Not Easton. Not some bullshit cover. My fingers tighten around the edge of my desk until my knuckles turn white.
"And when did he die?"
Her chin lifts in that defiant way I've come to both love and hate. "Twelve years ago. Thanksgiving night."
The same night as Bianca. The same fucking night that has haunted my dreams for over a decade.
"How?"
"He was murdered." Her voice doesn't waver, but I see her hands trembling at her sides.
I rise slowly from my chair, the rage pulsing through me with each heartbeat. "And who killed him?"
She meets my gaze directly, her eyes burning with an intensity that matches my own.
"You did."
I slam my palm against the desk, the sound echoing through the office like a gunshot.
"Bullshit!"
Her eyes widen at my outburst, but I don't give a fuckabout scaring her anymore. The careful control I've maintained around her shatters like glass.
"I didn't even know his name until today," I snarl, jabbing my finger at the folder Enzo dropped. "Michael Travis? That name meant nothing to me until Enzo finally dug it up and here it comes, the face of the bastard who took my entire life. YOUR FUCKING FATHER."
She takes a step forward. "Damiano, please?—"
"Don't." My voice drops to a deadly whisper. "Don't come any closer."
She freezes, her hand suspended in midair like she was reaching for me. The gesture makes my chest ache with a pain I refuse to acknowledge.
"Everything was a lie," I say, each word coated in ice. "Every word, every touch, every momenT."
I can't even finish the sentence. The memory of her body against mine in my childhood home makes me sick now. How she let me bare my soul while plotting my destruction the entire time.
"It wasn't like that," she says, her voice breaking. "If you'd just let me explain?—"
"Explain what?" I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "How you've been playing me? How you fucked me while planning to put a bullet in my head?"
"Damiano, please, I was going to tell you. I?—"
He cuts me off with a laugh that chills my blood. Not the warm chuckle I've heard in quiet moments together, but something bitter and broken.
"You were going to tell me?" He slams his hand on the desk again. "That's what everyone fucking says when they're caught. Save it."
"You don't understand." My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "Things changed. I started to doubt?—"
"Doubt what?" Damiano snaps, grabbing the folder. "That I was the monster you thought I was? Or that your precious plan would work?"
I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. This isn't how I planned for him to find out—not when everything's become so complicated, so confused.
"Let me explain," I start again, my words rushing out. "Byron told me you killed my father that night in Manhattan. But then you told me about Bianca, and it didn't make sense how you could be in two places?—"
"Shut the fuck up!" Damiano roars, closing the distance between us in two swift strides.
I jump backward, my spine hitting the bookcase behind me. The violence in his voice makes my skin prickle with fear. His face is inches from mine now, his dark eyes almost black with rage. The scent of expensive cologne and whiskey surrounds me, once comforting but now suffocating.
"Every. Word. Out of your mouth has been a lie," he hisses through clenched teeth.
