I saw the man I had defied the Capos for. The man I had shielded from the blood and the violence of my world so he could play god in a sterile white coat.
And then I looked at the kitchen door.
Casey pushed it open with her hip.
She was carrying a tray of coffee. She wasn't wearing a uniform. Instead, she wore a tight cashmere sweater that strained against her chest and jeans that looked painted on.
And there, dangling from her ears, were the vintage Chanel drops my father had given me for my twenty-first birthday.
I didn't blink.
I didn't scream.
I am a Pierce. We don't scream. We execute.
I turned my gaze back to Damian.
"You want to give a civilian nanny a salary that rivals my top lieutenants," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And you want to provide full medical coverage for her entire brood through the hospital."
Damian nodded eagerly.
"It is the right thing to do," he said. "We have so much, Ainsley. Why are you always so cold?"
He stepped closer, resting his hands on the table.
"It is just money. Dirty money, at that."
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
He had said the quiet part out loud. He was happy to spend the blood money, but he hated the source.
Casey set the coffee down. She lingered.
She placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, a casual, intimate gesture that made my stomach turn. I saw the way Damian leaned into her touch.
It was slight. Imperceptible to anyone who hadn't spent five years memorizing his body language.
But I saw it.
I looked at Casey.
"Nice earrings," I said.
She touched them, her fingers fluttering. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hicks. Damian gave them to me. He said they were just costume jewelry lying around."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Damian paled. He looked at me, terror flashing in his eyes.
He knew.
He knew that stealing from a Pierce was a death sentence. But he had gotten comfortable. He had forgotten that the woman sitting across from him wasn't just his wife; I was the daughter of the Don.
I stood up.
"Fire her," I said.
Damian straightened.
"No."
The word hung in the air.
He had never said no to me before. Not when it mattered.
"She stays," he said, his voice trembling with false bravado. "She needs us. I need her help with the house. You are never here, Ainsley. You are always with your father. You are always with the business."
He was projecting. He was trying to rewrite the narrative, painting me as the villain to justify his own sins.
I walked around the table. My heels clicked rhythmically on the marble floor.
I stopped inches from him.
I could smell her cheap vanilla perfume on his collar. It mixed with the expensive cologne I bought him, creating a scent that smelled like betrayal.
"Is this about her sons?" I asked.
My voice was a whisper.
Damian flinched.
"Do you want to play father to another man's bloodline because you can't give the Family an heir?"
His face drained of color.
He grabbed my arm. His grip was hard. Too hard.
"Don't you dare," he hissed. "Don't you speak of that."
He looked at Casey, terrified she would hear the truth about his broken body. About the shame that kept him awake at night.
I looked down at his hand on my arm.
Then I looked up into his eyes.
"You have five seconds to let go of me, Damian. Or I will remind you exactly whose blood runs through my veins."
