"It's been a week," Byron says, his voice cold and cutting. "What do you have for me?"
I pace across my bedroom, grateful Damiano is downstairs in a meeting with Alessio. "I've been working on it. Their security is tight."
"That's not an answer, Zoe."
I think of the bug hidden beneath Damiano's library, the one I need to retrieve before the monthly security sweep. I managed to catch snippets ofconversations—mostly business dealings, distribution routes, profit margins—but nothing substantial enough to make sense of the contradictions I'm facing.
"They're planning to expand their operation into Atlantic City." I say, offering the smallest piece of information I gathered.
Silence hangs between us. Then: "That's it? After weeks inside that house, that's all you have?"
"I'm being careful," I say. "They're suspicious of outsiders. I can't just?—"
"I didn't raise you to make excuses," Byron cuts in. "I raised you to complete a mission."
"I know, but?—"
"I'm losing patience," he continues, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper I know too well. "More importantly, I'm losing control of the situation. We don't have time for these games."
"What do you mean, losing control?"
"Things are shifting. The Colombians are getting restless. The Volkovs are making moves in our territory. Your little arrangement with Feretti was supposed to give us an advantage, not become a liability."
I grip the phone tighter. "Just give me more time. I need?—"
"You've had time," Byron says. "What you need is to remember why you're there."
My throat tightens. "I remember."
"Do you? Because it seems to me you've forgotten what Feretti did to your father. What he took from you. From us."
"I haven't forgotten."
"Then prove it. I want something substantial in a week, or I'll take matters into my own hands. And Zoe? You won't like my methods."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my mind racing. One week to figure out who's lying. One week before Byron does something we'll all regret.
I drop the phone onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. Years of training, of being molded into the perfect weapon, and now I'm crumbling apart at the seams. My chest tightens like someone's squeezing my lungs.
Who am I supposed to believe? Byron, who shaped me into what I am, or Damiano, the man I'm supposed to destroy? The weight of not knowing crashes down on me, and a sob escapes before I can stop it.
"Zoe?"
I jerk my head up to see Lucrezia standing in my doorway, her overalls splattered with fresh paint, concern etched across her beautiful face.
"Are you okay?" she asks softly.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the response programmed into me since I was thirteen. Never show weakness. Never let them see you break.
Lucrezia steps inside and closes the door. "You don't look fine."
Something in her gentle tone breaks the last thread of my control, and the tears start flowing despite my best efforts.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
Lucrezia sits beside me on the bed, not touching, just present. "Do you want to talk about it?"
