Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The keys Damiano left for me fit perfectly in his favorite car—a gesture I can't fully process right now. My mind keeps replaying what I know about Byron and his methods. How he shaped me.
For what? Revenge? Power? Everything Byron ever told me feels like shifting sand beneath my feet.
The warehouse looms ahead—a hulking shadow against the evening sky. No lights visible from outside. No guards that I can see, which makes me more nervous, not less. Byron never leaves things unprotected.
I creep toward a side entrance, testing the door. It opens and I carefully pull myself through, moving as softly as possible.
Silence engulfs me. Not the peaceful quiet of emptiness, but the heavy, waiting silence that follows violence. My breath catches as I scan the darkness, letting my eyes adjust.
A shape on the floor draws my attention—a body. I approach cautiously, staying low. One of Byron's men, a bullet hole in his forehead, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pools beneath him, still warm when I touch it with trembling fingers.
Recent. Very recent.
His gun—a Glock—lies a few inches from his outstretched hand. I pick it up, checking the magazine. Nearly full. I slide it into my waistband.
I move deeper into the warehouse, stepping carefully over debris. No sign of Damiano or Lucrezia, but I can feel something—someone—nearby. A door ahead of me stands partially open, a sliver of light escaping around its edges.
Voices drift through—Byron's unmistakable tenor, and another, lower voice that makes my heart stop.
Damiano.
He's alive.
As I near the door, Byron's words become clearer, piercing through the warehouse silence. I press myself against the wall, the cold concrete a stark reminder of the reality I've stumbled into.
"Single father, drowning in debt, desperate to give his daughter a better life. He came to me for a loan."
He's talking about my father.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Enzo appears at the far end of the corridor, gun drawn, moving with lethal silence. His eyes widen when he spots me. I quickly raise a finger to my lips, pleading silently for him to wait. Understanding crosses his face as he nods once, holding his position.
Byron's voice continues, each word slicing through me like a knife.
"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."
My fingers tighten around the Glock.
"I'd already put a bullet in your pretty fiancée's head. And I made sure Travis joined her shortly after."
The world stops. My father didn't kill Bianca. Byron killed them both.
Every memory shifts, realigning with this terrible truth. I can't hear anything else right now.
After a moment I catch Enzo's eye again. He gestures toward the partially open door, then points to himself and mimics firing a gun. Next, he points at me, then at the narrow opening. His meaning is clear—he'll create a diversion while I take the shot.
I nod, gripping the Glock tighter. My hands are steady despite the hurricane of emotions inside me. Byron's training, at least, wasn't wasted.
Enzo inches closer, whispering so softly I can barely hear him. "Door's locked from inside. I'll shoot the lock. You go in fast and take Byron down."
I nod and I position myself near the door.
Enzo raises three fingers, counting down.
One.
Byron's voice continues inside, gloating over his manipulations.
Two.
I take a deep breath, channeling everything Byron taught me about marksmanship.
Three.
The shots crack through the silence like thunder. Enzo's bullets tear through the lock mechanism. I push forward with all my strength, throwing the door open and diving through the opening.
Time slows. Byron stands with his back to me, gun pointed at Damiano ,bloodied and battered but alive. His dark eyes meet mine over Byron's shoulder, widening in surprise.
Byron starts to turn, his reflexes still sharp despite his age and illness.
Too slow.
I squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession, just as he taught me. Center mass. The bullets hit Byron's arm, gun falling from his hand. He staggers forward, shock registering on his face as he drops to his knees.
"Zoe?" He looks genuinely surprised, like he never imagined his perfect weapon would turn against him.
I watch, frozen, as Damiano lunges for Byron's fallen weapon. He snatches the gun from the floor and levels it at Byron's head.
Byron, with blood seeping through his suit, laughs. Actually laughs.
"All you had to do was give me information, Zoe." His voice sounds different—weaker, but somehow more dangerous. "I made you everything you are. I gave you purpose when you had nothing."
My gun stays trained on him, unwavering despite the storm inside me.
"Instead," Byron continues, "you remained completely useless. Wasting time with your little love story with that bastard." He jerks his chin toward Damiano, whose dark eyes never leave Byron's face. "I expected better from you."
The contempt in his voice cuts through me. Even now, bleeding with two guns pointed at him, he's trying to manipulate me.
"All those years," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "All those stories about my father. You killed him. You killed Bianca."
"I did what was necessary." Byron's eyes narrow. "I would have given you everything when this was over. My empire. My legacy."
"Your legacy of lies," I spit.
"Information, Zoe. That's all I needed from you." Byron's gaze shifts between Damiano and me. "Instead, you were too busy spreading your legs for your father's killer."
Damiano presses the barrel of the gun against Byron's temple. "One more word about her and I pull the trigger."
"Go ahead," Byron taunts.
Two more shots ring out, one for each of Byron's feet. "That was for using me," I say, watching him crumple to the ground. "I can do this all day, making you pay for the lives you've ruined."
Byron howls, his arrogance evaporating as pain tears through him. Blood pools beneath his expensive leather shoes, staining the concrete floor. His face contorts into something primal, something human—far from the calculated mask he's worn for twelve years.
"You ungrateful little bitch," he gasps between ragged breaths.
"Zoe," Damiano says quietly. Just my name, nothing more.
I step closer to Byron, who's now slumped against the wall, his unharmed hand clutching futilely at his bleeding feet. All those years under his roof, believing his lies.
"You killed my father," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "You killed Bianca. You stole twelve years of my life."
"Your father was nothing," Byron spits through clenched teeth. "A desperate nobody who—"
I press the barrel of the gun against his knee. "My father loved me. That was enough." I scream.
"You won't kill me," he says. "You don't have it in you."
"You're right," I say, lowering the gun slightly. "I'm not you."
Damiano steps forward, taking the gun from my trembling hand. His fingers brush against mine, warm and steady despite everything that's happened.
"Thank you," he says quietly, only to me.
Then Damiano turns to Byron, who stares up at him with hatred and fear warring in his eyes.
"You took everything from me," Damiano says, his voice barely above a whisper. "My Bianca. Our child. Years I could have known the truth." He gestures toward me without breaking his gaze from Byron. "You manipulated an innocent girl, twisted her with your lies."
Byron attempts a laugh that comes out as a gurgle. Blood stains his teeth as he says, "She was never innocent."
Damiano presses the barrel against Byron's forehead. "This is for the lives you took from us, you son of a bitch." The final shot echoes through the warehouse.
I flinch as Byron's body slumps to the floor, his eyes still open but empty now. The man who controlled every aspect of my life is gone. Just like that.
My legs give out. I sink to the concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably as everything crashes down on me at once.
"Lucrezia?" Damiano asks Enzo, who was behind me watching all the time.
"Alive," Enzo confirms. "Alessio took her to the hospital." He's trying to keep his voice steady, but it cracks around the edges. "She... she looked in terrible condition, Damiano."
The color drains from Damiano's face.
"How bad?" Damiano whispers, like he's afraid to hear the answer.
Enzo shakes his head. "Bad. Byron's men... they worked her over. Alessio found her first. He wouldn't let me near her—just moved fast, wrapping her up and getting her out."
A sound escapes Damiano's throat—halfway between a growl and a sob.
"Did you find anyone in her room?" Damiano asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Enzo's expression darkens to something I've never seen before—not even in Damiano at his most dangerous. "Two of them. We have them secured in the north section. They're... breathing. For now."
"Take them to our warehouse in Queens," Damiano says, his voice scraping like broken glass. "Wait for me there."
A silent understanding passes between the brothers—something primal and terrible that makes my skin crawl despite everything I've just done.
"I know exactly what we need to do with them," Enzo says, his usual playfulness completely absent. He looks at me, then back to Damiano. "You need medical attention, brother."
My entire body wages war against movement as Daniel opens the car door. Each breath sends daggers through my ribs. My dislocated shoulder throbs with relentless fury. None of it matters. Only Lucrezia matters now.
"Hospital," I bark as Daniel slides into the driver's seat. "Where they took Lucrezia."
Zoe climbs into the back with me, her hands still trembling. The enormity of what she's just done hangs between us, but there's no time to process it. Not with my baby sister fighting for her life.
The city blurs past us as Daniel weaves through traffic.
"She knew you were hurting," Zoe says quietly. "That's why she helped me escape. She believed you'd listen eventually."
Pain shoots through my chest that has nothing to do with my physical injuries. "I should have listened the first time. If I had, she wouldn't be—" I can't finish the sentence. Can't bear to think of what those bastards did to her.
"She's strong," Zoe whispers. "Like her brother."
The hospital comes into view, its emergency entrance blazing with lights. Daniel barely stops the car before I'm pushing the door open, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulder. Zoe rushes to my side, supporting my weight as we move toward the entrance.
"Damiano, you need medical attention too," she insists.
"Not until I see her."
Inside, Alessio paces the waiting area, his usually impeccable suit stained with blood—my sister's blood. When he spots us, relief washes over his face.
"Where is she?" I demand.
"Surgery," he says. "They're working on her now. Internal bleeding."
The world tilts beneath my feet.
The hospital room buzzes with activity around me. A nurse dabs some antiseptic on my forehead while a doctor examines my shoulder. The sharp, clinical scent of disinfectant fills my nostrils, but all I can focus on is the clock on the wall marking each minute my sister remains in surgery.
"Dislocated shoulder, three bruised ribs, multiple lacerations," the doctor lists clinically. "We need to run some scans, check for internal—"
"Just fix what's necessary," I cut him off. "Tape the ribs, set the shoulder. No scans."
"Mr. Feretti, with blunt force trauma like this—"
My eyes find his. "My sister is fighting for her life in surgery. I'm not leaving this floor."
He hesitates but nods. "We'll need to reduce the shoulder immediately."
I grit my teeth as they position me. The sharp crack and blinding pain that follows when they snap my shoulder back into place barely registers against the weight crushing my chest.
The nurses finish wrapping my ribs while Zoe stands in the corner, her face pale, arms wrapped around herself. Once the staff leaves, she approaches, her green eyes brimming with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I should have told you that day—when you shared about Bianca. I was confused, scared." She runs a hand through her hair. "I couldn't risk talking to you without being sure about what happened."
I reach for her hand with my good arm, pulling her closer.
"We both made mistakes." My voice sounds raw, unfamiliar. "I should have listened. Should have given you a chance to explain."
A tear slips down her cheek. "When I saw you in that warehouse—" Her voice breaks. "I thought I'd lost you before I had the chance to tell you the truth."
I take her chin gently between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. For a moment, we just breathe, sharing the same air, acknowledging everything we nearly lost.
Then I bring my lips to hers—not with the passion or possession of before, but with something deeper. Something that feels like forgiveness, like a beginning.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.
"What Byron said—about the baby..." I can barely form the words. "Is it true?"
Zoe's eyes hold mine, her face etched with emotions I'm still learning to read. She swallows hard before answering my question about the pregnancy.
"Yes." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I found out when I was staying with Scarlett."
A thousand questions flood my mind, but one rises above the rest. "Why didn't you tell me?" I keep my voice soft, though the effort costs me.
She shakes her head, fingers twisting nervously together. "I was going to tell you about my father, about Byron's lies. I wasn't planning to mention the baby."
The admission stings more than I expect. "You weren't going to tell me about my own child?"
"I couldn't use a pregnancy to make you listen to me.
" Her green eyes meet mine, fierce despite the tears threatening to spill.
"You deserved to hear the truth about that night because it was the truth—not because I was carrying your child.
I wanted you to believe me for me, not because of the baby. "
"You could have used it," I say, my thumb brushing her cheek. "Most would have."
"I'm not most people." A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "And I couldn't start a family based on manipulation. We've both had enough of that to last a lifetime."
My hand drifts down to rest on her stomach, and though it's far too early to feel anything, the knowledge that my child grows beneath my palm sends a surge of fierce protectiveness through me.
"A baby," I murmur, still trying to process it all. "Our baby."
Zoe places her hand over mine, her touch gentle. "I was terrified when I found out. Not of being a mother, but of bringing a child into all this chaos."
I pull her closer, careful of my injuries. "Things will be different now." It's both a promise and a prayer.