"How do you feel about this marriage, Zoe?" His voice is lower now, intimate, as if we're sharing secrets.
I feel like I want to watch you bleed out slowly for what you did to my father.
I meet his gaze directly, understanding the test behind his question. He wants to see if I'll break character, if I'll reveal something genuine.
"I was born and raised in this world, Mr. Feretti. You must know better than most that when business requires something of us, we follow." I pause, allowing a small smile to touch my lips. "It's what we're taught from the beginning."
His tattoos catch my attention as he tilts his head slightly—intricate designs crawling up his neck like dark tendrils. Roman numerals on one side, an ornate cross with rosary beads on the other. The word "Vendetta" disappears into his hairline. The ink marks him as what he is—a killer who wears his violence on his skin.
"This marriage won't be real, you understand that?" He leans closer, his cologne—expensive and subtle—reaching me across the table. "But everyone else needs to believe it is. The public, your father's associates, they all need to see aunited front."
I understand perfectly. I'll play the loving wife while plotting your destruction.
"I'm prepared for that," I say, voice steady despite the hatred burning through my veins. "I can be convincing when necessary."
His lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk. "Can you?"
"Yes," I answer simply, resisting the urge to reach across the table and tear those smug eyes from his skull. The same eyes that watched as my father begged for his life. The same eyes that showed no mercy.
Instead, I mirror his posture, leaning forward slightly. "I understand what's required of me, Damiano. I always have."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two weeks have slipped by since that night at Marea, and I've been swept into a whirlwind of wedding preparations that feel more like battle plans than celebrations.
Every morning begins with a text from Byron's wedding planner—a severe woman named Vivian with pin-straight hair and opinions just as rigid. She schedules my days down to fifteen-minute increments: dress fittings, floral arrangements, cake tastings, venue tours. All for a marriage built on revenge and deception.
Yesterday was my third dress fitting at Vera Wang. The gown is a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate lace—a costume for the performance of my lifetime. As I stoodon the pedestal surrounded by mirrors, Byron circled me like a shark, his eyes calculating rather than admiring.
"Perfect," he'd murmured, not to me but to himself. "The picture of innocence."
That's what I am to both men—a carefully crafted image. To Byron, I'm his revenge weapon wrapped in silk and diamonds. To Damiano, I'm a business transaction in human form.
The invitations went out last week—300 heavy cream envelopes carrying our names side by side in gold calligraphy. Damiano Feretti and Zoe Easton request the honor of your presence. The guest list reads like a who's who of New York's elite and underworld alike. Politicians who take bribes from both families. Celebrities who don't ask questions about their wealthy friends. Crime bosses from three continents.
Each night, I return to my room and practice my smile in the mirror until my cheeks ache. I rehearse the way I'll look at him—adoring, trusting, the perfect devoted wife—while memorizing the security layouts of his properties that Byron provides me.
I've spoken to Damiano only twice since our dinner—brief, cold conversations about logistics. His lawyer met with Byron's three times. Every detail of our arrangement spelled out in contracts thicker than novels—property agreements, business arrangements, even a schedule of public appearances we're expected to make together.
The only bright spot in these suffocating weeks has been my phonecalls with Scarlett.
"Are you sure about this, Zoe?" she'd asked. "There's still time to walk away."
Today, I'll walk down the aisle toward my father'skiller. And as I place my hand in his, I'll be one step closer to watching the life drain from his eyes.
"All done, Miss Easton. You look absolutely stunning."
The hairdresser steps back with a satisfied smile, her fingers still hovering near my perfectly styled waves as if she can't quite let her masterpiece go. The full-length mirror reflects a stranger back at me—a bride with immaculate hair over bare shoulders, makeup that transforms my features into something ethereal and flawless.
I don't care how I look. Not really. But I force my lips into a practiced smile anyway.
"It's perfect," I say with just the right amount of breathless excitement. "You've done an amazing job."
I stand, smoothing the silk of my robe as I approach the mirror for a closer inspection. Every curl is deliberately placed, every eyelash perfectly separated. The subtle pink blush makes me look innocent and glowing. I touch my hair gently, making all the right appreciative sounds.
Three makeup artists, two hairdressers, a photographer, and several assistants hover around me in the room. None of them matter. None of them know the truth. But I perform for them anyway—the blushing bride, nervous and excited on her special day.
"The champagne is divine," I tell one of the assistants who offers me a flute. I take a small sip, pretending to savor it when I can barely taste anything at all.
