"You keeping a fucking diary of my sleep patterns now?" I snap, turning to face him.
Enzo doesn't flinch. He's one of the few people who never does. "Someone has to notice this shit."
I grab a t-shirt from the back of a chair and pull iton. "Notice what? That I have trouble sleeping? Welcome to the fucking family business."
"This isn't just trouble sleeping, Damiano." He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. "These nightmares are hitting you harder, and they're happening more often. Ever since we started negotiations with the Eastons."
"Coincidence," I say, but the word tastes like ash in my mouth.
CHAPTER TWO
Itwist in front of the mirror, inspecting the black dress Byron selected for tonight's dinner. It hugs my curves perfectly—sophisticated without being overly revealing.
Just the way Byron likes it.
"The Brown family appreciates class," he'd reminded me this morning. "We represent old money, old respect."
I slide diamond studs into my ears, feeling their cool weight against my skin. These were a gift for my twenty-third birthday, part of Byron's mission to turn me into the perfect society daughter. The perfect weapon.
My fingers tremble slightly as I fasten the clasp of my bracelet. Twelve years living under Byron Easton's roof,and I still feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me. Twelve years since I lost my father. Since Byron took me in.
"You're all I have left of Michael," he'd told me at the funeral, his steel-gray eyes softening with what looked like genuine grief. "I promised him I'd take care of you if anything happened."
I trace the outline of my lips with red lipstick, the color bold against my pale skin. I don't remember my mother. She died in a car accident when I was two. Then it was just Dad and me against the world until I turned thirteen. Until he was murdered.
The lipstick tube clatters against the vanity as my hand shakes. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
"Zoe? Are you ready?" Byron's voice carries up the stairs, precise and commanding even when he's not raising it.
"Coming!" I call back, taking one final look in the mirror.
I see what everyone else sees—the polished daughter of Byron Easton, New York finance mogul. The girl who attends charity galas and speaks three languages and graduated summa cum laude from Columbia.
No one sees the girl who still wakes up screaming, dreaming of her father's blood soaking into the carpet.
I smooth my dress and put on my practiced smile. Tonight is important. Byron needs me to charm the Browns, to be the perfect hostess. It's what I do. It's who I am now.
For better or worse, Byron Easton saved me. And I owe him everything.
I gracefully steer conversations down the polished mahogany dining table, ensuring everyone feels attended to. The Browns drone on about their summer plans inthe Hamptons, and I nod at all the right moments, my smile never faltering.
"Another glass of wine, Mrs. Brown?" I offer, already reaching for the bottle.
Byron watches me from the head of the table, approval glinting in his eyes. I've learned his lessons well—be charming but not flirtatious, intelligent but never intimidating, present but never dominating.
My mind drifts as Mr. Brown discusses some financial merger. The chandelier light catches my bracelet, sending fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth. Dad used to call me his little rainbow chaser. The memory stings.
"...and that's when Damiano Feretti stepped in and acquired the entire property portfolio."
The name slices through my thoughts like a knife.
Damiano Feretti.
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. The room seems to narrow, sounds becoming distant as blood rushes in my ears. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat pulsing with a single word: Murderer.
The man who put a bullet into my father. The man who robbed me of everything.
"His family's reach is expanding beyond their traditional territories," Byron adds smoothly, though I catch the tightness around his eyes. "The Ferettis are becoming quite... ambitious."
