Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Byron circles me slowly, the gun trained on my chest with unwavering precision.
"You know, I used to run this city," he says. "Before your father expanded into Manhattan. Before the Ferettis became the darlings of New York's underworld."
I say nothing, trying to gauge the distance between us. My body screams in protest at even the slightest movement, but I force myself to stay alert. Every second Easton monologues is another second for my men to find Lucrezia, another second for me to find an opening.
"It was my territory," Byron continues. "I had judges in my pocket, politicians at my beck and call. And then your family swept in with your Italian charm and old-world loyalty." He practically spits the words. "Suddenly, I was pushed to the periphery of my own empire."
The gun wavers slightly as his emotions rise. I catalog the movement, storing it away. Anger makes men sloppy. I need him angrier.
"I've spent years waiting for the perfect opportunity to reclaim what's mine," Byron says, his eyes gleaming with a fanatic light. "And Michael Travis handed it to me on a silver platter."
My muscles tense at the name.
"Poor Michael," Byron tuts, shaking his head with mock sympathy. "Single father, drowning in debt, desperate to give his daughter a better life. He came to me for a loan." A cold smile spreads across Byron's face. "And I saw my chance."
Heat builds in my chest, fury crawling up my spine as the pieces start falling into place.
"He couldn't pay me back, of course. That was by design," Byron continues, lost in his own cleverness. "So I offered him a way out. One simple task – break into your country house, put a scare into your pregnant fiancée."
My vision blurs with rage. Every muscle in my body strains to lunge at him, to tear his throat out with my bare hands, but I force myself to stay still. Not yet. Not fucking yet.
"Travis wasn't a killer. Just a desperate father.
He never would have hurt Bianca." Byron laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"But he made the perfect fall guy. The perfect tool to break you, to make you spiral into grief and vengeance until you made enough mistakes for me to step in and reclaim what's mine. "
I think of Bianca, of our unborn child, of years of nightmares and grief – all orchestrated by this smug bastard standing before me.
"And then I found little Zoe," Byron's smile widens. "She was the perfect weapon to finish what her father started."
"So you planned this from the beginning?" I ask. "Sending Travis after Bianca was just part of your grand scheme to take me down?"
"Plans within plans, Feretti. That's how I built my empire before your family stole it." Byron's eyes narrow with contempt. "I should have killed you that night twelve years ago."
I furrow my brow. "You weren't there."
Byron laughs, a harsh barking sound that bounces off the warehouse walls. "Oh, I was. Who do you think orchestrated the whole thing? But killing you then would have been too simple. Your brothers would have stepped up, and the Feretti family would have maintained their iron grip on my territory."
Something in his expression shifts, a hint of madness seeping through him. He steps closer, the gun unwavering.
"You really thought that Travis killed your fiancée?" Byron's laugh grows wilder, more unhinged. "I killed them both. I killed her to make you suffer and Travis because he was useless."
My chest constricts so violently I can barely draw breath. "You were the one who hit me that night?"
"Of course I was. Travis was just the distraction. The man was too soft—babbling about not hurting a pregnant woman." Byron shakes his head in disgust. "He served his purpose, and then became a liability."
The chains rattle as my fists clench, knuckles white with fury. "And Zoe?"
"I adopted her because I knew she could turn useful," Byron spits. "I fed her anger for you all these years, making her believe that you killed her filthy father. I clothed her, educated her, gave her every fucking advantage."
His face twists with rage. "And in the end what did that little bitch do? She fell in love with you, for fuck's sake. Everything she owns, everything she is—it's because of me," Byron continues. "I molded her into the perfect weapon. And this is how she repays me."
I blink through the haze of pain, trying to make sense of Byron's confession. My mind races back to that night—Bianca screaming, the intruder's face, the blow to my head, and then...
"Three shots," I say, my voice raw. "There were three gunshots that night. I remember hearing them before everything went dark."
His lips curl into a cruel smile.
"You've got a better memory than I gave you credit for, Feretti. Yes, three shots." He taps the barrel of his gun against his thigh. "You managed to fire your weapon before you collapsed. Right after I hit you from behind."
The revelation hits me like another blow.
" You fired once. Before you crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut." Byron chuckles. "Your bullet went wide, of course. You were already halfway unconscious."
My mind works through the hazy memories, trying to piece together what doesn't fit. Something's wrong with his story.
"If I fired, where did the bullet go? The police never found a third bullet in the house. They found two—both in Travis."
Byron's eyes narrow slightly. "You think I'd leave evidence behind? I'm not an amateur."
"What did you do with it?"
Byron's mouth tightens, and he steps closer, pressing the gun against my chest. "You're asking too many questions for a dead man."
"Where did my bullet go, Byron?" I press, watching his face carefully. "If you were standing behind me when you hit me, and I fired as I was going down—"
A flicker of something—pain? anger?—crosses his face.
"Your fucking bullet grazed my leg," he snaps. "Happy now? While you were bleeding out on the floor, I was digging lead out of my thigh in the bathroom. I couldn't go to a hospital—too many questions. Had to patch myself up."
And there it is—the truth he didn't want to reveal. I fired as I fell, and I hit him. A cold satisfaction spreads through me despite everything.
"So I did hurt you," I say. "All these years, while you were playing puppet master with Zoe's life, you were carrying a reminder of your failure."
Byron's expression hardens. "Failure? I took everything from you that night. Your woman, your child, your peace of mind. And now I'll finally finish what I started."
"Wait a fucking minute," I say, my mind racing through the hazy memories of that night. "How the hell did I manage to shoot you if I was on my back? You said you hit me from behind. I would have fallen forward, not backward."
Something flickers in Byron's eyes—uncertainty, perhaps even fear.
"You twisted as you fell," he snaps, but there's a defensive edge to his voice now. "It was chaotic."
"Bullshit," I spit, the pieces finally coming together. "If you hit me from behind, I couldn't have fired at you unless I was a contortionist. And if I was facing you when you struck me, then you weren't behind me."
Byron's jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening around the gun.
"You're lying about something," I press, watching his face carefully. "What really happened that night, Byron? You didn't plan it all, did you? Something went wrong."
"Shut up," he growls, jamming the barrel harder against my chest.
"You weren't in control like you want me to believe," I continue. "Maybe Travis wasn't as soft as you claim. Maybe he tried to stop you when he realized what you really intended for Bianca."
A bead of sweat trickles down Byron's temple.
"Was it Travis who shot you? Did your puppet cut his strings?" I ask, the words dripping with venom. "Is that why you had to kill him? Not because he was useless, but because he turned on you when he saw what kind of monster you really are?"
"Fine," he spits. " Once Travis saw that I shot Bianca he tried to stop me. The fucking idiot thought we were just going to scare her." His laugh is hollow, cold. "He panicked when I pulled the trigger. He shot me and his bullet grazed my leg."
I feel a sickening twist in my gut. "So Travis tried to save her."
"Too little, too late," Byron sneers. "I'd already put a bullet in your pretty fiancée's head. And I made sure Travis joined her shortly after."
"I gave Zoe a proper funeral for her father, you know," Byron continues, his voice suddenly softer, almost tender. "A beautiful service. Closed casket, of course. Told her it was because the damage was too severe to view the body." He smiles, pleased with himself. "I even wept genuine tears."
His eyes narrow as he studies my face. "But that's always bothered me, Feretti. What did you do with Travis's body after you killed him? Did you burn it? Feed it to the fishes? I always wondered what you did to the man you thought that killed her."
I feel a strange calm settling over me. The truth is finally coming out after twelve years of nightmares. Even if he kills me, I know the truth now.
"Enzo handled Travis's body," I say, my voice steady despite the pain radiating through me. "I never asked for the details."
Byron tilts his head, curious despite himself. "And you never asked what he did?"
I shrug my good shoulder, chains rattling above me. "What was there to ask? We have methods. Acid. Concrete. The ocean. I assumed he used one of those." I lock eyes with him, letting my hatred show. "I didn't care about the body. I cared about Bianca."
"All these years," Byron says, shaking his head in mock sympathy, "you've been blaming the wrong man. How does it feel to know you've been hunting ghosts while I've been right here?"
"It doesn't matter," I reply. "Travis, you – you're both responsible for what happened to her. And you'll both end up the same way."
"After I kill you, I'm going to find that ungrateful little bitch and make her suffer in ways you can't imagine," he says, eyes glinting with malice. "Everything I gave her, everything I sacrificed, and she betrays me for you? She'll learn what happens to people who cross me."
I force myself to stay calm despite every instinct screaming to protect Zoe. Lucrezia's screams have stopped, which could mean anything, but I need to keep Byron talking.
"My men will be back," I say through gritted teeth. "You won't make it out of here alive."
Byron throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. When he looks back at me, there's a reckless abandon in his eyes.
"You think I care about that? About living?" He shakes his head, still chuckling. "I'm already a dead man walking, Feretti."
My brow furrows as he steps back, keeping the gun trained on me but creating enough distance to meet my eyes.
"Brain cancer. Stage four," he says matter-of-factly. "I had to rush things along. Doctors gave me three months six weeks ago."
The revelation stuns me. This isn't just about power or territory—it's a dying man's vendetta with nothing to lose.
"That's why I pushed Zoe to marry you so quickly," he continues. "I needed to see my revenge play out before I checked out. One last victory."
He shrugs, an eerie calm settling over his features.
"So go ahead and tell me about your men coming back. Tell me all about how I won't escape." He taps the gun barrel against his temple. "I don't care if they fill me with ten bullets when they get here. Might be less painful than what's waiting for me otherwise."
Icy terror floods my veins as Byron's statement registers, his expression morphing into a cruel smirk.
"I've had eyes on Zoe since the moment she left your house," he says. "Did you really think I'd let my greatest asset disappear without a trace?"
"What did you do?" I growl.
"Nothing yet." Byron checks his watch. "Though I must admit, I didn't play this as smartly as I should have. Once you got my guards, I knew something was wrong." He sighs dramatically. "Her phone went dead. Amateur mistake on my part."
His eyes narrow, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass.
"I should have grabbed them both when they went to the hospital," he continues casually. "Would have been much cleaner than this warehouse situation."
I freeze, confusion washing over me. Hospital? What the fuck is he talking about?
Byron catches my expression and his eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. Then he throws his head back and laughs – a full-bodied sound that bounces off the concrete walls.
"Oh, this is rich," he says, wiping his eyes. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?" The words scrape out of my throat.
Byron's smile spreads slowly, savoring the moment. "Your little wife is pregnant, Feretti."
The world stops spinning.
"You're lying," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they're hollow.
Zoe. Pregnant.
"I have men watching Mount Sinai," Byron continues, enjoying my shock.
"They followed her friend – that nurse. What was her name?
Scarlett?" He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. They overheard enough to confirm it.
She's only about a month along," Byron adds, twisting the knife.
"Still plenty of time for something to happen. "
"You're fucking with me," I spit, blood dripping from my split lip. "You think I'm going to believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"
Byron shrugs, indifferent to my disbelief.
"Believe whatever you want, Feretti. The truth doesn't care what you think.
My men had a little chat with Dr. Emma Rodriguez yesterday.
Sweet woman, very concerned about patient confidentiality.
" His smile turns cruel. "Until they explained what would happen to her lovely children if she didn't cooperate. "
My stomach drops, but I keep my face impassive. "More lies."
"Your wife was quite upset when they broke the news."
I strain against the chains, metal biting into my wrists. "If you touch her—"
"You'll what?" Byron laughs. "Soon you'll be dead. Face it, Feretti. I've taken everything from you—twice now. And I'll make sure your child never draws breath, just like the last one."
"I will hunt you through hell itself," I growl, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I will tear you apart piece by fucking piece."