I glance at Byron, surprised by the tenderness in his expression. It's these moments that confuse me most—when the man who screamed at me yesterday suddenly transforms into someone who seems to genuinely care.
"You were only thirteen when I brought you home," Byron continues, squeezing my hand. "So small, so broken. Now look at you. You've become everything I hoped you would be."
His words slide under my skin. Is this manipulation or real affection? After twelve years, I still can't tell.
"I'm proud of you, Zoe." His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now shine with something that looks almost like love. "You know I only want what's best for you."
The ride continues in silence, Byron's unpredictability hanging between us like a storm cloud that might bring either gentle rain or devastating lightning.
The restaurant glows with warm light as we pull up. A valet opens my door while another takes the keys.
Inside Marea, the hostess leads us through the main dining room toward a secluded area in the back. My heart pounds against my ribs with each step.
We approach a private dining room with frosted glass doors. The hostess slides them open, and there they are.
Two men stand as we enter.
Breathe Zoe.
Damiano Feretti is even more intimidating in person than in photographs or from a distance. Tall—at least six-two—with broad shoulders that fill out his custom suit to perfection. His dark hair has touches of silver at the temples, and his olive skin contrastswith eyes so deep brown they're almost black. When those eyes lock on mine, I feel a jolt of electricity I wasn't prepared for.
I want to kill him.
The man beside him must be his brother. They share the same strong jaw and commanding presence, though this man is slightly shorter with lighter hair and sharper features. Where Damiano radiates controlled danger, this man seems more openly aggressive.
Damiano steps forward, a predatory grace in his movements. His gaze travels over me slowly, deliberately, before his mouth curves into what might be a smile but feels more like a threat.
My father's killer stands before me, and all I can think is that no one told me the devil would be this beautiful. What a waste.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We arrive at Marea a few minutes earlier, deliberately timing our entrance to establish control over tonight's encounter. The restaurant's polished interior gleams with understated luxury—exactly the kind of neutral territory that puts everyone on their best behavior.
The hostess leaves us alone in the elegant space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Central Park, the city lights beginning to twinkle as dusk settles. I unbutton my suit jacket and sit, signaling the waiting server.
"Macallan. Neat," I order, then glance at Enzo.
"Same."
When the server leaves, Enzo leans forward. "I dug deeper intoEaston's financials. Nothing suspicious. His legitimate businesses are thriving."
"That means nothing. The best criminals keep spotless books." I drum my fingers on the table.
The server returns with our drinks. I take a sip, letting the smoky liquid burn down my throat.
"Maybe he's getting old," Enzo suggests. "Looking to secure his legacy before he checks out."
I shake my head. "Men like Easton don't retire. They die with their fingers still pulling strings."
"What did Lucrezia say when you told her about tonight?" Enzo asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"That I'm a stubborn fuck who should've settled down years ago." I snort. "She thinks this is karma coming to bite me in the ass."
Enzo laughs. "She might be right."
"Fuck you."
"What's your plan with the girl? If this goes forward?"
