I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What the hell was that jealousy show about? We aren't even really married. This whole thing is a business arrangement—a chess move. Nothing more. Yet he acted like some possessive caveman because I was laughing with an old friend.
Diego and I met in Florence during my semester abroad. He was studying international security while I focused on art history. We bonded over being Americans in Italy, shared a few coffee dates, visited museums together. Nothing romantic ever happened. Byron hired him after graduation, impressed with his credentials.
And now Damiano's sulking like a child who had his toy taken away.
What a prick. He assumes that with a fake marriage I won't talk to other people? That I'll just be his silent, obedient wife whenever we're in public?
"You're being ridiculous," I finally say, breaking the silence.
Damiano's eyes snap to mine. "Excuse me?"
"This silent treatment. Diego is an old friend. We studied together in Florence. There was nothing inappropriate about our conversation."
"You're my wife now." His voice is low, controlled. "Act like it."
"I am acting like it. In case you've forgotten, this isn't a real marriage." I lean forward. "We have an arrangement. I didn't agree to stop speaking to men."
His eyes darken. "When we're in public, you're mine. You don't hang on another man's every word, laughing like he's the most fascinating person you've ever met."
"I wasn't?—"
"You were." He cuts me off. "And it ends tonight. What people see matters in our world. Appearances matter."
I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "So I'm just supposed to ignore everyone but you for the rest of my life?"
"Not everyone. Just men who look at you like they've seen what's under that dress."
I stare at Damiano, my blood boiling at his possessive attitude. Who the hell does he think he is? This "marriage" might be for show, but I'm not about to let him control every aspect of my life.
"Fuck you," I hiss, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The temperature in the limo seems to drop twenty degrees. Damiano goes utterly still, his face transforming into something dangerous and predatory. He leans across the space between us, invading my personal space until his face is inches from mine.
"What did you just say to me?" His voice is deadly quiet, almost a whisper.
I should back down. I should apologize. But something burns inside me—twelve years of rage and grief and loss—and I can't stop myself.
"I said..." I lean even closer, our noses almost touching, "fuck. you."
Each word comes out slow, precise, dripping with all the venom I've stored up since the day my father was murdered. My eyes lock with his, refusing to back down even as every survival instinct screams at me to retreat.
For a moment, I think he might actually hurt me. His eyes have gone almost black with anger, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. A low, rumbling sound that doesn't reach his eyes.
"There she is," he says softly. "The real Zoe Easton. I was wondering when you'd show up."
Before I can respond, the limo rolls to a stop. The driver announces our arrival, breaking the tension between us.
Damiano exits first, then offers his hand to help me out. I ignore it, climbing out on my own.
I stand frozen, taking in the Feretti mansion for the first time.
It's not what I expected. I'd imagined something ostentatious and gaudy—the kind of place that screams "look how much money I have." Instead, I'm facing a breathtaking blend of old-world elegance and modern luxury. The massive Italian Renaissance Revival structure sprawls before me, honey-colored limestone glowing warmly under strategic lighting. Classical Corinthian columns frame the entrance, and floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the moonlight.
The grounds are immaculate—formal Italian gardens stretching in every direction, with geometric hedge patterns and a central fountain that creates a gentle background melody of falling water.
But I don't miss the security measures either. Behind the beauty lies purpose—high stone walls surrounding the property, discrete cameras hidden in decorative elements, guards positioned strategically around the perimeter.
