"Damiano?" I prompt, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
His fingers tap against the steering wheel once, twice. "There's something I want to show you."
"Something you want to show me," I repeat flatly. "At midnight? In Chicago?"
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remain unreadable. "You don't trust me, lupacchiotta?"
"Should I?"
"No," he says simply. "But you will anyway."
I cross my arms, battling the warring emotions inside me—curiosity and caution, attraction and anger. "Can I at least get a hint?"
He glances my way. "No."
Heat flushes through me—not entirely from frustration. Something about his secretivemanner, the quiet confidence in his voice, has my pulse racing. I hate that he affects me this way, that I can't maintain the cold detachment I need for my mission.
I stare out the window, watching unfamiliar streets pass by. I should be more worried than I am. This man killed my father. Yet here I sit, following him into the unknown without real protest.
I glance over the mirror. "Where are Alessio and Noah? Shouldn't they be with us?"
Damiano keeps his eyes on the road, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. "I informed them of my plans. They've gone back to the hotel."
"Your plans?" I raise an eyebrow.
A hint of a smile plays at his lips. "Patience, lupacchiotta."
We drive for another fifteen minutes, leaving behind the main thoroughfares for quieter residential streets. The neighborhoods get progressively nicer. Finally, Damiano turns down a tree-lined drive and stops before a modest brick house with a wide front porch.
This isn't what I expected at all. It's nothing like the ostentatious Feretti mansion or even the Sartori estate we just left. It looks... normal. Homey, even.
"Where are we?" I ask, peering through the windshield at the darkened windows. The house appears empty, but well-maintained. "Whose place is this?"
Instead of answering, Damiano turns off the engine and gets out. I wait, expecting him to come around and open my door—his usual controlling ritual—but he simply stands there, watching me expectantly.
With a sigh, I exit the car myself, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my bare arms.
"Damiano, seriously, what?—"
He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm againstmine. The gesture is oddly gentle, lacking the possessive grip I've grown accustomed to. Something about his demeanor has changed since we left the Sartoris—there's a tension in his shoulders, a hesitancy I've never seen before.
"Come," he says, leading me up the walkway toward the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Damiano unlocks the front door with a key he produces from his pocket. The security system beeps once before falling silent as he enters a code. He flicks on a light, illuminating a foyer with hardwood floors and cream-colored walls.
I step inside cautiously, taking in the simple elegance of the place. The furniture is covered with white sheets, giving the space a ghostly quality, but I can make out the shapes of a comfortable living room beyond.
"What is this place?" I ask again, my voice hushed in the stillness.
Damiano walks a few paces into the living room, his fingers trailing over a sofa. Something about this spacehas softened him—the hard lines of his face have relaxed, his posture less rigid than usual.
"This was my parents' first home," he says finally, his deep voice filling the quiet room. "My father bought it for my mother when they were young, before the family business expanded to what it is today."
I stand still, surprised by this glimpse into his past. This doesn't feel like the home of a mafia family—it's too normal, too peaceful.
"They called it il loro rifugio—their haven." Damiano continues, moving toward a fireplace where a few framed photos stand. "If I had to name it, I'd say it was their happy place. The only place where they could just be Giusseppe and Sophia, not Don Feretti and his wife."
