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"Fuck!" he roars, pacing now, dragging both hands through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. "No—no, this is?—"

He turns in a tight circle like he's trying to outrun whatever just hit him. Like if he moves fast enough, it won't be real. I stay where I am and watch. Because I've seen him violent. I've seen him kill. But this?

This is something else entirely.

He kicks the gravel hard enough to send it spraying. Grabs the car door. Slams it shut so hard the whole vehicle rocks. Then again. And again.

"This doesn't make sense," he spits, breathing hard, in a voice that's breaking at the edges.

"She would have—she would have fucking told me?—"

His gaze snaps back to the kid. Wild. Unstable. Terrifying. For a split second, I think he's going for his gun. My hand twitches. I get ready to stop him. If he shoots the girl, that's his call. I draw the line at kids, though. And I know he would never forgive himself if he shot the boy. He doesn't. Instead, he stalks back toward them. Slowly, reminding me of a predator closing in.

The woman squares up despite the cuffs, dragging the kid behind her.

"Stay away from him," she snaps, her voice shaking but strong. "I swear to God?—"

He doesn't even hear her. His entire world has narrowed to one thing.

The kid.

Damiano crouches in front of him. His hand comes up. Stops. Midair. Shaking. He looks at the ring again. Then atthe kid. Then back. Like he's trying to force the two things to separate. And failing.

"Catarina…" the name tears out of him.

Broken. Destroyed. Like it's been locked inside him for years and just shattered free.

Catarina? What the hell?

His hand finally closes. Not on the kid. On his own knee. Gripping hard. Like he needs something to hold onto.

"All this time…" he breathes, staring at the boy like he's seeing a ghost. "All this?—"

His voice cuts off. He doesn't finish. Can't.

He looks at me. "That's mine."

Not the ring.

The kid.

Damiano pulls himself together long enough for us to enter the house—mansion would be more accurate. Not that I'd ever saythat to his face. The place is exactly what you'd expect once you know his roots. Not Vegas flashy. Not gold-plated bullshit. Old world. Italian. Power without needing to prove it.

The entrance alone could swallow most penthouses whole. Marble floors stretch out beneath us, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the soft glow of a chandelier that looks like it belongs in a cathedral, not a private residence. The air is cool, faintly scented with something clean and expensive, leather, maybe, and citrus.

Two sweeping staircases curve upward on either side, deliberate and symmetrical, imposing enough to have come straight from one of those villas on Lake Como. They meet halfway up, forming a wide balcony that overlooks the entire entrance, perfect for watching who comes and goes. Or who gets dragged in. Below it, the space opens like a hub. Hallways branch off left and right, disappearing into the deeper parts of the house. Straight ahead, an open archway leads into a sitting room, low lighting, clean lines, the kind of space designed for quiet conversations that don't stay quiet for long.

Everything about this place says the same thing. Money. Control. Legacy.

None of it touches him. It's like all the things in Damiano's life; once he possesses it, it loses its appeal to him. He is the most restless person I've ever met. Never one to sit still or lean back. Not even for a moment to enjoy a victory. The moment he achieves his goal, he's already looking for a new challenge.

I jerk my head toward the woman and the kid, nod at Mauro. "Take them to the east wing. Guest room. Lock it down."

Mauro nods once, already moving.

"Watch them," I add, my gaze flickers briefly to the woman. "Especially her."

She glares at me like she'd rip my throat out if she could. I'd be disappointed if she didn't.