The challenge in her voice sends fire racing through my veins. I trail my mouth down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my lips. Each kiss is a claim, each touch a brand.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. I'm drowning in her—her scent, her taste, the sounds she makes when I find that spot beneath her ear.
"Damiano," she gasps.
I lift my head to watch her face, needing to see the moment her walls come down. Her green eyes are dark with desire, her lips parted.
"Tell me what you need," I demand, my voice barely recognizable.
"You," she whispers, reaching up to trace the tattoo over my heart. "Just you."
I capture her wrist, pressing my lips to her palm. The tenderness of the gesture surprises us both.
For tonight, I silence the warnings in my head. I ignore the voice that sounds like Enzo's telling me this is a mistake. Instead, I lose myself in her—in the way she moves beneath me, the way she whispers my name like a confession.
My hands and mouth worship every inch of her, claiming territory no one else will ever touch. When I finally join our bodies, the sensation is almost too much to bear. She's perfect—warm and tight and mine.
"Look at me," I command when she closes her eyes. "I want to see you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Iwake before Damiano, my mind already racing. His arm drapes possessively over my waist, his breathing deep and steady against my neck.
Carefully, I slide out from under him, watching his face for any sign of waking. Last night replays in my mind as I gather my clothes, the tender moments between us making my mission all the more complicated.
Once I've slipped back to my own room and showered, I grab my laptop and retreat to a quiet corner of the library downstairs. With Damiano still asleep and the household barely stirring, this might be my onlychance today.
I open my laptop and start searching. "Michael Travis murder New York 2012."
The same sketchy reports I've seen a hundred times pop up. A few brief news articles mentioning an "apparent drug-related homicide" in Manhattan, no suspects named. Nothing connecting Damiano to the scene. Nothing substantial at all.
I try different search terms. "Thanksgiving murder 2012 Manhattan." "Financial advisor killed New York 2012." Each search yields the same frustratingly vague results.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. For twelve years, Byron has told me Damiano Feretti killed my father over a drug shipment dispute. Twelve years I've believed him, trained for revenge under his guidance. Yet I've never found a single piece of evidence connecting Damiano to my father's murder.
And now Damiano's story about Bianca being murdered that same night, miles away in their country house, makes everything even hazier.
I search "Bianca Feretti murder 2012" and find absolutely nothing. Not a mention, not an obituary, not a single news report.
How is that possible? A woman is murdered, and there's not one word about it? Even with their connections, a complete information blackout seems unlikely.
I try "home invasion Westchester County Thanksgiving 2012" but again hit a wall. No incidents reported, no records of any such crime.
If Damiano was telling the truth about Bianca's murder, someone went to extraordinary lengths to keep it out of the news. But the same appears true about my father's murder—it barely made a ripple in the press.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as a new thoughtforms. What if Byron wasn't just training me for revenge? What if he was also controlling what information I could access?
I've never questioned why my father's murder received so little coverage. Byron always said Damiano's connections ensured the story was buried. But what if there was more to it?
I close my laptop as I hear footsteps approaching. All these years of digging, and I still haven't found anything concrete—just Byron's version of events and now Damiano's contradictory story.
Someone is lying. And I need to find out who before I lose myself completely in this game of deception.
Five days have passed since my library research session, and I'm no closer to the truth. The bug I planted in Damiano's office two days ago was a desperate move, but I needed to hear something—anything—to make sense of the conflicting stories.
My phone vibrates. Byron.
I take a deep breath and answer. "Hello."
