Outside Damiano's office door, I pause. My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my dress. Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock, but hesitate.
What awaits me behind this door? Has he discovered my mission? Has Byron betrayed me? Or is it something else entirely?
Daniel stands at attention several feet away, giving me space but making it clear I'm not going anywhere else.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to still the trembling in my hands. Part of me wants to run, to flee this mansion and never look back. But there's nowhere to go. I'm in too deep now.
My mind races through possible scenarios, rehearsing explanations and excuses. But the truth is, I don't know what Damiano knows, and that terrifies me more than anything.
I raise my hand again, knuckles hovering inches from the heavy wooden door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Istare at the folder Enzo slammed onto my desk, its contents spread across the polished surface like a disease.
"You need to handle this," Enzo says, his voice tight with anger. "Now."
But he doesn't understand what this means to me. The past few weeks replay in my mind—her smile in Chicago, her body against mine, the way she looked at me this morning—all lies.
"Leave me alone and when she returns send her in." I order, my voice colder than I intended.
Alessio glances between me and the photos. "Damiano?—"
"Out."
They exit silently, closing the door behind them. I remain motionless behind my desk, suddenly aware of how the room feels like a coffin. The whiskey bottle sits nearby, tempting me, but I need clarity for this.
Fuck. I knew better than to let anyone in. I've spent twelve years building walls around myself after Bianca, only for Zoe to slip through them with ease. Each memory of her cuts deeper now—her laugh, her scent on my sheets, her fierce defiance that made me want her more each day.
All calculated. All part of her plan.
The same rage that consumed me when I found Bianca threatens to overtake me now. My fingers itch toward my Beretta, the weight of it promising relief from this hollow feeling in my chest. But I won't make it that easy for her.
Minutes tick by on the grandfather clock in the corner. The sound echoes in the silent room, reminding me of the heartbeat I once listened to against her chest, believing something real existed between us.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey but don't drink it. Just stare at the amber liquid, wondering how I let this happen again.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
The sound of that knock—hesitant, uncertain—floods me with contradicting emotions. Fury at her deception. Disgust at my own weakness. And beneath it all, a sickening desire to be wrong about all of this.
I take a breath, forcing ice through my veins to replace the fire.
"Come in," I say, my voice betraying nothing of the storm inside me.
The door opens and Zoe steps in. Her eyes find mine and something in her expression shifts—her lips part slightly, her shoulders tense. She can sense something's wrong.
She takes a step toward me. "Damiano, what's?—"
"Stop." My voice cuts through the air like a blade. "Stay where you are."
She freezes, one foot forward, her body caught in the no-man's land between the door and my desk. Her eyes flick to the scattered photos, the folder, and something like resignation passes over her face.
"Tell me your father's name."
The question hangs between us. Through the windows, I can hear birds in the garden. It feels like the world is continuing while mine shatters.
She doesn't hesitate. "Michael Travis."
