Dominic’s POV
The humid air clings to my skin as I step out of the black SUV, my jaw tight, my patience already paper-thin. Jamaica is beautiful, but I’m not here to enjoy the scenery.
I’m here to get answers.
The moment I learned the name Zachary Knight, I knew he wouldn’t talk willingly. Men like him only understand fear.
Lucian’s men already did their job. They tracked him down, dragged him from whatever hole he was hiding in, and now he’s sitting in a windowless interrogation room inside an abandoned warehouse.
I crack my knuckles as I walk inside, my mind clear, my purpose deadly.
I want the truth.
And I’ll tear it out of him if I have to.
***
The room is dimly lit, a single bulb swaying overhead. Zachary Knight is tied to a chair, his face bloodied, his lip split. He’s already tried to fight back, but my men made sure he understood his place.
I pull up a chair across from him, keeping my expression neutral as I sit down.
“Dominic Castellano,” Zachary mutters, spitting blood onto the floor. “I was wondering when you’d find me.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Then you know why I’m here.”
He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m not telling you a damn thing.”
I nod slowly, rolling up my sleeves. “That’s fine.”
And then I get to work.
I don’t waste time. I break his fingers one by one, each snap followed by a choked-out scream. I press the blade against his skin, making small, deep cuts along his arms. I let him feel the consequences of his silence.
By the time I press my boot against his chest and lean down, he’s panting, shaking, breaking.
“You have one chance,” I say, my voice calm, deadly. “Tell me what happened that night, or I swear to God, I’ll make sure you wish you never fucking lived.”
Zachary’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He looks at me, sees something in my eyes, and finally breaks.
***
He spills everything.
Selene’s father sold her.
To my father.
I feel the blood drain from my face as Zachary’s words cut through me like a blade.
“Your father and her father were in deep, Castellano,” Zachary gasps. “Shady business, debts, trafficking. Selene’s old man was desperate, drowning, and your father… he saw an opportunity.”
I clench my fists, rage curling inside me like a slow-burning fire.
“He wanted her,” Zachary continues. “Not just for one night—for good. Your father planned to take her, make her his wife. The night at the hotel? That was supposed to be the beginning.”
I can’t breathe. My father. The man I spent my entire life trying to live up to. The man I idolized.
A monster.
My stomach churns with disgust.
“Then how the hell did I end up there?” I demand, my voice like ice.
Zachary laughs weakly, shaking his head. “That was my mistake,” he admits. “I called you instead of him. You were at the club, already drunk. By the time I realized the mistake, it was too late to fix it. You showed up instead of your father.”
I exhale sharply, my head spinning.
“You were drunk when you got there, but you weren’t completely gone,” Zachary says. “You most likely had a one-night stand with Selene, but after you left? Your father’s men came in.”
The words slam into me.
I see red.
“You’re telling me she was fucking assaulted after I left?”
Zachary flinches at the raw rage in my voice but nods. “Your father drugged you when you got home. He didn’t want you to remember a damn thing. And it worked, didn’t it? You forgot.”
My hands tremble, my chest tightening with a storm I can’t contain.
But then—his final confession.
“And the other baby…” Zachary mutters, barely able to keep his head up. “I had to pay off Dr. Alison Margie to mark him as dead.”
A slow, suffocating silence fills the room. I stare at him, every muscle in my body locked in place.
“Why?” I whisper.
Zachary shakes his head. “I don’t know. All I know is your father wanted that baby gone.”
Selene’s POV
I pace the living room, my nails digging into my palms. Dominic hasn’t called. He left for Jamaica days ago, and since then, I’ve heard nothing. No updates. No answers.
But deep down, I already know—whatever he finds, it’s going to change everything. The door opens. I freeze as Dominic steps inside.
His shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up, his face hard—like a man who’s seen something he can’t erase. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and unreadable.
I swallow hard. “Did you find him?”
Dominic nods slowly, stepping closer.
My pulse pounds. “And?”
He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and throws something onto the table. A birth certificate for Santi.
I choke on a breath, my vision blurring.
“He’s alive,” Dominic says. His voice is rough, broken.