Page 91 of Lupo

I've always been dangerous.

And losing my memory didn't change that. Just hid it for a while.

I wrap the gun back up carefully, hide it again behind the tools. Then I stand there in the growing darkness of the barn, trying to steady myself.

Isabella and Elena are in the house. Waiting for me. They don't know what I've just remembered. What I've just confirmed about myself.

They think I'm just a man who lost his memory. Someone trying to figure out who he is.

They don't know I'm someone who's killed with this exact weapon. Someone who gave orders that ended lives. Someone who—

"Lupo?" Isabella's voice carries from the house. "Are you coming in?"

I take a deep breath. Push the memories down. Try to remember who I am now, not who I was.

"Coming," I call back.

I walk toward the house, toward the light spilling from the kitchen windows, toward the sound of Elena's laughter. Toward the only good thing I've built in a life I can't remember.

And I pray that when I tell Isabella everything—when I explain what Ciro said, what it all means—she won't look at me differently.

Won't realize that the man she's let into her home, into her bed, into her daughter's life, is exactly the kind of monster she's been running from all along.

Chapter 26: Isabella

I watch through the kitchen window as Lupo crosses the yard from the barn. He moves slowly, like he's carrying something heavier than just his own weight. His shoulders are tight, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He looks like a man walking to his own execution.

Elena is finally asleep. It took three stories and two lullabies, but she's down. Which means whatever Lupo needs to tell me, we can say it without little ears listening.

The door opens and he steps inside. For a moment, we just look at each other across the kitchen. The space between us feels vast.

"Sit down," I say quietly, gesturing to the table. "I'll make coffee."

"Isabella—"

"Sit." My hands are shaking as I reach for the espresso pot. "Whatever you need to tell me, we're going to do it like civilized people. With coffee."

He sits. I can feel his eyes on me as I fill the pot with water, measure out the grounds, set it on the stove. The familiar ritual steadies me. Grounds me.

When the coffee is ready, I pour two cups and carry them to the table. Set one in front of him, wrap my hands around the other. The heat burns my palms but I welcome it.

"Tell me," I say.

He stares into his cup for a long moment. "I'm not just someone who worked for an organization." His voice is flat. Empty. "Iwas the boss. The Don. Head of one of the most powerful crime families in southern Italy."

The words hang in the air between us. I'd suspected something like this—had pieced it together from the expensive suit in the photo, the way those men deferred to him—but hearing it confirmed is different.

"How do you know?" I ask. "Did you remember?"

"Not exactly." He finally looks up at me, and there's something raw in his eyes. "The men found me at the work site today. Ciro, the man who came here. He told me what happened and gave me a gun. For protection. I hid it in the barn before coming to talk to you."

"Okay."

"But then I—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "I checked it. Made sure it was loaded, that the safety worked. And my hands just... knew. Every movement was automatic. Like I'd done it many times before. All my life."

I take a sip of coffee, buying myself time. "What else?"