"What do you mean? We moved from Spain when I was eight. After our parents died from a car accident, Aunt Melinda adopted us and brought us to Argentina from Madrid."
"There are no records of your birth in Spain nor your parents' accident," Damiano says softly, his thumb brushing a stray hair from my face, watching me closely to see if I’m hiding something from him. "No adoption papers. No migration records for you, Mateo, or for this woman who adopted you. Whoever moved you across the ocean erased you first. Do you remember anything about your parents?"
I stare at him, my mind spinning. I close my eyes and lie on my back, massaging my head that’s starting to hurt, and try to reach back into the hazy memories of my childhood, but just like before, it’s just a blur of cobblestone streets and some voices.
"I... I was too small," I stammer. "I barely remember our parents. Just flashes. And Aunt Melinda... she never really talked much about them. She said she never knew them. Mateo, he didn’t like talking about them at all."
Damiano’s jaw tightens. He pulls me back against his chest, his hand stroking my spine again.
"I’m sorry, Dolcezza."
I rest my cheek against the steady, calculated rhythm of his heart, letting out a trembling breath. But as the silence stretches between us, the realization hits me like a splash of ice water.
I thought I was manipulating him into giving me information, but instead, he gave me a piece of the puzzle so I would willingly hand over mine. He used my desperation tocross-examine me about my own past without me even realizing it.
I stifle a heavy sigh, curling my fingers tighter into his chest. I thought I was directing this scene, but he just played me right back.
He is a master at this game. My blood runs cold. Mateo kept secrets from me. He lived in a dangerous world I knew nothing about. And could Damiano be right? Does this have to do with the past I can barely remember?
I keep my face buried in Damiano's neck so he can't see the sudden rage in my eyes. I trail my nails lightly down his chest, forcing my muscles to relax, playing the part of the terrified girl until the bitter end.
"Thank you," I whisper against his skin, my voice muffled. "For keeping me safe."
"I won’t let anyone hurt you again," he vows, kissing the top of my head.
"I know," I murmur.
A loud knock on the heavy oak doors of the suite shatters the quiet.
Damiano sighs before he untangles himself from me. I watch as he slides out of bed, completely unbothered by his nakedness, his muscles flexing as he reaches for his trousers on the floor.
"Go get dressed," he says, pulling his pants up and buckling them. "I’ll tell the hairdresser you’ll meet her downstairs."
As soon as he’s gone, my needy, terrified facade drops like a curtain. I sit up, pulling the silk sheet over my chest. Everything I knew about my life seems to be a lie, and the men who killed Mateo hold the truth.
I look at my reflection in the massive vanity mirror across the room. My gaze drops to the cuff locked around my wrist. The three rubies embedded in the metal catch the light.
I run a hand through my hair, my eyes shifting slowly from the crimson stones back to my reflection.
"No blonde," I whisper, my voice entirely devoid of the fragility I just used on him. "Red. Like spilled wine."
Chapter 20
Katarina
Two Days Later
The morning light fills the garden with an unforgiving brightness. I sit on a weathered stone bench, facing the massive fountain with an angel statue at its center. The sound of water cascading over stone tries—and fails—to drown out my racing thoughts.
I run my fingers through my newly dyed hair, the red wine waves catching the sunlight, glowing like fire. For the first time since Mateo died, I no longer feel like a victim. The fear that used to sit in the back of my throat has turned into anger. Dark, seething anger.
I am done running.
I am done crying.
It’s time someone paid for what happened to Mateo.
Fueled by hate and the intimacy I’ve shared with Damiano over the past days, I’m determined to seek the justice my brother deserves.
