Page 80 of Lupo

I look out the window at the farm—the garden we planted together, the fence he fixed, the home we've built from nothing.

And I pray that somehow, someway, we get to keep it.

But I don't believe in prayers anymore.

I believe in survival. In doing whatever it takes to protect the people I love.

Chapter 23: Lupo

I know something's wrong the moment I see the truck.

It's parked at an angle, like Isabella pulled in fast and didn't care about straightening it. The driver's door is still open.

My pace quickens. By the time I reach the house, I'm nearly running.

She's in the kitchen, pacing, her hands shaking. When she sees me, relief floods her face.

"Lupo. Thank God."

"What happened?" I'm already scanning the room, looking for threats. "Is Elena okay?"

"She's fine. She's in her room. But—" She stops, pressing her hands to her face. "They found him. They found the car."

Everything in me goes very, very calm.

This is the response I've been trained for. I know that now. Whatever I was before, I was someone who dealt with crisis. Who stayed level when everyone else panicked.

"Tell me exactly what you heard."

She tells me about the two men at the market, talking about hikers finding a car in a ravine. A body inside. Dead for weeks. They're working on identification.

When she finishes, she's trembling. "We need to leave. We need to pack up and—"

"No." I take her hands, stilling them. "Calm down. We don't need to run. Not yet. Maybe not at all."

"But they found him. They'll identify the car, trace it to Draco, figure out he came here—"

"That will take time. Weeks, maybe months. A decomposed body doesn't give up its secrets easily." I lead her to a chair, making her sit. "And even if they identify him, there's nothing connecting him to us. Nothing connecting us to that car."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I was careful." The words come easily. Too easily. "I wiped down everything. The steering wheel, the door handles, the gear shift. Anything I might have touched. I used my shirt sleeve to push the car, so no palm prints. No fingerprints anywhere."

She stares at me. "You... how did you know to do that?"

"I don't know. I just did." But that's not entirely true. I do know. Because I've done it before.

The memory surfaces, vivid and terrible.

A different car. A different body. Nighttime, a shipping container yard near the Naples port. Me, younger, maybe mid-twenties. Wiping down a vehicle while another man waits nearby—someone older, more experienced, supervising. Teaching me. "Always wipe the wheel twice. Door handles, gear shift, rearview mirror. Even the trunk release."

I was learning. Being trained.

"Lupo?" Isabella's voice pulls me back. "You're somewhere else."

"I'm remembering." I meet her eyes. "Isabella, I need to tell you something. About the memories that have been coming back."

"Okay." She's trying to stay calm, but I can see the fear in her eyes.