My anger starts to bleed away.
"And then we found her." His voice roughens on the last word.
For a second, I see it. Not the arrogant pain in the ass standing in front of me, but the man who was there when I got the phone call. Who went to the morgue with me.
"She wanted to keep us quiet." His gaze drops to the floor. "So I honored her request."
"Damiano—"
He raises a hand. "That's not all. I also couldn't do it. I just couldn't, Gabe." His eyes lift to mine. For the first time since I've known him, there isn't a trace of cockiness in them. Just pain. "I wouldn't have been able to stand there while people looked at me with pity or tell me how sorry they were. Not without killing them all.
"I loved her." His voice is barely above a whisper now. "And if nobody knew she was mine, then I got to grieve her in private. I didn't have to watch people mourn her. I didn't have to hear them say it out loud."
I stare at him. At the exhaustion carved into his face. At the grief he's been carrying by himself for three fucking years. Damiano has always been a lone wolf. The kind of man who would rather bleed out than ask for help.
I don't agree with what he did. But I understand. There were times I would have loved nothing better than to shoot the next asshole who told me how sorry he was. I get it.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head once, trying to recalibrate. Trying to make sense of something that keeps shifting under my feet. Suddenly, my mind goes to Ezara. The man who has been the grieving fiancé for the past three years. The one I've been picking off the streets and police departments. The one I thought I was keeping alive because Catarina loved him. Where does he fit?
"What about Ezara?" The name drops between us like a grenade.
Damiano stills. Just for a fraction of a second. But I see it. Guilt. My stomach drops.
"No…" I murmur, already shaking my head. "No, don't—don't tell me?—"
"Catarina broke it off," he doesn't stop. "A month before she and I…"
The rest doesn't even matter.
"A month," I repeat slowly. Too slowly. Dangerously slow. "And she—what?" I let out a sharp breath, disbelief turning into something darker.
Damiano doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
"Three months?" I press, my voice rising now. "Three fucking months, and I didn't know?"
What the fuck?
Ezara.
Crying.
Breaking down.
Clinging to me like his world had ended.
Was it all bullshit?
No.
A muscle jumps underneath my eye, because that part I don't believe. His grief was real. I know it was. Isawit.
"And you knew? All this time?"
Damiano shrugs. Almost casual, almost back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self. He knew. And he let me babysit that piece of shit. Probably laughing his ass off. The room feels too small. Too tight. I move before I think. Again. My fist drives forward. Aimed straight for his face. This time, though, he's ready. Damiano shifts just enough. The punch cuts through the air.
"Careful," he warns. "You get one because I figured I deserved it. Nobody gets a second." A flicker of a smirk. "Do it again, and people might think I let you."
I stare at him. My chest is heaving with anger; my blood is roaring in my ears.
