17. Lia
Chapter 17
Lia
Finding out my sister had an accident was the worst thing I could hear. Especially after I made a silent promise to our mother to keep her and Milly safe. But as Amara stares at the ceiling, looking so vulnerable and lost, with her beautiful face battered and her body bruised, I feel like a failure.
But I thank God she’s alive.
Harsh fluorescent lights in the hospital room cast an unforgiving glow, making Amara’s skin appear almost translucent.
I twist to the steady beep of heart monitors and the soft hiss of oxygen that provides the only sound in the room.
I turn back to Amara, my heart in my throat. Her gaze moves over my face, then down to my clothes. Her eyes, usually so sharp and striking, now bear a dull confusion as she looks at me. Finally, she asks the question I can’t bear to hear. “Who are you?”
And it hits me like an arrow in my heart. My breath catches, and for a moment, I can’t speak.
My sister, the one I’ve shared laughter, tears, and countless secrets with, doesn’t know who I am. The realization is an icy fist around my lungs, squeezing the air out of them.
“Amara,” I manage, my voice cracking. “It’s me. It’s Lia. Your sister.”
"Sister?" Her brow furrows, eyes searching my face with determined concentration. I see her struggle as she tries to remember. “I... I don’t...”
Everyone is in shock as we watch Amara as she stares, but says nothing more.
I look away from her face for a moment to her hospital gown. It’s pale blue and washes out her complexion further. Worse, it only just covers the tapestry of bruises that paint her body—rich purples, sickly greens, and bitter reds. My stomach churns.
I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The sight of her like this brings bile to my throat. My normally vibrant, confident sister, now silent as she lays in this sterile cage. It twists something deep inside me.
I have to remember she's alive. Each breath she takes is a minor victory, proof of her inner strength because when she was rushed into the hospital, her prognosis was dire.
The room feels suffocating, despite its spaciousness. I glance outside the large window. The Gold Coast city skyline glitters, oblivious to our private strife.
A doctor enters, his white coat a stark contrast against his tanned skin. His shoes squeak faintly on the polished floor as he approaches Amara’s bed. “Mr. de Luca?” His voice is kind but professional. “I have some updates on your stepdaughter’s condition.”
“I’m her sister.” How dare they go directly to my stepfather? A man who’s known her for less than a year. And I now know Dominic de Luca is not our stepfather, though I’m sure nobody else here does. “I’m her only blood relative in this room. Tell me?”
Dominic grunts as he twists in his chair and watches my stepmother, who followed the doctor into the room, still scanning through her phone. “Have you called her father?”
My stepmother’s eyes meet his, and she gives him a silent nod.
The doctor turns to me. I stand, my body tense as I brace for the news that I pray is good.
Dante stands beside me as the doctor speaks. My gaze darts nervously from Amara’s bruised face to Cade’s eyes filled with terror, as if he’s trapped in his own nightmare, one he can’t escape.
“Amara’s brain activity is showing signs of post-traumatic amnesia.”
“Amnesia…” three voices, including mine, say together.
The doctor continues matter-of-factly, “She was unconscious for less than an hour and, for that reason, we believe it’s temporary. But it often occurs after a head injury.”
“But it’s short term,” I murmur, shocked. “Does she know who we are?”
The doctor gives me a sympathetic look. “Patients may have difficulty forming fresh memories and recalling recent events. They might also struggle to recognize familiar faces or places. However, in cases like Amara’s, where unconsciousness was brief, it’s typically temporary. As her brain heals, memories should gradually return, though the events immediately surrounding the trauma may remain hazy.”
I slam my hand over my mouth as I catch Amara staring at me. Then there’s a flicker of... something. Recognition? But it fades as quickly as it appeared. “Are you a nurse?” she asks me. Her voice is weak, worse it's coated in anxiety.
“I’m your sister. I'm Lia. Remember?” I grip her hand tighter, as if the physical connection could somehow bridge the gap in her memory. “Do you remember that time we snuck out to the rooftop garden at the hotel in Brisbane? You wanted to see the stars without the city lights. We stayed up all night, and you taught me about the constellations.”
Her eyes meet mine, filled with complete confusion.
Tears roll down my cheeks, hot and relentless. “Or when you used to sneak into my room because you were convinced monsters lived under your bed?”
“Did they?” she murmurs.
“You’re not helping, Lia,” my stepmother hisses.
I shoot her a ‘fuck you’ look and turn back to Amara.
“No, you just never enjoyed sleeping alone.” I smile, stroking her cheek. Her eyes remain clouded as she stares at me. And I see nothing but confusion and distress. “And we liked to talk.”
She smiles, but it’s sad. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I want to remember. I really do.”
“But you don’t?” I swallow back a sob. “I'm your eldest sister. And Milly is coming soon. You have two sisters who love you more than anything in the world.” My strength crumbles as a pathetic sob escapes my lips.
“You seem nice. I want to remember.”
“You will remember.” Something inside me shatters as my promise to our mother—to keep my sisters safe—now feels like a mountain on my shoulders.
I’ve failed my mother.
I've failed Amara.
I lean forward, gently resting my forehead against hers, mindful of her injuries. Our tears mingle on the hospital pillow. “It’s okay,” I whisper, though it’s anything but. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s what matters. The rest... the rest will come back.”
My words are as much for my comfort as for hers. The ache in my heart deepens as I realize how my sister, so close in proximity, is right now, so distant in her current state of mine. I just hope it is temporary.
“What happened?” I ask Cade, trying to hold back my anger. His body is stiff as he perches on a chair beside Amara, hands tightly clenched.
Cade’s eyes, usually bright and determined behind his glasses, now dart restlessly around the room.
The flicker of various machine displays reflects in his lenses, but offers no comfort. It’s clear he’s having his own mental breakdown because up to now there’s been no word about Rafe.
We’ve been waiting for something—anything. A ransom note, a threatening call, even a grisly package. Or for the police department to release him, though they claim Rafe de Luca is not in any holding cell. Nobody knows, and the wait is agony.
He shakes his head, the motion stiff and heavy. “I didn’t know she was in the club.” He sighs.
In the background, a nurse quietly attends to Amara’s IV, checking on the flow of fluids.
“You normally would,” I accuse, my tone harsher than intended.
“I know.” Cade’s admission is quiet, almost swallowed by the constant hum of medical equipment. The ceiling lights flicker momentarily, casting a brief shadow across his anguished face. “But the police raid was so fast and the next thing I knew, I was checking the screens. It was crazy in the club. Screens froze, some blacked out. Then when I looked outside I saw a girl was running down the road, but I didn't know who she was. Rafe was missing, and I was panicking.” He grips his phone as he checks it again. “Where the fuck is Rafe?”
His last words are pure fear, so I don’t press him on Amara. He’s already distressed, his usual composed facade crumbling under the strain.
The absence of information about Rafe hovers over us. He might not be deep inside the mafia like Dante or the Conti brothers are, but he’s still the mafia. And each hour we don’t hear from him is more perilous than the last.
Across the room, Dominic’s composure finally shatters. His face, usually an impenetrable mask, now contorts with fury. He stands abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, causing everyone to stare.
He pulls out his phone, his jaw tics with anger. His fingers stab at the screen, and when he speaks, his voice is low, dangerous—a tone I’ve heard him use only a few times.
“This is Dominic de Luca. Put me through to the Chief … Now!” he commands. While he waits, his gaze falls on Amara, taking in her battered form, her confused eyes. His jaw tightens, the vein in his neck twitches beneath the skin.
When the call connects, his words come out in a controlled yet seething torrent. “Your incompetent staff nearly killed my stepdaughter. And once I have confirmation of the person who owns the plates to the car, there will be consequences.” He listens for a moment. “No, you listen. You work for me. The Club is out of bounds. That was the deal. And now tell me where the fuck my son is?” He grunts under his breath as he looks at Cade and then Dante, who is surprisingly quiet. “You’ve got an hour. Find out where Rafe de Luca is!”
He listens for a moment, his expression darkening. “Excuses! That’s all that you offer me? This is how you repay me?”
His voice rises, filling the room with his righteous anger. “I want answers. I want the officers responsible for the raid. I want someone accountable for my stepdaughter being in hospital with a head injury. And I want my son, unharmed, returned to me immediately. Otherwise, I’ll use every resource at my disposal to expose the rot in your department. Do you understand me?”
The sinister threat hangs in the air. But this is Dominic de Luca, applying the full weight of his position. His last words are chilling: “The clock is ticking. For your sake, I’d hate to lobby for a new chief of police … or worse.”
He ends the call and turns to us, his eyes blazing. His rage is a mirror of my own riotous emotions.
Looking at Amara, so lost in her own mind, and thinking of Rafe, missing and potentially in grave danger, an icy determination settles in my heart. We’re in this world now. A world with danger, but with that comes consequences. A world where someone killed my mother and harmed my sister, accident or intentional, that we don’t know.
But as I sit here, holding my sister’s hand, I make a silent vow. Because whoever is responsible will feel the full force of my wrath and it will be far from beautiful.
Because someone will pay.