It's beautiful, luxurious, and utterly impersonal—like an extravagant hotel suite.
I rush to the bathroom, freshen up, and pull on a simple emerald silk blouse with tailored black pants. My wedding ring catches the light—an enormous diamond that feels like a shackle rather than a symbol of love. I twist it absently, reminding myself why I'm here.
Fifteen minutes. I need to find the dining room in this mansion that's bigger than some museums I've visited.
I step into the corridor, trying to recall the path from last night. The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with artwork and antique furniture that probably costs more than most people's houses. The marble flooring gleams under my feet as I choose to go left, following the scent of coffee and pastries.
After two wrong turns and finding myself in what appears to be a formal sitting room and then a library, I finally hear voices. I follow the sound down a grand staircaseand through an arched doorway that opens into a splendid dining room.
The conversation stops abruptly when I enter.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me. Damiano sits at the head of the table, a newspaper folded beside his plate. Enzo is to his right, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression. Opposite him sits Alessio, whose dark eyes assess me with cool calculation. And at the far end, Lucrezia brightens when she sees me.
"Good morning," I say, forcing confidence into my voice.
"Buongiorno," Damiano replies, his face unreadable. "Join us."
I take the empty chair beside Lucrezia, across from Alessio, feeling like I'm entering a lion's den rather than a family breakfast.
Ginerva appears with a steaming cup of coffee, placing it before me. "Would you like eggs this morning, Signora?"
"Just toast, please. Thank you."
When Ginerva leaves, Lucrezia leans toward me, excitement radiating from her. "Did you like your room?I helped decorate it myself. I wasn't sure about your taste, but I tried to make it comfortable."
Her enthusiasm catches me off guard. I didn't expect kindness from any of them.
"It's beautiful," I tell her honestly. "Thank you for taking the time. The sitting area by the window is especially lovely."
Lucrezia beams at my compliment. "I'm so glad! I wasn't sure about the color scheme, but I thought the cream would be calming. Do you like to read? I can help fill those bookshelves. The library here ismassive?—"
"Lucrezia," Damiano cuts in, his deep voice silencing his sister instantly. "Let Zoe eat her breakfast in peace."
He sounds almost protective, though I know better. It's all part of the performance.
A uniformed server appears with my toast and a selection of jams and honey. I murmur my thanks and take a small bite, though my appetite has vanished under the weight of these calculating gazes.
Alessio watches me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. The intensity of his stare makes my skin prickle with unease. Unlike Damiano, who can switch between charming and threatening with practiced ease, Alessio's focus remains steady and unnerving.
"I need to head to my office," Damiano announces, folding his newspaper and pushing back his chair. "Alessio, we'll discuss the Brooklyn situation at eleven."
Before he can leave, I set down my coffee cup. "Damiano, could I speak with you for a moment?" I keep my tone casual, polite, as if requesting nothing more significant than directions to the garden.
The table falls silent. Enzo raises an eyebrow, his gaze darting between his brother and me. Alessio's expression hardens, his thumb tracing slowly along his bottom lip—a gesture I've noticed he makes when thinking.
Damiano regards me with those dark eyes that reveal nothing. "Follow me," he says finally, not waiting to see if I comply.
I rise, smoothing my pants unnecessarily. "Excuse me," I say to the others. "It was lovely to chat, Lucrezia. Perhaps you can show me the library later?"
Her face brightens again. "Of course! I'd love to."
I follow Damiano's broad shoulders through the high-ceilinged hallways of my new prison. His stride is purposeful, the expensive fabric of his suit emphasizingthe power in his frame. This is the man who murdered my father—walking ahead of me as if he owns not just this house but the very air we breathe.
I trail him down a corridor lined with what appear to be original Renaissance paintings, their gilded frames gleaming in the morning light. He stops at massive double doors of dark wood and pushes them open without breaking stride.
Damiano's office opens before me like a dark kingdom. The space is massive—easily triple the size of Byron's study—with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy burgundy curtains that filter the morning sunlight to a dim glow. Books line the walls in built-in shelves of dark mahogany, and a massive desk dominates the center of the room.
Without invitation, Damiano walks to his desk, settles against its front edge rather than taking the throne-like chair behind it. His posture is casual but his eyes remain vigilant, watching my every move. The position gives him height advantage, forcing me to look up at him.
