"He couldn't pay me back, of course. That was by design," Byron continues, lost in his own cleverness. "So I offered him a way out. One simple task – break into your country house, put a scare into your pregnant fiancée."
My vision blurs with rage. Every muscle in my body strains to lunge at him, to tear his throat out with my bare hands, but I force myself to stay still. Not yet. Not fucking yet.
"Travis wasn't a killer. Just a desperate father. He never would have hurt Bianca." Byron laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "But he made the perfect fall guy. The perfect tool to break you, to make you spiral into grief and vengeance until you made enough mistakes for me to step in and reclaim what's mine."
I think of Bianca, of our unborn child, of years ofnightmares and grief – all orchestrated by this smug bastard standing before me.
"And then I found little Zoe," Byron's smile widens. "She was the perfect weapon to finish what her father started."
"So you planned this from the beginning?" I ask. "Sending Travis after Bianca was just part of your grand scheme to take me down?"
"Plans within plans, Feretti. That's how I built my empire before your family stole it." Byron's eyes narrow with contempt. "I should have killed you that night twelve years ago."
I furrow my brow. "You weren't there."
Byron laughs, a harsh barking sound that bounces off the warehouse walls. "Oh, I was. Who do you think orchestrated the whole thing? But killing you then would have been too simple. Your brothers would have stepped up, and the Feretti family would have maintained their iron grip on my territory."
Something in his expression shifts, a hint of madness seeping through him. He steps closer, the gun unwavering.
"You really thought that Travis killed your fiancée?" Byron's laugh grows wilder, more unhinged. "I killed them both. I killed her to make you suffer and Travis because he was useless."
My chest constricts so violently I can barely draw breath. "You were the one who hit me that night?"
"Of course I was. Travis was just the distraction. The man was too soft—babbling about not hurting a pregnant woman." Byron shakes his head in disgust. "He served his purpose, and then became a liability."
The chains rattle as my fists clench, knuckles white with fury. "And Zoe?"
"I adopted her because I knew she could turn useful," Byron spits. "I fed her anger for you all these years, making her believe that you killed her filthy father. I clothed her, educated her, gave her every fucking advantage."
His face twists with rage. "And in the end what did that little bitch do? She fell in love with you, for fuck's sake. Everything she owns, everything she is—it's because of me," Byron continues. "I molded her into the perfect weapon. And this is how she repays me."
I blink through the haze of pain, trying to make sense of Byron's confession. My mind races back to that night—Bianca screaming, the intruder's face, the blow to my head, and then...
"Three shots," I say, my voice raw. "There were three gunshots that night. I remember hearing them before everything went dark."
His lips curl into a cruel smile.
"You've got a better memory than I gave you credit for, Feretti. Yes, three shots." He taps the barrel of his gun against his thigh. "You managed to fire your weapon before you collapsed. Right after I hit you from behind."
The revelation hits me like another blow.
" You fired once. Before you crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut." Byron chuckles. "Your bullet went wide, of course. You were already halfway unconscious."
My mind works through the hazy memories, trying to piece together what doesn't fit. Something's wrong with his story.
"If I fired, where did the bullet go? The police never found a third bullet in the house. They found two—both in Travis."
Byron's eyes narrow slightly. "You think I'd leave evidence behind? I'm not an amateur."
"What did you do with it?"
Byron's mouth tightens, and he steps closer, pressing the gun against my chest. "You're asking too many questions for a dead man."
"Where did my bullet go, Byron?" I press, watching his face carefully. "If you were standing behind me when you hit me, and I fired as I was going down?—"
A flicker of something—pain? anger?—crosses his face.
"Your fucking bullet grazed my leg," he snaps. "Happy now? While you were bleeding out on the floor, I was digging lead out of my thigh in the bathroom. I couldn't go to a hospital—too many questions. Had to patch myself up."
