He picks up one of the frames, wiping dust from the glass with his thumb. The tenderness in the gesture catches me off guard.
"Enzo and I were born here." His voice carries a wistfulness I've never heard before. "After that, this place became their escape. They would come here on weekends, sometimes just the two of them."
I step closer, drawn by this unexpected openness. The Damiano standing before me now seems worlds away from the cold, controlling man I married.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask quietly.
He sets the photo down and turns to face me, his dark eyes searching mine. "I don't know," he admits, vulnerability flashing across his features. "I haven't been here since they died. I keep it maintained, but I never..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. I understand what it means for him to bring me here, to this place he's kept preserved but hasn't visited himself.
"Could I see more of the house?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Damiano hesitates, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm horrible with home tours."
"What does that even mean?" I laugh, the sound strange in this preserved space. "It's not like you need special qualifications. Just show me around."
His lips quirk up at one corner. "I don't remember what's in half these rooms. And I've never understood why women want to know every detail—what year the fireplace was built, where the curtains came from."
"Oh, because all women care about is decor?" I roll my eyes. "Maybe I just want to understand more about where you came from, Damiano."
He studies me for a moment, then gestures toward the hallway. "Fine. But don't expect the HGTV treatment."
I move past him, feeling the heat of his body as I squeeze by. The hallway is lined with more framed photos—glimpses of a life before violence took over. Young Damiano and Enzo, grinning with missing teeth. Their parents at what looks like an anniversary dinner.
"They looked happy," I murmur, pausing at a photo of his parents dancing.
"They were." His voice is right behind me, closer than I expected. "Until the end."
I turn and find him inches away, his gaze intense. The narrow hallway leaves little space between us.
"Is this the reason you keep this place? To remember what happiness looks like?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Damiano steps even closer, backing me against the wall. His hands come up to frame my face, not roughlylike before, but with a gentleness that's somehow more unsettling.
"No, lupacchiotta," he says, his breath warm against my skin. "I keep it because someone taught me the value of knowing where you come from—even when you're trying to burn it all down."
My heart pounds against my ribs. Does he know? Has he figured out my plan?
"What does that mean?" I whisper.
His thumb traces my lower lip. "It means we all have secrets, Zoe. Even you."
My pulse hammers in my throat. His eyes hold mine, dark and knowing in a way that chills me. I need to regain control of this situation before I lose myself in it completely.
"Your little power games will have to wait," I say, placing my hand against his chest and gently pushing him back. "I want to explore the house properly first."
"Power games?" His voice drops to that dangerous purr. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?" I raise an eyebrow, ducking under his arm to continue down the hallway. "Everything's a game with you, Damiano. Everything's about control."
He follows me, his footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. "And you're above such things?"
I glance at him over my shoulder. "I didn't say that. I just want to see the rest of the house first. This place..." I gesture around us. "It's like seeing a side of you."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening I've rarely witnessed. He steps back, giving me space.
"Fine. Kitchen's through there." He points to a doorway at the end of the hall. "My old bedroom is upstairs, second door on the right. Bathroom across the hall.Nothing special."
