Page 3

She’s still screaming when I reach the car.

Her fists pound against my back, her legs kicking uselessly through the air. She shouts for help, spits curses, tries to twist out of my grip—but I don’t loosen my hold.

The staff lowers their eyes as we pass. The guards open the doors without question. No one dares interfere.

I wrench open the back door of the black Salvatore and lower her in—not gently. She hits the leather seat with a soft thump, her hair in a mess around her face.

She hasn't stopped talking since I got in beside her and shut the door.

“I could call the cops, you know!” she snaps, jiggling the locked handle again like the fourth time will work differently.

Her body jerks with the motion—sharp, unpredictable.

She’s folded into the corner of the back seat, half furious, half disoriented.

The oversized hoodie she’s wearing swallows her frame, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, revealing bandaged wrists and pale forearms still dusted with IV tape residue.

Every so often, her foot kicks the door. Not out of strategy. Just noise. Frustration.

Her hair’s down—thick waves of chestnut still damp from the hospital. It tangles around her shoulders and clings to her cheekbones. Stray strands stick to her lips as she talks.

Her eyes—hazel, gold-flecked, too wide—cut to me with the heat of accusation and absolutely no recognition. Like I’m just some man with a nice suit and a kidnapping habit.

“Mr. Driver,” she huffs, turning toward Mateo up front, “you can see I’m being kidnapped, can’t you? Are you really going to just sit there like this is normal?”

Mateo keeps his eyes on the road.

She slumps back, crosses her arms with dramatic precision, and lets out a heavy sigh.

“I know I have friends. I can’t be that weird. Someone out there misses me. I demand to see them. I demand answers. I demand—at the very least—water.”

I reach for the chilled bottle beside me and hold it out without a word.

She eyes it like it’s radioactive, then snatches it with both hands.

“I hope this isn’t drugged,” she mutters. She twists the cap with her teeth, spills some on her fingers, then gulps down half the bottle like she’s been crawling through desert sand.

I watch her.

She’s not the woman I remember.

Fioretta used to move with quiet intention. Everything measured. Everything withheld. She could sit in silence for hours without fidgeting. She never raised her voice. Never swore.

But this woman?

She’s alive in a way I haven’t seen in years. Even before the incident. There's color in her cheeks despite her pallor. Heat behind every glare. Restlessness in every limb.

We drive in silence for another ten minutes. Then the gates come into view.

She leans forward, squinting through the tinted window. “Where the hell are we?”

The iron gates of Villa Malavita part slowly, groaning open as if they remember her.

The gravel creaks beneath the tires. Towering hedges, thorned roses, perimeter guards.

Her eyes go wide.

She gasps.

The car rolls up to the circle drive. A line of men in black suits wait in formation—armed, precise, unsmiling.

The car stops.

I step out.

She doesn’t.

I wait.

Eventually, she opens the door just enough to peer out, one leg extending cautiously to the wet stone.

She rises.

Slowly.

Her gaze sweeps across the mansion’s arched windows, the limestone facade, and the massive black-iron crest above the entry. The smell of cold rain and steel fills the air.

She swallows hard.

Her voice is small. “Who did you say you were again?”

I glance at her. “Serevin Aurelio Accardi. Head of the Accardi Syndicata.”

She takes a full step back. “Like, the Mafia? The bad guys?” she gasps.

She really doesn’t remember.

“Listen, sir,” she says quickly, breath shallow. “You…you don’t want me. I don’t even know who I am. I just—”

Her voice cracks. She turns in place, searching the property, eyes wide and wild.

She clutches her chest. Her hand trembles around the empty water bottle. Her gaze darts between the guards, the gates, and the mansion’s high walls. Her chest rises too fast. Her hand grips the base of her throat like she’s choking on silence.

I step in front of her, lower myself just enough, and cup her chin gently with one hand, tilting her face to mine.

Our foreheads meet. Her skin is cold, damp with fear.

“Breathe,” I whisper.

Her lashes flutter. “I—I can’t.”

“You can,” I say. My voice stays low. “Trust me.”

I press my hand against the center of her back and draw her slightly closer. “In through your nose. Right now. Do it with me.”

I breathe.

She tries.

“Again,” I murmur. “Deeper. Good. Now out. Slow.”

Her shoulders drop with the exhale. A small one, but it's progress. Another breath. Then another.

Her body steadies against mine. Her heartbeat, once chaotic, begins to slow beneath my palm.

I wait one more beat before I pull back. Not far—just enough to look her in the eye.

“I promise,” I say, “you’ll understand everything. Soon.”

She doesn’t nod right away. But eventually…she does.

And then—together—we walk.

The mansion looms ahead. The guards along the front path stand at attention, heads bowed as we pass.

Then the moment breaks.

“Where have you been?” Emilia bursts from the main doors and runs straight for me, launching herself into my chest like she belongs there.

I barely register her weight before Fioretta moves.

She grabs Emilia by the hair.

Yanks her back and shoves her away with a force that stuns everyone in the courtyard.

Fioretta turns to me, wild-eyed. “Aren’t you my husband?” she snaps. “Why is she on you?”

Emilia stumbles, stunned. So am I.

Fioretta never reacted. Not to Emilia’s provocations. Not to her smirks, her games, her proximity. She was composed. Chillingly so.

But this?

This version doesn’t hold back.

“Fee?” Emilia says in breathy disbelief. “Is that you? Oh, my God—” She closes the gap and wraps her arms around Fioretta’s shoulders in a sudden, cloying embrace. “We all missed you so much.”

Fioretta stands stiff. She looks at me over Emilia’s shoulder.

“Who is she?”

Emilia looks at her and then at me, and then at her again.

I inhale slowly. “We’ll talk about that later.”

I motion to the guards to escort her upstairs.

I turn toward Emilia to pull her away—but then her voice cuts through the air behind me.

“I mean, you’re my husband, right?” Fioretta calls, voice rising. “Then you’ll lead me to my room. You’ll explain things to me until I understand. Or I’ll be on my way out.”

Emilia’s mouth parts. The guards glance at one another.

And I stand completely still.

She continues. “You know what? Fuck you. I don’t need you.”

She turns to one of the guards, steps closer with wild confidence.

“You,” she says, pointing. “Lead me to my room. You look handsome enough. I’ll suck your dick as a reward. Get me a phone, too. I need to call someone to get me away from my jerk husband.”

The courtyard drops into complete silence.

The guard turns scarlet. His spine straightens.

Fioretta walks past me, calm, bare feet slick against the stone. She doesn’t even look back.

The guard hesitates, then leads her inside.

I watch her go.

She never cursed. Never raised her voice.

But she just did.

And I have no idea what this version of her will do next.

^^^^

In my office, the fire burns low in the hearth behind me. I pour a glass of water, not for thirst, just something to do with my hands while Emilia circles like a cat who knows the walls are too high to escape.

“She doesn’t remember anything,” I say flatly. “Not her name. Not me. Not you.”

Emilia perches on the arm of the leather chair like it’s a throne made for her.

“Are you sure that’s her?” she asks. “I’ve heard of people who look alike. Maybe this is a mix-up. A double.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But the thought had crossed my mind. She has Fioretta’s eyes, her mouth, her voice.

And yet—she isn’t the same. She’s louder. Brighter. Unfiltered.

Emilia glides across the room slowly. “You must be stressed,” she says. “Shocked.”

Her hand reaches for my chest.

I catch her wrist before she makes contact. “I’m fine.”

She pouts. “I’m not. I’m scared, you know. She hurt me.”

“You provoked her.”

Her eyes narrow. “Whatever. You always blame me. You never care about me.”

I don’t answer that. I know her game. She throws bait, waits to be chased.

“If you’re staying here, Emilia, don't provoke her. You stay out of her way.”

She raises a hand, mock-innocent. “I won’t. She used to be my friend, remember? I have no ill intent.”

I don’t believe her. But I nod.

She leans in closer, a smile curling. “Good thing she can fight now. Maybe we’ll see who really deserves you.”

I smirk faintly. “I’m a married man.”

She steps even closer—too close. Breathes in, her nose brushing the side of my neck. Her breath is warm, sugary.

She lifts her chin, lips just inches from mine. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Then she walks away, hips swinging like a threat.

As she reaches the door, it opens—Cassian stepping through with a raised brow. Emilia tosses him a wink and meows like the predator she wishes she were.

He rolls his eyes. “The Jezebel can’t keep coming here. I don’t have enough holy water.”

She giggles down the hall.

The door shuts.

Cassian turns to me, straightening his sleeves. “The guards say Fee is back.”

I nod once. “She woke up today.”

“Does she remember anything?”

“No. Nothing. Total memory loss.”

Cassian frowns. “So what now? You gonna tell her everything?”

I look down at the glass in my hand. “Not yet. Maybe this is a good thing.”

“And if she remembers?”

I set the glass down. “Then I’m fucked.”

Cassian exhales, nods like that’s the most honest thing I’ve said in weeks. “Well. Good for you. And the Jezebel—is she still trying to crawl into your bed?”

“I’ll handle her. Keep the news quiet. Only Stefano’s cleared to know. Make sure Emilia’s not babbling.”

“Understood, Capo.” He turns to go, then pauses at the door. “What about you?” he asks. “How do you feel?”

I flash to the moment on the stone path—her skin against mine, her breath brushing my lips, her panic bleeding into my own.

I shrug. “I’ll live.”

Cassian smirks. “We’ll see.”

He salutes with two fingers and disappears into the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I reach for the cigarette case on the corner of my desk. It’s matte black, no emblem. I flick it open, press one between my lips, and strike the match by hand—old habit. The hiss and flare break the silence.

Smoke curls upward, thin and pale against the firelight.

I walk to the window.

Outside, the courtyard glistens with the remnants of rain. Beyond it, the walls of the west wing. Her wing now. Her light is on.

I get lost in memories, our wedding night.

The room smelled of rosewater and linen.

She sat on the edge of the bed in silence. Not curled up. Not seductive. Just…waiting.

The nightgown they gave her was ivory, sleeveless. High collar, delicate lace at the hem. Her hair was pulled back but coming loose, strands already curling around her temples from the humidity.

She looked too small on that bed. I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her.

She didn’t meet my eyes. I walked to her, slowly. The air in the room thickened with every step. She didn’t move.

When I stopped in front of her, I said it plainly. No warning. No apology. “Don’t expect me to love you.”

She flinched.

And then—a tear slipped from her chin. Not her eyes. Her chin.

Like she’d been holding it back too long to stop it now.

She sniffed, blinking hard, still not looking at me. “I won’t ask for it,” she whispered. “I won’t ask for anything.”

Something about that broke something in me. I didn’t know what.

I reached down and placed my hand under her chin. Tilted her face to mine.

Her eyes were glassy, but wide open. She didn’t close them when I leaned in.

I kissed her.

Not out of desire. It was something else. A quiet breaking. A question I wasn’t ready to ask out loud.

Our mouths met softly, hesitantly. I could feel her breath catch against my lips. The warmth of her skin. The scent of whatever soap she used—lavender and something sweet. Innocent.

I moved slowly, letting my mouth brush down the line of her jaw. Lower. Her pulse beat under her skin, rabbit-fast. I kissed the corner of her throat, just once.

Her shoulder rose as she exhaled, like she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

I reached up and slid one finger beneath the strap of her nightdress. It slipped off her shoulder with barely a sound.

I kissed the skin it revealed. She made a sound then, barely audible. Not pleasure. Not fear.

I lingered there, my lips pressed to her shoulder, feeling the tremble beneath.

I don’t remember what I thought at that moment. Only how still she was.

How close she felt.

The cigarette almost burns out in my hand.

I drop it into the tray.

Her window is still lit.

And I don’t know whether the woman behind it is my wife…or someone I’ll have to win all over again.