"Then find them again. Or better yet, find the originals. And look for evidence about Bianca's murder too. There has to be a paper trail somewhere."
She's right. I need facts, not feelings. Not Damiano's tender confessions or Byron's manipulative commands.
"You're still you, Zoe," Scarlett repeats softly. "Whatever the truth is, you'll handle it. But please, please don't do anything rash until you know for sure."
I take a deep breath, feeling slightly steadier. "Thanks, Scar. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably something dramatic and ill-advised," she teases, and despite everything, I laugh.
"Probably," I agree. "I need to go."
"Be careful, okay? And call me the second you find anything."
"I will," I promise, ending the call.
I stare at the ceiling, Scarlett's words echoing in my mind. Find proof. Don't act rashly. Remember who I am beneath all the lies.
Butwho am I, really?
I drag myself up the stairs. The doubt Enzo planted about her true intentions gnaws at me, but my heart refuses to accept it.
My hand pauses on the doorknob to my bedroom. I'm too fucking tired for this tonight. Too tired to think, to question, to doubt.
As I enter my room, exhausted from the day's tensions, I'm caught off guard by Zoe's presence. She's perched on the edge of my bed, wearing nothing but her underwear.
"I was waiting for you." she says.
For a moment, Enzo's warnings flash through my mind.
"Damiano?" She tilts her head, concern crossing her features at my silence.
I'm drawn to her like a moth to flame, my body responding before my mind can catch up. As I close the distance between us, I'm acutely aware of the danger in this attraction. This woman could be my undoing, yet I can't bring myself to care.
"What are you doing to me, lupacchiotta?" I murmur, standing before her.
Her fingers reach for the buttons of my shirt, eyes never leaving mine. "I could ask you the same thing."
My tattoos catch the lamplight as she undoes each button, revealing the scars and ink that tell my life's story. Her touch burns against my skin.
"You should be afraid of me," I tell her, my voice rough.
"Maybe." She pushes the shirt from my shoulders. "But I'm not."
I thread my fingers through her golden hair, tilting her face up to mine. "You should be."
Everything in me screams this is dangerous—that I'mplaying with fire. That she might be the knife aimed at my heart. But as her hands slide up my bare chest, I know I'm already lost.
I tear my gaze from hers, just for a moment. Everything about this feels like walking into a trap I've set for myself. But fuck, I don't care anymore.
"Last chance to walk away," I growl, knowing I won't let her even if she tries.
Her answer is to reach for my belt, slowly undoing it. The sound of leather sliding through fabric fills the quiet room. My self-control snaps.
I push her back onto the bed, my body covering hers. Her skin burns against mine, soft where I'm hard, yielding where I'm unyielding. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, tasting her gasp.
"Mine," I breathe against her lips. My hands slide up her sides, memorizing every curve, every shiver.
She arches into my touch, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. "Prove it."
