"You," he says simply. "The beautiful daughter of Byron Easton, with connections to every power broker in New York."
The very idea of being close to Damiano Feretti makes my skin crawl.
"I can't do this," I whisper.
Byron leans forward, his eyes hardening. "Michael deserved better than dying like an animal on the floor. You remember finding him, don't you?"
The memory flashes unbidden—my father's body, the blood-soaked carpet, the hollow emptiness that followed. I was thirteen, coming home from school to a nightmare that never ended.
"Of course I remember," I say, my voice tight.
"Damiano Feretti put three bullets in your father's chest while he begged for mercy." Byron's voice drops lower. "He's lived twelve years in luxury while your father rots in the ground."
My fingers tremble against the armrest. "But to marry him..."
"Do you know what Feretti did two months ago?" Byron slides a photograph across the desk. "He executed a family—father, mother, teenage son. The father made the mistake of refusing to sell his restaurant property."
I look away from the crime scene photo, bile rising in my throat.
"This is who he is, Zoe. A monster who continues to destroy lives without consequence." Byron's voice softens. "Your father died because of a mistake."
The room feels too small, too hot. Rage and grief tangle in my chest, familiar companions I've carried since that day.
"How would this even work?" I finally ask, surprising myself.
Byron slides another folder across the desk—this one thicker, worn at the edges like it's been handled countless times.
"Before you can destroy him, you need to understand his world." He taps the folder with a manicured fingernail. "The Italian mafia isn't just brutality and violence. It's a business—complex, layered, and surprisingly fragile if you know where to apply pressure."
I open the folder, confronted by detailed maps of New York with colored markings, spreadsheets, and photographs of warehouses and docks.
"These are their supply chains," Byron explains, his voice taking on the same clinical tone he uses during myfinancial lessons. "The Feretti empire doesn't just run on intimidation. They control distribution channels for everything from construction materials to pharmaceuticals."
I trace my finger over a marked shipping route. "They import through these docks?"
"Yes, but notice how the cargo manifests route through three different shell companies before reaching their actual businesses." His finger taps a complex diagram. "Their key contacts include dock supervisors, customs officials, and transportation companies—all paid handsomely to look the other way."
The level of detail is overwhelming. Byron has sketched out entire networks of corruption like a corporate organizational chart.
"Their methods of distribution are brilliantly disguised," he continues. "Legitimate businesses operating alongside illegal operations. Construction companies that transport more than building materials. Import-export businesses that handle specialty goods that never appear on any manifest."
I flip through pages of surveillance photos—men in suits exchanging briefcases, trucks being loaded at night.
"And their protection networks?" I ask, stomach churning at the clinical way we're discussing a criminal empire built on blood.
"The most sophisticated aspect." Byron pulls out another document. "Police captains, judges, city officials. Each receiving payments through elaborate channels—real estate deals, consulting fees, campaign contributions."
The precision of it all makes me dizzy.
"You'll need to memorize all of this." Byron's eyes are cold, calculating. "Every supply route, every key player,every method they use. Their weaknesses are hidden in these details."
My fingers close around the folder. "You want me to become an expert in his criminal operations."
"Not just an expert," Byron corrects. "I want you to become the weapon that dismantles them."
I stare at the wealth of information in my hands—the intricate web of Damiano Feretti's criminal empire mapped out like some corporate annual report. This folder represents years of Byron's meticulous surveillance and intelligence gathering. All for me. All for this moment.
"A slow destruction," I murmur, more to myself than to Byron. "Dismantling everything he's built piece by piece."
