Something cold settles in my stomach. "Thanksgiving? Twelve years ago?"
He nods, finally turning to face me. His eyes are haunted. "November 25th. I killed the man. But it was too late."
My hands feel numb. November 25th, twelve years ago. The exact date Byron told me my father was murdered. By Damiano.
"Did you know the man you killed?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damiano shrugs. "Some hired gun. I never knew his name." He turns back to the stove. "I dream about it sometimes. Finding her there, bleeding. Not being able to save her."
I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. My father was supposedly killed by Damiano on that exact night. But if Damiano was at his country house, finding Bianca, killing her attackers...
Something doesn't add up. Either Damiano killed two different people that night, or...
My throat feels tight.
Damiano sets the wooden spoon down and turns to face me. His brow furrows.
"Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I press my palm against the cold countertop, needing something solid to ground me. My mind races, trying to process what I've just heard. The date, the timing—it can't be a coincidence.
"I'm just... shocked," I say, and it's not a lie. "The cruelty of it. Killing a pregnant woman."
My voice catches. I'm being honest about that part—the horror of it makes me sick. But there's more swirling in my mind that I can't share.
My father was killed in the city that night.
In Manhattan. November 25th, twelve years ago.
"I don't talk about it anymore." His voice is flat, controlled. "My heart died that night. I buried it with Bianca."
I stay silent, watching him. Everything Byron told me is crumbling under the weight of this new information. If Damiano wasn't in Manhattan that night, he couldn't have killed my father. But if he didn't, then who did? And why did Byron lie?
"Since I've met you," Damiano continues, softer now, "I'm starting to feel some broken parts coming back alive." He looks up, meeting my eyes. "I didn't think that was possible."
I feel terrible. Confused. The mission I've dedicated my life to suddenly seems built on quicksand. If Byron lied about Damiano killing my father, what else has he lied about?
"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else to offer. The words feel hollow, inadequate for either his pain or my turmoil.
My hand shakes as I pick up the knife again, trying to focus on the simple task of chopping vegetables while my entire world tilts on its axis.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Istare at the figures on the financial report Enzo handed me, but the numbers blur together. My thoughts keep drifting back to Chicago, to Zoe.
"Damiano? Did you hear anything I just said?" Enzo's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I blink, refocusing on my brother's face. "What?"
Enzo sighs, leaning back in his chair. "The Colombian shipment numbers. They're down fifteen percent from last quarter."
"Fuck." I run a hand through my hair. "What's Rivera's explanation?"
"Something about increased border security. I'm not buying it." Enzo narrows his eyes at me. "But that's not what's interestingme right now."
"What then?"
"You." Enzo studies me like I'm one of his financial puzzles. "You've been somewhere else since you got back from Chicago yesterday. I've been talking for ten minutes, and I know you haven't heard a word."
