm calling every hospital in Manhattan."
"Deal." I pull back, managing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
"Remember what we practiced," Lucrezia says as we start walking. "Tell him everything about Byron first, then about your father."
The café's warmth hits me as Lucrezia and I step through the door, the scent of fresh coffee and pastries filling the air. My stomach lurches at the smell.
"Table for two?" the waitress asks, smiling brightly.
"Three, by the window please," Lucrezia answers, her voice calm despite the tension radiating from her body.
We slide into our seats, and I scan the street outside, searching for any sign of Damiano or Byron's men. The waitress returns with menus, but I can barely focus on the words swimming before me.
"Just a mint tea for me," I tell her, hoping it might settle my churning stomach.
"Cappuccino," Lucrezia orders, then turns to me once the waitress leaves. "You look pale."
"Morning sickness," I mutter, trying to smile. "Though apparently it can strike anytime."
We fall into silence, both of us too wrapped up in our thoughts to make small talk. My hands fidget with a napkin, folding and unfolding it until it's creased beyond recognition. Lucrezia keeps checking her phone, though I'm not sure what she expects to find there.
When our drinks arrive, I wrap my hands around the warm mug, drawing comfort from its heat. The steam carries the mint scent upward, and I breathe it in, willing my nausea to subside.
"There," Lucrezia whispers suddenly, her eyes fixed on something outside.
My head snaps up, and my heart nearly stops. Damiano stands across the street, flanked by two men. Of course he wouldn't come alone. We knew that although Lucrezia asked him to be on his own.
Damiano stops at the curb, saying something to his men. They nod and retreat to the black SUV parked across the street, though I notice they don't drive away.
The bell above the door jingles as he enters, and suddenly he's there, looming over our table. The sight of him—so close after eight days apart—sends a wave of emotions crashing through me: fear, longing, guilt, hope.
"Damiano—" I start, but my stomach heaves. "Excuse me," I gasp, pushing past him and rushing toward the bathroom sign at the back of the café.
Behind me, I hear Lucrezia's chair scrape against the floor as she stands. "Fratello," she says, her voice softening.
"Lucia," he responds, his deep voice making my heart ache even as I flee.
I shove open the bathroom door just in time.
I dry my hands and reach for the door handle, rehearsing what I'll say to Damiano one last time.
The first sound that registers is wrong. A loud crack echoes through the café, followed by terrified screams. My hand freezes on the door handle as another crack splits the air.
Shotguns.
My training kicks in instantly. I flatten myself against the wall beside the door, heart hammering against my ribs. The café, bustling just minutes ago, is eerily quiet now. Too quiet.
Moving with calculated silence, I inch the door open just enough to peer through the crack. What I see sends ice through my veins.
Tables overturned. Coffee spilled across tile floors. A woman's shoe abandoned by the counter.
My eyes dart to our table - empty. No Damiano. No Lucrezia.
Fear grips me like a vise. I want to call out for them, but Byron's lessons are too deeply ingrained. Make no noise. Assess the situation. Survive.
I scan the visible portion of the café for any sign of movement. Nothing. Whoever stormed in has either left or is waiting in silence.
A small sound catches my attention—fabric dragging against tile. I peer around the bathroom door again and spot movement behind the counter.
A young waitress—the one who had taken our order earlier—crawls on her hands and knees, her face streaked with tears, body trembling. She moves with the desperate, jerky motions of pure terror.
"Hey," I whisper, careful to keep my voice low. "Come here."
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with fear, before she scrambles toward the bathroom. I pull her inside and close the door silently behind her.
"What happened?" I ask, gripping her shoulders to steady her. "Where are the people I was with?"
"Three men," she gasps between sobs. "They came in with—with guns. They weren't even hiding their faces."
My stomach drops. "The man and woman I was sitting with—what happened to them?"
"They took them." Her voice breaks. "The tall man tried to fight, but they had too many guns. They dragged them both out through the kitchen exit. It happened so fast—"
Ice flows through my veins.
My mind races as I stare at the trembling waitress. Byron. It has to be Byron. There's no coincidence in this timing.
But how? How did Byron find me after all these days in hiding? We'd been so careful—burner phones, wigs, back entrances.
If Byron knew where I was, why wait until now to grab me? He could have taken me days ago from Scarlett's apartment.
The street outside is chaos—people running, screaming, ducking behind cars. But I only have eyes for one thing: Damiano's black SUV still parked across the street.
I sprint toward it, dodging through traffic. Cars honk as I weave between them, but I barely register the sound. My mind races with desperate hope that they might still be able to help.
As I reach the vehicle, that hope shatters.
Through the tinted windows, I can make out slumped figures.
I yank open the driver's door and my stomach heaves.
One body sits lifeless behind the wheel, a single bullet hole in his temple.
Blood splatter paints the window beside him.
The other lies across the passenger seat, eyes open but seeing nothing, throat slashed.
"No," I whisper, bile rising in my throat.
I take a deep breath, forcing down the panic threatening to overwhelm me. This isn't the time to fall apart. Damiano and Lucrezia need me.
I grab the driver's body by the shoulders and drag him across the center console, trying not to look at his vacant eyes. His weight is substantial, but adrenaline gives me strength. I push him into the passenger footwell beside the other.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I feel something warm and wet soak through my jeans—blood. I ignore it and reach for the keys still in the ignition.
My fingers touch something cold at my throat—the platinum necklace Byron gave me last Christmas. Realization hits me like a freight train.
"The fucking necklace," I hiss, yanking it off with such force the clasp breaks. "How could I be so stupid?" Byron gave me this necklace as a gift a night before the wedding.
A tracking device. It had to be. That's how Byron found us—followed us through me. I'd been wearing his leash this whole time without even knowing it.
I throw the necklace out the window, twist the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. As I pull away from the curb, sirens wail in the distance. Police will be here soon, but I'm already gone.
I screech to a halt outside the Feretti mansion, tires burning rubber on the driveway. I don't even bother closing the car door behind me. My legs are weak, threatening to give out with each step, but I force myself forward.
"Alessio!" I scream, my voice cracking with desperation. "ALESSIO!"
The massive front door flies open. Alessio appears, gun drawn, with Enzo right behind him. Their expressions shift from alert to horrified as they take me in—clothes drenched in blood, face streaked with tears and God knows what else.
"Holy fuck," Enzo breathes.
Alessio holsters his weapon and rushes down the steps, catching me as my knees finally buckle. "What happened? Where's Damiano? Whose blood is this?"
"Not mine," I gasp out. "The drivers—they're dead. Someone took them. They took Damiano and Lucrezia."
Enzo's face transforms, rage replacing shock. "Who? Did you see them?"
I shake my head, fighting to catch my breath. "Three men. They stormed the café. I was in the bathroom when it happened."
"Byron," Enzo spits the name like poison. His eyes narrow as they fix on me. "Convenient timing, isn't it? You arrange a meeting, disappear to the bathroom, and suddenly my brother and sister are gone?"
"What? No!" I push away from Alessio, standing on my own despite the trembling in my legs. "You think I planned this?"
"Why should we believe you?" Enzo steps closer, towering over me. "You've been lying since day one."
Alessio pulls out his phone, hitting speed dial. After a moment, his face darkens. "Damiano's phone is dead."
"Listen to me," I plead, looking between them. "I had nothing to do with this. Byron tracked me—I was wearing a necklace he gave me. I didn't realize—"
"Of course you didn't," Enzo cuts in, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just like you didn't realize who your father was, right?"
Alessio puts a restraining hand on Enzo's chest. "We don't have time for this. Every minute counts." He turns to me, his expression unreadable. "If you're lying, I'll kill you myself. But right now, we need to find them."
I force myself to focus through the shock. "We need to mobilize everyone you have. What about Byron's properties? Have you checked them?"
Alessio shakes his head, his thumb running along his bottom lip as he thinks. "We've been through every property listed under Easton's name—the Manhattan penthouse, the Hamptons estate, his offices downtown. Nothing."
My mind races, trying to remember anything useful from my years with Byron. All those dinners, all those conversations I was meant to overhear and others I wasn't...
Then it hits me.
"Wait," I say, my heart rate quickening. "There's a warehouse."
Both men turn to me, Enzo with suspicion, Alessio with cautious hope.
"What warehouse?" Alessio steps between us, his eyes intense. "Where?"
"I wasn't supposed to hear it," I explain, the memory crystallizing. "Byron was on the phone a few days before the wedding, thought I was asleep in the car. He was talking about a delivery needing to be 're-routed to the Red Hook warehouse' because it was 'off the books.'"
Enzo's expression darkens. "Red Hook has dozens of warehouses."
"He mentioned a number," I press my palms against my temples, trying to force the memory. "Something with a four and a seven..."
"The address," Alessio cuts in, his voice tight with urgency. "We need the exact address, Zoe."
"I don't—" I start, then stop. "No, wait. He said something about it being convenient because it was on Van Brunt Street. Building 47, I think. Or 74?" I shake my head in frustration. "One of those."
Alessio is already on his phone, barking orders. "I want two teams at Red Hook, buildings 47 and 74 on Van Brunt Street. Full tactical gear, silent approach. Nobody moves until I'm there."
"If you're wrong about this—" Enzo starts.
"I'm not," I interrupt, conviction hardening my voice. "If Byron has them, that's where they'll be. It's the only property he's ever mentioned that wasn't public knowledge."
Alessio grabs his jacket from a nearby chair. "We leave in two minutes."
"I'm coming with you," I say, my tone making it clear this isn't up for discussion.
"Absolutely not." Alessio's response is immediate and firm.
"You've done enough already," Enzo adds, venom dripping from every word.
I step forward, desperation clawing at my throat. "Please, I need to help them."
"Enough," Alessio interrupts, his voice quieter but somehow more final than Enzo's shouting. "You're staying here."