Chapter 9 Lupo
Ten days.
I've been here ten days, and I still don't know my name.
Lupo doesn't count. That's Elena's gift to me, not my memory. But I answer to it now, and it feels less wrong every day.
I've fallen into a routine. Wake with the sun, work on whatever needs fixing. I've replaced three fence posts, repaired the barn door, rehung two shutters. Eat the simple meals Isabella brings me. Work some more until my ribs protest or my head starts pounding. Then rest until evening.
And every night, after Elena goes to bed, I come to the house to shower.
It's become a ritual we don't talk about. Isabella appears at the barn door around eight, nods once, and I follow her inside. She points me toward the bathroom, hands me a towel if I don't already have one, then disappears into the kitchen or her room while I clean up.
We barely speak during these exchanges. But I'm aware of her every time, the way she moves, the sound of her breathing, the fact that she's just on the other side of the wall while I'm naked and scarred.
Tonight is no different. I've been working on the porch steps, two of them were rotting through, and I'm covered in sawdust and sweat when she appears.
"Elena's asleep," she says quietly.
I nod and follow her across the darkening yard. The house is warm inside, lit by a few lamps. It smells like the vegetable soup we had for dinner.
She hands me a towel. Our fingers brush, and I pull back too quickly. She notices but doesn't comment.
"Take your time," she says, then retreats to the kitchen.
I close the bathroom door and lean against it for a moment, trying to calm the tension that's been building in me.
This is dangerous. Not the shower. Not the proximity. The way I'm starting to feel about her.
I strip off my shirt, and that's when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The injuries from the beating are mostly healed now, the bruises faded, the swelling gone. But the old scars I try to avoid thinking about are stark against my skin in the lamplight.
The long knife wound across my ribs. The circular mark on my bicep. Another jagged scar on my shoulder I can't quite see the full extent of. And more, smaller ones, some barely visible, others pronounced.
A map of violence written on my body.
What must Isabella think when she sees these? Because she has seen them. I know she has. A few days ago, I was working on the fence in the afternoon heat and stripped off my shirt. When I turned around, she was watching from the kitchen window. Our eyes met for just a moment before she looked away.
She didn't bring it up. Didn't ask. But I saw the question in her eyes.
What kind of man has a scarred body like mine?
I should tell her. Warn her that whoever I am, whatever I was, it wasn't good. The evidence is carved into my skin.
But I don't. Because if I tell her, she'll ask me to leave. And I'm not ready for that. Not yet.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, trying to wash away more than just the day's dirt.
Trying to wash away the guilt of lying to her.
The fear of what I'll remember when my memory returns.
The growing certainty that when the truth comes out, it's going to destroy whatever fragile peace I've found here.
When I'm clean, I dry off and pull on the clothes I brought, another of her father's shirts and a pair of work pants that are becoming familiar. I look at myself in the mirror one more time.
Who the hell are you?
The question haunts me. Every day, I wait for something to click.
For a memory to surface. But there's only fragments.
Flashes of things I can't quite grasp. The taste of espresso.
The feel of tools in my hands. A word in Neapolitan dialect that I didn't realize I knew until it slipped out yesterday.
And instincts. So many instincts that don't belong to a carpenter or a farmhand.
Like the way I automatically check exit routes in every room. The way my body tenses when I hear a car on the distant road. The way I assessed the kitchen knives the first time I saw them, noting which one would be best for fighting.
These aren't the thoughts of a good man.
I open the bathroom door and almost walk straight into Isabella.
She steps back quickly, and I see her eyes drop to my chest, to where the shirt hangs open because I haven't buttoned it yet, before she catches herself and looks away.
"Sorry," she says. "I was just. I brought you tea. I thought you might want some before you go back to the barn."
She's holding a cup, steam rising from it. The offer is so domestic, so normal.
"Thank you." I take the cup, careful not to touch her hands this time.
But she doesn't move away. Just stands there in the narrow hallway, close enough that I can see the pulse beating at her throat.
"Lupo," she says quietly. "Your scars."
I can’t look at her. "What about them?"
"Where did you get them?"
"I don't remember." It's the truth, even if it's not the whole truth. "I wish I could remember."
"But you know what they are. What they must mean. The things you went through to get them."
I look at her. This woman who's given me shelter and food and kindness when she had every reason not to. She deserves honesty, even if I don't have much to give.
"Yes," I admit. "I know what they mean. Or at least I suspect what they must mean."
"Tell me."
"The one on my ribs is from a knife. The round one is probably a bullet. The others." I gesture helplessly. "Violence. A lot of it."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. "You were stabbed. Shot."
"Yes, probably."
"And you survived."
"Obviously."
"That's not normal, Lupo. People don't just survive things like that over and over by accident. What were you?" Her voice is steady, but I can hear the fear underneath. "Military? Police?"
I want to lie. Want to tell her something that will make her feel safe. But the scars don't lie, and neither will I.
"No, I don't think so," I say quietly. "I think I was something worse."
She takes a small step back, and the distance feels insurmountable.
"Are you dangerous?" she asks. "Right now, are you a threat to me? To Elena? You should tell me if you are. Please."
"No." The word comes out fierce, certain. "I would never hurt you. Either of you."
"How do you know that? You don't even know who you are."
"I know it deep inside me." I set the tea down on the small hallway table, needing my hands free, needing her to see I'm not a threat. "Whatever I was before, whatever I did, I know I wouldn't hurt you. I feel that as strongly as I feel anything."
She searches my face, looking for the lie. But there isn't one.
"I should ask you to leave," she says finally. “You could be dangerous to us. A threat.”
"Yes. You should."
"It's the smart thing to do. The safe thing."
"Yes."
"But I'm not going to."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
"Why not?" I ask.
She's quiet for so long I think she won't answer.
Then, "Because I think you're right. I think you were something bad.
Maybe something terrible." She takes a breath.
"But I don't think you are anymore. And I don't know if that's because you lost your memory or because something in you changed, but.
.." She trails off, shaking her head. "I should be smarter than this. "
"You should," I agree. "I'm a risk. A liability. You don't owe me anything, Isabella. You truly don’t. You’re not obligated to me in any way."
"I know."
We stand there in the narrow hallway, too close and not close enough, the air thick with everything we're not saying.
I want to touch her, want to close the distance between us and see if she'd pull away or lean in. Want to know if this thing I'm feeling, this pull, this need, is mutual.
But I don't move. Because she's right. I am dangerous. Even if I don't fully remember why, I can feel it in my bones. And she deserves better than whatever darkness I'm carrying with me. What if I’m capable of hurting her and Elena?
"I should go," I say, though I don't move.
"Yes," she agrees. But she doesn't move either.
For one heartbeat, two, we just look at each other. Then she takes a step back, breaking whatever spell was between us.
"Goodnight, Lupo."
"Goodnight, Isabella."
I pick up the tea and walk past her, careful not to brush against her in the narrow space. Out the door, across the dark yard, back to the barn alone where a man like me belongs.
But I can still smell the lavender sprigs from her kitchen. Can still feel the weight of her gaze on my scars.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm in big fucking trouble.
Not because of whoever's looking for me. Not because of whatever violent past I'm running from.
But because when my memory returns, it's going to ruin everything.