ZOE DEAN'S POV
I rolled onto my side, a soft purr escaping my lips as I drifted between sleep and wakefulness. My eyes fluttered open halfway before I blinked against the soft light filtering through the curtains. The space beside me was cold. Empty.
Nero's side of the bed.
For a moment, I just stared at it, disoriented, the faint scent of him still lingering on the pillow. My body still ached deliciously from this morning— a reminder of his touch, of how he'd worshiped every inch of me.
I sat up slowly, clutching the sheets against my bare chest. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Had he left? Without saying anything?
My gaze darted around — the chair, the dresser, the bathroom door — half-expecting him to step out any second. But he didn't.
Before I could dwell on the empty space beside me, my phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling me. The sound was sharp in the stillness. I reached for it, already guessing who it was.
Only one person ever called me anymore.
"Hey, girl!" I said cheerfully, trying to shake off the sleep and... the strange ache in my chest. It had been a while since I'd heard Fredda's voice.
"Hello, baby girl! You sound way too happy. What's going on with you?" she said, rapid-fire, just like always.
Her energy made me smile. "Well, a lot's happened since I left the bar. It's been... crazy."
There was a pause, then her skeptical voice came through. "Zoe, you sound suspiciously relaxed for someone who got taken. I thought by now you'd have escaped that motherfucker."
I swallowed, pressing my lips together before answering quietly, "Nero isn't really that bad, honestly. He's been... nice to me."
"Nice?" Fredda's voice rose, disbelief dripping from every syllable. "Zoe, that man is a killer! Nice isn't part of who he is. Have you even read about this guy? He's mafia. Everyone's terrified of him!"
"I know," I said softly. "But he hasn't been that person with me. I just... I don't think we should judge people until we've met them, you know?"
There was a long silence on her end. Then she sighed. "Zoe, this doesn't sound right. A killer took you, and you're defending him? Girl, most people would've escaped by now. But you— you're talking like you're on vacation."
Technically, I was. But I didn't say that as her words sank into me like small, stinging truths. She wasn't wrong. I'd had chances to run. Plenty, actually. But I hadn't. I hadn't even wanted to. The thought alone made my stomach twist with guilt.
"I know," I murmured. "But... when he gets back, I'll talk to him. Maybe he'll let me go. It's not because he's hurt me or anything— I just... miss you. And work."
There was silence again. I could hear her breathing, slow and uncertain. Then her voice came, softer this time.
"Zoe," she whispered, "have you... fallen for him?"
My breath hitched. I froze, fingers tightening around the phone. How could she ask that so directly? How could she know?
But the guilt rising in my throat gave her the answer before I could speak. Because yes— I had. Somewhere between the fear and the nights he held me, I'd let myself fall.
"Fredda…" I started weakly.
But she cut in, voice breaking. "Zoe, how could you? This was never the plan. Remember? We were supposed to save up, open the restaurant— get out of this life!"
"I know," I said quickly, my chest tight. "I didn't mean for it to happen, Fredda. But he's not what I expected. He makes me laugh. He makes me... feel safe."
Her silence stretched again, longer this time. I could almost feel her worry through the phone. Then, softly, she said, "Okay. I can't stop you. Just promise me you'll be careful, Zoe. You're the sister I never had. I don't want you to get hurt."
Tears pricked my eyes, but I smiled through them. "I understand. I promise."
She exhaled, the sound filled with relief and sadness. "By the way," she said suddenly, "a man came to the bar yesterday. Asked about you."
That caught my attention. "A man?"
"Yeah. Said he needed to see you. That it was important."
I frowned. "What did he say he wanted?"
"He claimed to be a relative. Said he wanted to protect you. He sounded anxious as hell, but I didn't trust him— I mean, the guy was creepy. Dark hair, tattoos everywhere, dangerous aura. Maybe mid-forties? Oh— and his name was... um..."
My pulse quickened.
"Michael," she said. "Michael Dean."
The phone nearly slipped from my fingers. My heart stopped, then started racing so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
It couldn't be.
"Did you say... Michael Dean?" I whispered.
"Yeah," she said slowly. "Why? Do you know him?"
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my hands trembling. "Yes," I breathed. "I do."
"Who is he?"
I closed my eyes. For a long moment, I couldn't speak. The world felt like it had tilted just slightly out of place.
Finally, my voice came out small, shaky, barely a whisper.
"That's... my father."