The night after their visit to Romano's estate was long and sleepless. Damian hadn't spoken a word since they left. He'd spent hours in his office, the glow of his laptop casting sharp shadows across his face as he went through every file, every transaction, every name that could have betrayed him.
By dawn, he had his answer.
"Luca," he said, his voice rough from exhaustion. "Find the man who pulled the trigger at the villa. I don't care how. Just bring him to me."
Luca didn't ask questions. Within hours, Damian's men had scoured the city, shaking down informants, tearing through safehouses. By nightfall, they had him—a hired gun from Palermo, known for taking contracts no one else would touch.
They dragged him into the basement of the Moretti estate, his face already bloodied, his wrists bound behind his back.
Damian stood in front of him, silent, his expression unreadable.
The man spat blood onto the floor and sneered. "You think you scare me, Moretti? I've seen worse than you."
Damian's voice was calm, almost too calm.
"Then you haven't seen me angry."
He nodded once, and Luca's fist connected with the man's jaw. The sound echoed through the room.
"Who paid you?" Damian asked.
The man laughed, a wet, broken sound. "You already know. Romano."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "Try again."
Another blow. Then another. The man's laughter turned to groans, his defiance cracking with every hit.
Hours passed. The room smelled of sweat and blood. Damian didn't raise his voice once. He didn't need to. His silence was worse than any threat.
When Alessia finally came downstairs, the sight stopped her cold.
The man was slumped in the chair, barely conscious. Damian stood over him, his shirt stained, his knuckles raw.
"Damian," she said softly.
He didn't look at her. "You shouldn't be here."
"I had to be." She stepped closer, her voice steady. "Please, let me talk to him."
He turned then, his eyes dark and hollow. After a long pause, he stepped aside.
She knelt in front of the man, her voice low but firm. "Look at me."
The man's eyes fluttered open.
"You're going to tell him the truth," she said.
"Because if you don't, he'll kill you. And I won't stop him next time."
Her tone was calm, almost gentle, but there was something in it that made even Damian pause.
The man swallowed hard. "It wasn't Romano," he rasped. "The money came from one of Moretti's own accounts. Someone inside set it up."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Who?"
The man coughed, blood staining his lips. "I don't know his name. But he called himself Lupo."
Luca froze. "The Wolf?"
Damian's eyes darkened. "That's Matteo's old alias."
The man nodded weakly. "He said it was personal. Said you'd gone soft."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Damian turned away, his voice low and cold. "Get him out of my sight."
Luca dragged the man out, leaving only the sound of footsteps fading into the distance.
Alessia stood there, her heart pounding. "Matteo?" she whispered.
Damian didn't answer. He stared at the wall, his shoulders tense, his voice barely a whisper. "He was my brother."
She stepped closer. "You don't know for sure—"
"I do," he said, his tone final. "And now I have to finish it."
The storm outside had returned, rain hammering against the windows.
Alessia watched him walk away, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the hall. For the first time, she understood the kind of man she had married—one who carried his vengeance like a second skin, and who would burn the world to uncover the truth.