2. Emilia
What am I doing here?
And why won’t he leave me alone?
I don’t know which question makes me shiver harder or makes my blood run colder. I only know I have never wrestled this kind of confusion and dread in all my life.
At least, the life I can remember.
It’s easier when he’s here to pretend I’m asleep. Sure, I feel sort of childish, but I would rather feel like a child than endure this guy’s constant, penetrative stare. I feel it even when he’s in the next room with a glass door between us. I can almost taste the expectation in his gaze. It makes me want to rip my skin off and scream until my throat bleeds.
Now I know what it means to be an animal in a cage.
Even now, I have to consciously calm myself down when panic threatens to undo me. It’s a good thing they removed the heart monitor yesterday, so at least he can’t hear the effect he has on me. He’d probably demand a nurse come in if he heard the beeping get faster. He’s that obsessed with every aspect of my care and condition.
I don’t understand it. No matter how hard I concentrate, there’s no memory of him. Nothing personal or meaningful. He could very well have been the man who put me in this bed for all I know.
What do I know for sure? I know there’s a constant ache in the back of my head. I know somebody hurt me badly enough to land me in the hospital and wipe out the last few months of my life—at least. I vaguely remember this past summer. I remember being assigned a partner at work, though I can’t remember who it is. Mom and Dad were supposed to take their trip to Australia this autumn, weren’t they? Are they still there? Would Luca know if I asked him?
Luca. Luca Santoro. The name rang a bell when I saw it on the news today, but the photo they shared of the men in the Santoro family sealed it. There was the father and his two sons—Dante, the underboss, and the younger son, Luca. Handsome, more so in person.
But dangerous.
It doesn’t matter that he treats me so sweetly, like he’s concerned for me. As if he’d die without me, desperate and aching, always hoping I’ve uncovered more of my memory. It doesn’t matter that he acts like I mean something to him. Anybody can pretend. Especially a notorious criminal like him.
Either he’s lying to me about us having a past, or it’s something else. Was I undercover? That’s the only other explanation I’ve been able to come up with as I lie here alone, sometimes praying for the next dose of pain meds to help me get through the worst of my headache. I hate the way they make me feel, all loopy and foggy. Still, it’s better than suffering.
He told me I resigned. Is that true? Why would I? Then again, how did he know about the scar on my arm, which hasn’t been visible to him thanks to the sleeves of my hospital gown? How did he know I sometimes notice numbness and tingling in my right hand? Strangely enough, his explanation brought me relief. I was starting to wonder if I was imagining the tingling, like it was all the result of my head wound. But now it makes sense, even if the implications chill me.
You would think I’d remember something so monumental, being shot and walking away from the only career I’ve ever wanted.
You would think I would remember being with this man.
If I could only talk to somebody I know and trust, except he won’t let me have my phone. Another reason for me not to believe him. He seems caring, but how concerned can he be if he won’t let me contact anybody else in my life? I could at least call the station to confirm his explanation. But no, that’s something else he won’t let me do, which doesn’t exactly make me trust him any more than I already do, which isn’t saying much since I don’t trust him at all. How can I when I’m supposed to be one of the good guys, and he is most definitely not playing on my team?
Was I working on a case involving the family?
Concentrating hard only makes my head hurt worse, but that’s what I need to do more than anything. I need something to focus my confused and conflicting thoughts. Rolling onto my side, I face the wall, my eyes closed quickly in case he’s watching from the other room and takes consciousness as a sign I want to have a chat. That’s the last thing I want or need. All he does is confuse me more than ever because if I didn’t know better, I would swear there’s genuine tenderness and concern in every word he utters.
My instincts are usually spot on—that much I remember. I can’t believe a head injury would shake them up so badly. As far as I know, I’ve been here five days, and already, I’m thinking clearer, remembering more each day. Like the way I recognized Luca the day after our disastrous first meeting when all I could do was cry and feel like an alien who just landed on a strange new planet.
I need to believe more will come back in time.
What happens if I remember something horrible about him when it’s already too late for me to protect myself?
What a time for the sweet scent of roses to catch my attention. Easing one eye open, I stare at the deep red blooms. They’re enormous, so fragrant, and seeing them makes me smile despite knowing who they came from. He knew my favorite flower. I mean, I’m sure roses are a lot of people’s favorite flowers. Still, what if he had gotten it wrong and proved he doesn’t know me?
The son of a notorious mob boss wouldn’t take a stupid risk.
Why would I get involved with him in the first place? It couldn’t only be physical, no matter how gorgeous he is. It doesn’t matter that he walks into the room and instantly commands it or that my heart tends to skip a beat when I first see him—even feeling like I do, there’s no denying it. That’s not enough of a reason for me to turn away from everything I ever thought I wanted and toward a man whose life is based on crime and destruction.
There’s a brief knock on the door leading out to the hall, and I roll over, sitting up a little in anticipation of lunch. If there’s one thing hospitals thrive on, it’s sticking to schedules.
“How are we feeling?” I recognize the orderly who wears a friendly smile as he nudges the door open, tray in hand. “It feels pretty heavy. I think they doubled up your fries.” He winks playfully.
“Did you tell them how much I loved the French fries?” My mouth is already watering at the thought. Hospital food is supposed to be gross, though that hasn’t been my experience. I wouldn’t call it gourmet or anything, but it’s tasty.
“When you wouldn’t stop raving about them last night?” He laughs as he places the tray on my table, which he wheels closer to the bed. “Whatever it takes to get our patients feeling better. At least, that’s my opinion.”
A deep, sharp voice slices its way between us. “Something you need?”
We both look toward the partly open door leading into the other side of the suite, where Luca now stands with his feet planted at shoulder-width, arms folded, and eyes blazing. It’s enough to make my heart almost jump out of my chest, and I’m not the one he’s glaring at.
He jerks his chin, sneering at the orderly. “Your hearing messed up?” Luca prompts when he doesn’t get an answer.
“He’s dropping off my lunch,” I explain, though it’s unnecessary. He knows damn well why this kid is in here, a kid who looks ready to pee his scrubs as he stands beside my bed. I’m glad he put the tray down before Luca decided to come in and act like a raging jackass.
Luca’s mouth barely opens when he grunts out, “He dropped it off. Time to go.”
I look up at the kid whose name I don’t know, hoping he’ll look my way so I can at least mouth the words I’m sorry. No such luck. He’s busy gaping at the murderous man currently intent on terrifying him.
The terror deepens when Luca arches an eyebrow. “You need an escort? Move your ass.” He growls, and that’s enough to get the kid moving fast. It’s a miracle he doesn’t trip over his feet on his way out the door.
He’s barely out of the room before I have to say something. Forget fear. I’m too busy being pissed. “I have an idea. Why not alienate everybody on the hospital staff?” I ask with a sigh.
Luca tips his head to the side. Can he honestly be surprised by my reaction? “Excuse me?” he asks with a snort.
“He was doing his job.”
His lip curls in a sneer. “His job is to flirt with you?”
So this is how he treats women who supposedly mean the world to him. Like they’re his possession. I shouldn’t be surprised. “He wasn’t flirting,” I insist. “He was friendly and professional.” And making me glad he’s around, which is something I can’t imagine you ever doing. I doubt I’d get far if I said that out loud.
Barking out a laugh, he asks, “That’s what you consider professional?”
This man is insufferable. “All I’m saying is, let’s maybe not make everybody afraid to come in here and take care of me. How am I supposed to get better?”
His thick lashes flutter over a pair of impossibly dark orbs, and some of the fire drains from them before his head bobs once. “Understood. I’m not trying to get in the way of your care. But I’m going to have my eyes on whoever comes in or out. That’s not going to change.”
And I’m supposed to love this person? Plan a future with him?
Attraction is one thing. I can imagine being attracted to him. I am now, surprisingly enough. Even with the back of my head aching with every beat of my heart, I notice the patch of tanned skin revealed by his open shirt, hinting at a broad chest and the suggestion of a tattoo occasionally peeking out when he moves. The thick arms under his sleeves, the way his slacks seem to strain around his thighs when he sits. I’m only human, and he is way too much eye candy to pretend otherwise.
But in a relationship with a brute like him? I’m almost positive this was a double cross. Like I only pretended to resign so he’d trust me and allow me into his inner circle. That means I have no idea what I can and can’t say, what he does and does not know. The idea of us being any more than a detective and the man she was supposed to investigate is impossible. No matter how I try, I can’t wrap my mind around it. He’s a criminal, a murderer, and the complete opposite of who I try to be. I’m one of the good guys.
Aren’t I? Because as much as I want to turn away from the idea, there’s no ignoring it. I’m missing months of my life in which anything could have happened. I don’t know who I am any more than I know the man standing in front of me now. It’s horrifying, and there’s no one to turn to. No one I trust and can get a hold of.
He jerks his chin toward the tray and clears his throat. “You had better eat while it’s hot,” he grunts out. “It smells good.”
Even though it’s the last thing I want, I blurt out, “Do you want some?” I lift the lid from the plate, and sure enough, a handful of French fries comes spilling off the tower somebody in the cafeteria gifted me. Why would I ask that? I don’t want to spend a minute with him, much less share my food.
His lips stir in what might be the beginnings of a smile, but he shakes his head. “No, thanks. I’ll be out here if you need anything.” With that, he exits, returning to the sofa where he left his phone.
As I watch, munching on a fry, he picks it up, then sits down, typing something. I wonder what it is and if I’m supposed to be documenting his actions and behaviors to report back. I doubt somebody could blame me for slacking off a little, all things considered. I won’t believe I resigned until somebody confirms it for me. It would be much too convenient for him to take advantage of my condition and say whatever it is he thinks will help him. I’m not going to buy into his explanations blindly.
How the hell long is it going to take for me to get better? It needs to happen fast because I am lost in the dark, completely on my own.
It doesn’t help that I can’t stop watching him as I eat, admiring his sharp profile and impressive body without meaning to. I need to get better before I do something stupid, like developing a crush.
Or worse.
According to him, I’ve already fallen in love with him once. If that”s true, I can’t afford to make the same mistake again.