Page 38 of Lupo

My heart stops. "What?"

"Do you like him? Like how people like each other in stories?"

"I..." How do I answer this? How honest can I be with my three-year-old? "I think he's a good man, Elena. So, the answer is yes, I like him."

"Me too." She yawns. "I think he should stay forever."

"We'll see, baby."

"Will he?"

What can I possibly tell her?

I don't know if he'll stay or if his memory will return or if the men from the market will find us or if Draco will track us down. I don't know anything for certain.

Except that I want him to stay.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

"Sleep now," I tell her, kissing her forehead. "Dream about nice things."

"Okay, Mama."

I turn off the light and close her door, then stand in the hallway for a long moment, trying to steady myself.

This is dangerous, not just because of the external threats, but because I'm letting myself want something I can't have. I'm building a dream that will shatter the moment reality catches up with us.

But maybe, just for a little while, I can pretend it's real.

Chapter 13: Lupo

I wake up thinking about the way Isabella kissed me last night.

Soft. Deliberate. Like she was choosing me with full awareness of what I might be.

The memory should make me happy. Instead, it fills me with dread.

Because she doesn't know. She suspects, yes. But she doesn't truly know what I am, what I've done. And when she finds out, when I remember, it's going to destroy whatever fragile thing is building between us.

I’m a bad man.

I know this deep in my gut.

I force myself out of bed and get to work. The henhouse needs a new support beam. The old one is rotting through. Simple work. Mindless. Exactly what I need.

I'm measuring the lumber when I hear Elena's laugh from inside the house. High and bright and innocent.

Then I think about the men at the market. About Draco Vitale. About anyone who would hurt that little girl or her mother.

The rage comes swift and cold again, murderous thoughts swirling through my brain.

I pick up the hammer, positioning the nail, and swing hard.

And suddenly I'm somewhere else.

A warehouse. Concrete floors. The smell of motor oil and blood. A man on his knees in front of me, begging. Tears and snotrunning down his face. He's saying something in Neapolitan, pleading for his life.

I raise the hammer high above my head.