"Precisely," Byron confirms, his thin lips curving into what passes for his smile. "Total ruination before his eyes."
But something cold and hard settles in my chest as I flip through photos of Feretti at various locations—always surrounded by his men, always untouchable. The image of him standing over my father's body flashes through my mind.
"And after I've destroyed everything he cares about?" I look up, meeting Byron's steel-gray eyes. "What then? He'll still be alive. Still breathing the same air as me."
My fingers trace over Feretti's face in one of the surveillance photos. I press down until my nail leaves a small crescent indent in the glossy paper.
"I want more than his empire dismantled," I say, my voice dropping to match the darkness swelling inside me. "I want him dead, Byron. I want to watch the light leave his eyes."
Byron's expression remains unchanged, but I catch the slight tensing of his jaw.
"Death is quick, Zoe. Over in seconds." He leans forward. "Destruction is eternal. The man who murdered your father deserves to suffer."
"He deserves both," I counter, closing the folder with a decisive snap. "I'll marry him. I'll learn his business from the inside. I'll help you tear down everything he's built." I pause, letting my determination solidify into something deadly and certain. "But when he has nothing left—when he's standing in the ruins—I want to be the one who puts a bullet in his head."
The silence between us stretches taut and expectant. I don't blink. Don't yield.
Finally, Byron nods once. "When the time comes, you'll have that privilege."
CHAPTER THREE
Iadjust my cufflinks as I study my reflection in the mirror. The tailored black suit fits perfectly, projecting the image I've cultivated for over a decade—powerful, untouchable, in control.
"Are we really entertaining this bullshit meeting?" Alessio's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn to find my right-hand man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. Alessio Gallo has been by my side for fifteen years—from street soldier to my most trusted confidant. His dark eyes miss nothing, his mind constantly calculating threats and advantages.
"Byron Easton wouldn't reach out without a reason,"I reply, straightening my tie. "I want to know what game he's playing."
Alessio's mouth twists with distaste. "Easton's a fucking snake. Always has been."
That's what makes Alessio invaluable—he voices the concerns I can't afford to acknowledge. Where I project calculated diplomacy, he radiates barely contained violence. The stubble along his jaw gives him a perpetually dangerous appearance, matching the lethal grace in every movement. He's saved my life more times than I can count.
"That's why you're coming with me," I say, reaching for my watch. "I need those eyes of yours. See what I might miss."
Alessio pushes off the doorframe, his imposing frame filling the space. "You never miss anything, bro."
"Twelve years ago, I missed something," I mutter, the familiar weight of that failure settling on my shoulders. "It cost me everything."
A shadow passes over Alessio's face. He was there that night—found me unconscious in a pool of Bianca's blood. He's the only one who knows how completely that night destroyed me.
"What's your gut telling you about this meeting?" he asks, changing the subject.
I slide my Beretta into its holster, the weight familiar against my ribs. "That Easton wants something he shouldn't have."
"Then let's go disappoint him." Alessio's dark eyes gleam with anticipation as he steps aside to let me pass.
I head down to the garage with Alessio following close behind. The soft tap of our Italian leather shoes echoes against the marble stairs as we descend into the underground level of the mansion.
The garage always calms me—seeing my collection of vehicles lined up perfectly, each one maintained to perfection. I run my fingers along the smooth hood of my matte black Maserati as I pass it, finally stopping at the Aston Martin DB11.
"Taking the fancy one today?" Alessio raises an eyebrow.
"Power meeting requires a power car," I answer, pressing the key fob.
As we slide into the leather seats, I notice Enzo's Ferrari is missing. My younger brother must have gone out early—probably chasing some new woman or causing the kind of trouble that I'll have to clean up later. That's Enzo—brilliant but volatile, loyal but unpredictable. Where I'm calculated, he's impulsive. Where I plan, he reacts. Still, there's no one else I'd rather have watching my back in this business. Well, except for the man sitting beside me.
I turn the ignition, and the engine purrs to life. The vibration travels through my hands on the wheel, and I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. Driving has always been my escape—the one place where I'm completely in control.
