"Tell me about your life with Byron," he says softly, his handfinding mine.
I take a deep breath, memories flooding back. "I was raised like a princess," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "Designer clothes, private schools, lavish vacations. Byron spared no expense."
Damiano's hand tightens around mine, encouraging me to continue.
"But there was always a catch," I explain, feeling the familiar twist of anger and hurt in my gut. "Every gift, every privilege came with a reminder of why I needed his care in the first place."
I meet Damiano's gaze, seeing the pain reflected there. "He never let me forget that you were the reason I was an orphan. That you had taken everything from me."
Damiano's jaw clenches, but he remains silent, letting me speak.
"I grew up hating you," I admit, the words feeling strange on my tongue now. "It was like a fire Byron constantly stoked. Every birthday, every milestone, he'd remind me of what I'd lost because of you."
Tears begin to fall as I continue, "I thought I knew who you were. I thought I knew what I felt. But then I met you, and everything changed."
I cup Damiano's face with my free hand, our eyes locked. "I realized I could love you so much more than I ever hated you. That the real monster was the man who raised me, not the one he taught me to fear."
Damiano pulls me into his arms, and I feel the tension in his body. "I'm so sorry, Zoe," he murmurs into my hair. "For everything you've been through."
I curl my fingers around Damiano's, drawing strength from his touch as we sit on the edge of our bed.
"Tell me about your life," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "All these years since Bianca... since that night.How are you feeling now that you know the truth about Byron?"
Damiano's eyes darken, and for a moment I think he might not answer. His jaw works as he stares at our joined hands.
"For twelve years, I've been a ghost." he finally says, his voice rough.
I stay silent, giving him space to continue.
"I continued running this empire because it was the only way I knew how to survive," he continues. "I became what everyone feared because fear kept people away, and away meant safe."
"When Byron told me the truth—that he orchestrated everything—" Damiano pauses, his breathing ragged. "I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands. Not just for Bianca, but for you. For your father."
His eyes meet mine, filled with a pain so raw it makes my chest ache.
"I blamed myself for not protecting her. For not seeing the danger coming." His voice drops to a whisper. "And then I blamed myself for letting you in, for putting you at risk the same way."
I touch his face, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips. "You couldn't have known."
"The truth is, I've been living half a life," he admits. "Ruling through fear while being ruled by it. When Byron told me everything—how he manipulated your father, killed Bianca, used you—I realized he'd been controlling both our lives all this time."
His hand moves to my stomach, resting there with surprising gentleness.
"Now I feel..." He searches for the words. "Rage. Relief. Like I can finally breathe afterdrowning for years. And terrified that I'll fail you and our child the way I failed her."
I can't resist anymore. I grab and kiss her. Zoe's hands are everywhere, tugging at my clothes, urging me closer. I can feel her heat, her need, and it ignites a fire in my veins.
I capture her mouth with mine, swallowing her moans as I back her towards the bed. She falls onto the mattress, her blonde hair fanning out around her like a halo. I drink in the sight of her, my gaze raking over her curves, the swell of her breasts, the length of her legs.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur, my voice rough with desire. "My lupacchiotta."
I cover her body with mine, my hands sliding under her shirt, skimming over the soft skin of her stomach. She arches into my touch, her nails digging into my back.
"I need you," she gasps, her hips rocking against mine.
I oblige, tearing her shirt open, sending buttons flying. Her breasts spill free, and I groan at the sight, the feel of them in my hands. I take a nipple into my mouth, suckling, biting, until she's writhing beneath me.
My hand slips under her skirt, finding her wet and ready. She cries out as I stroke her, my fingers teasing her slick folds, circling her clit. I can feel her tightening, her body coiled like a spring.
