She rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn't leave her lips. "Maybe."
I lower my hands to her shoulders, suddenly aware of how natural this feels—this playfulness I haven't felt since Bianca.
"I'll do my best to behave at the dinner," she says, straightening my shirt collar with an absent gesture thatseems too intimate, too real. "I know how to play the perfect wife when it matters."
"I know you do," I say, reluctantly stepping back. "Pack for the entire weekend when you'll find time. Something elegant for dinner Friday night."
I watch Damiano straighten his shoulders, his eyes darting to the antique clock on the mantel. The way he moves—always calculated, always precise—reminds me of a predator conserving energy for the hunt.
"I need to leave," he says, his voice returning to that businesslike tone. "I have a meeting with Enzo about the Chicago security arrangements."
I nod, settling back into the sofa. "Of course."
He hesitates, one hand on the doorknob. Without turning back, he adds, "You can wait for me in our room tonight."
My head snaps up. "Ourroom?" The words escape before I can stop them. "I wasn't aware we were redefining the sleeping arrangements."
Damiano turns slowly, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
"I want you there every night, Zoe."His voice drops lower, rougher around the edges. "Not just when we lose control in the kitchen."
"Is that an order, Don Feretti?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light despite the heaviness settling in my chest.
"No." He shakes his head, a flash of something almost vulnerable crossing his face. "It's what I want. There's a difference."
The admission hangs between us, unexpectedly honest in a relationship built on lies. I swallow hard, unsure how to navigate this new territory where Damiano asks rather than demands.
He leaves without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. I release a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, pressing my hand against my racing heart.
I slip into my bedroom and lock the door behind me, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
My fingers tremble as I scroll to Scarlett's number. Two rings later, her cheerful voice filters through.
"Hey stranger! I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Scar, I—" My voice cracks, and I sink onto the bed. "I need to talk."
The playfulness vanishes from her tone immediately. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I slept with him." The words tumble out in a breathless rush. "With Damiano. Last night."
"What the fuck?" Scarlett's shriek is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
I wait through several seconds of stunned silence on the other end of the line. My heart hammers in my chest, the weight of my confession hanging heavy between us.
"So..." Scarlett finally says, her voice cautiously measured. "Was it at least worth it?"
"What?" I sputter, caught off guard by her question.
"You know what I mean," she continues, her tone shifting to something lighter. "How good was it? On a scale of one to 'holy shit I saw God'?"
A laugh bursts out of me, unexpected and almost hysterical. "Scarlett! That is so not helping right now!"
"What? It's a legitimate question!" she defends herself, and I can practically see her innocent shrug through the phone. "If you're going to sleep with the enemy, he'd better be delivering mind-blowing orgasms at minimum."
I press my palm against my forehead, laughing despite myself. "I cannot believe you right now. I call you in crisis mode and you want performance details?"
"Look, I'm just trying to establish some baselines here," she says pragmatically. "Like, was it worth potentially compromising your entire revenge mission?"
