Chapter 19
Katarina
I keep my eyes closed, savoring the feeling of being held. His bare skin is warm against mine, radiating the lingering heat of what we just did, his heartbeat a steady drum against my cheek.
I nuzzle deeper into the muscular crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
For a few perfect minutes, I let all my worries go and allow myself the absolute luxury of feeling safe and cherished by this man.
But as I shift my arm to hold him tighter, the cuff on my wrist drags across his chest.
The cold bite of the metal snaps me out of the fantasy.
A promise, he called it. A shackle, my fear whispers in the back of my head.
I flutter my eyes open, turning my genuine contentment into a slow, faked languid stretch as I pretend to pull myself from a nap. I feel his hand cradle the back of my head, his thumb stroking my hair. He has been watching me.
"You need to get ready. Sofia will be here soon," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration against my skin.
"Who?" I ask, playing the part of the drowsy lover perfectly.
"The hairdresser."
"Oh yeah. I haven’t decided what color yet," I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone.
"You’re right. No blonde. You look perfect with dark hair," he says, his grip on me tightening with that innate, suffocating possessiveness.
I tilt my head up and beam at him, offering a compliant smile, as if his comment just made me the happiest woman in the world.
But behind my eyes, the gears are turning.
I remember a director once told me, "Katarina, you have the face of a saint and the eyes of a sinner. Use them both, and you’ll never have to ask for anything twice."
I look at the man holding me. I am naked, pinned beneath the weight of his arm, locked in his bed, wearing his literal brand on my wrist.
If I try to ask him to let me in on the details of his life and the people who hurt me, he’ll build a wall just like he did in Argentina.
If I want to find out why the Mafia killed my brother, I can’t use the same tactics as before.
I have to be the lead actress in the most dangerous role of my life.
So I don't pull away. Instead, I slide closer.
I shift my bare leg over his hip, pressing my breasts flush against his chest. I trail my free hand slowly up his abdomen, my fingernails lightly scraping his skin until he lets out a quiet breath.
I look up at him, letting my eyelids droop slightly, shadowing my eyes with a perfectly calibrated mix of seductive need and deep fear.
"Damiano..." I whisper, letting my voice go soft and breathless.
"What is it, Dolcezza?" His eyes darken instantly, his hand sliding down my bare spine to grip my hip.
"I know you told me it was Nicolo who ordered the attack that killed Mateo," I murmur, tracing the line of his jaw. "But I can't stop thinking about it. Why? Why did he target us? Why Mateo? Why me?"
I see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
"You don’t need to worry about that, Kat. Let me handle it. The important thing is that you’re here with me and you’re safe. I’ll keep it that way." He says, his voice thick, already pushing me back the boundary. I swallow and push through.
I lean into his touch, turning my face to press a lingering, desperate kiss to the center of his palm.
"Not knowing doesn't make me feel safe," I whisper, letting a subtle tremor shake my body against his. "It terrifies me. I need to understand why my brother died, or it’s going to keep haunting me. I can’t even sleep without having a nightmare."
I blink my eyes and knit my eyebrows in a show of silent plea.
Damiano exhales a harsh breath, his defenses crumbling. He wraps his arms around me tightly, giving in to the protective instinct I triggered.
"I don't have all the answers yet," He admits, his voice reluctant. "But before the attack... Mateo came to me with a warning. He reported to me that Nicolo was in Argentina."
My breath hitches—and this time, it isn't acting. Mateo knew?
"I was surprised," Damiano continues, his hold on me firm. "I never asked him to look into the mafia, certainly not Nicolo. But somehow, he knew exactly who Nicolo was and that he was moving through Buenos Aires. I think your brother stumbled into something he shouldn't have."
Damiano shifts slightly, his eyes searching mine with a sudden, piercing intensity. I lay there unmoving, not really knowing what to say as my thoughts started to race.
"Andreas dug into your brother's background to find a connection," he says, his tone shifting slightly. "He looked into yours, too—your childhood. But before you moved to Buenos Aires... there's nothing. Your records are nonexistent. It’s like the two of you never existed before Argentina."
The shock that ripples through me is entirely real, and my heart stutters against my chest.
"What do you mean? We moved from Spain when I was eight. After our parents died from a car accident, Aunt Melinda adopted us and brought us to Argentina from Madrid."
"There are no records of your birth in Spain nor your parents' accident," Damiano says softly, his thumb brushing a stray hair from my face, watching me closely to see if I’m hiding something from him.
"No adoption papers. No migration records for you, Mateo, or for this woman who adopted you.
Whoever moved you across the ocean erased you first. Do you remember anything about your parents? "
I stare at him, my mind spinning. I close my eyes and lie on my back, massaging my head that’s starting to hurt, and try to reach back into the hazy memories of my childhood, but just like before, it’s just a blur of cobblestone streets and some voices.
"I... I was too small," I stammer. "I barely remember our parents. Just flashes. And Aunt Melinda... she never really talked much about them. She said she never knew them. Mateo, he didn’t like talking about them at all."
Damiano’s jaw tightens. He pulls me back against his chest, his hand stroking my spine again.
"I’m sorry, Dolcezza."
I rest my cheek against the steady, calculated rhythm of his heart, letting out a trembling breath. But as the silence stretches between us, the realization hits me like a splash of ice water.
I thought I was manipulating him into giving me information, but instead, he gave me a piece of the puzzle so I would willingly hand over mine. He used my desperation to cross-examine me about my own past without me even realizing it.
I stifle a heavy sigh, curling my fingers tighter into his chest. I thought I was directing this scene, but he just played me right back.
He is a master at this game. My blood runs cold. Mateo kept secrets from me. He lived in a dangerous world I knew nothing about. And could Damiano be right? Does this have to do with the past I can barely remember?
I keep my face buried in Damiano's neck so he can't see the sudden rage in my eyes. I trail my nails lightly down his chest, forcing my muscles to relax, playing the part of the terrified girl until the bitter end.
"Thank you," I whisper against his skin, my voice muffled. "For keeping me safe."
"I won’t let anyone hurt you again," he vows, kissing the top of my head.
"I know," I murmur.
A loud knock on the heavy oak doors of the suite shatters the quiet.
Damiano sighs before he untangles himself from me. I watch as he slides out of bed, completely unbothered by his nakedness, his muscles flexing as he reaches for his trousers on the floor.
"Go get dressed," he says, pulling his pants up and buckling them. "I’ll tell the hairdresser you’ll meet her downstairs."
As soon as he’s gone, my needy, terrified facade drops like a curtain. I sit up, pulling the silk sheet over my chest. Everything I knew about my life seems to be a lie, and the men who killed Mateo hold the truth.
I look at my reflection in the massive vanity mirror across the room. My gaze drops to the cuff locked around my wrist. The three rubies embedded in the metal catch the light.
I run a hand through my hair, my eyes shifting slowly from the crimson stones back to my reflection.
"No blonde," I whisper, my voice entirely devoid of the fragility I just used on him. "Red. Like spilled wine."