Page 87 of Lupo

The older man goes completely still. His eyes lock on me and his face transforms. Relief. Joy. And then confusion. He strides toward me, moving fast, and I tense. Ready to fight if I need to.

"Boss!" he shouts, and heads are turning now. Workers stopping to watch. "Boss, thank God! Where the hell have you been? What the fuck are you doing here?"

He reaches me and grabs my shoulders like he's going to hug me, but I step back, my hands coming up defensively.

"Who the hell are you?"

He stops, his expression shifting to confusion. "What? Boss, it's me. Ciro. What are you talking about? Who am I?"

"I don't know who you are." I keep my voice low. "And I'm not your boss."

"What kind of game—" He stops, really looking at me now. Taking in my work clothes, my longer hair, the confusion in my eyes. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes."

"You don't recognize me? Not at all?"

"No."

"Fuck." Ciro runs his hand over his face. "What happened to you? Are you—is this some kind of cover? Are you undercover or—"

"No, I don't remember anything. Not you, not where I came from, not who I am. Nothing."

Ciro stares at me for a long moment, and I watch him process this. See the moment he realizes I'm telling the truth. "You suffered a head injury," he says slowly. "When Dante beat you. It must’ve been worse than we thought."

"Who's Dante?"

"Your—" He stops himself, looking around at the watching workers. "We can't talk here. Please. Come with me. Just to the car. Five minutes is all I ask."

"I don't know you. Why would I go anywhere with you?"

"Because I have information you need. About who you are. What happened to you. Why you're here." His voice drops. "And because if I found you, others can too. People who want you dead. People who won't care about—" He glances toward theroad, toward where the farm is. "About anyone who gets in their way. Innocent people."

The mention of Isabella and Elena makes my decision. "Five minutes. That's all."

Ciro nods and leads me to one of the cars. We get in the back seat. His men stay outside, clearly standing guard but giving us privacy.

"My name is Ciro Moretti," he says. "I'm your—I was your second-in-command. Your friend. I've been searching for you since you disappeared weeks ago."

"Searching where?"

"Everywhere. Naples. Rome. Florence. Tuscany. We've been turning Italy upside down trying to find you." He pulls out his phone. "You really don't remember anything?"

"Nothing before waking up in a barn weeks ago."

"Where?"

I hesitate. "Near here. I was hurt. Someone helped me."

"The woman? The one at the farm? She seemed terrified when I showed her your photo. You look different now. The hair, the beard. And even your eyes—" He shakes his head. "It’s weird. You’re the same person, but you’re different."

"I am different. I'm not whoever you think I am."

"Yes, you are. You just don't remember." He scrolls through his phone, then shows me a photo. "This is you. A few months ago."

The photo shows me—but not me. Clean-cut, wearing an expensive suit, standing with other men in what looks like an office. I look powerful. In control. Completely different from the man I see in the mirror every day.

"That's not—" I start, but I can't finish. Because it is me. The face is mine, even if everything else is wrong.