Chapter 11 Lupo
I can't sleep.
I'm lying on the hay bales in the barn, wrapped in the blankets Isabella gave me, staring at the wooden beams overhead. But all I can see is her face when she told me about Draco Vitale.
The way her voice went flat when she described the abuse. The way her hands shook when she talked about the night he broke her arm. The way she unconsciously touched her wrist, like the bone still remembered breaking even if the fracture had healed.
And I feel something I haven't felt since I woke up with no memory.
Rage.
Pure, cold rage.
Not the confused anger of not knowing who I am. Not frustration at the blank void in my head. This is different. Focused. Sharp as a blade.
I want to hurt Draco Vitale. Want to find him and make him pay for every bruise, every broken bone, every moment of fear he inflicted on Isabella. The desire is so strong it's physical, my hands curling into fists, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my heart pounding with the need to act.
And the worst part?
I know exactly how I'd do it.
The knowledge is there, just beneath the surface. Not memories exactly, but certainty. I know where to hit to cause maximum pain without killing. I know how to break bones systematically. I know how long someone can endure before they break completely.
I know how to make him suffer.
The realization should terrify me, should confirm every fear I've had about who I am, what I was.
But it doesn't.
Because for the first time since I woke up, the violence in me has a purpose. A target. A reason that feels righteous instead of monstrous.
I sit up, running my hands through my hair. The barn is dark except for moonlight filtering through the gaps in the walls. The house is quiet, Isabella and Elena are asleep, safe for now.
But for how long?
If those men at the market were Draco's people, they're getting close. If they were looking for me, whoever wants me dead is closing in. Either way, this farm isn't safe anymore.
And I can't leave. Won't leave. Not when they need protection.
Not when I need them.
The thought stops me cold.
When did that happen? When did Isabella and Elena become mine to protect? When did the idea of walking away become impossible?
I stand and move to the barn door, looking out at the house. A single light glows in the kitchen window, Isabella, probably unable to sleep either. I can picture her sitting at the table, worrying, planning, trying to figure out how to keep her daughter safe.
She shouldn't have to do it alone.
I step outside, and my body moves differently than it did even a few days ago. Quieter. More controlled. I'm not consciously trying to be silent, but my feet find the soft patches of ground automatically, avoiding anything that might crunch or snap.
I walk the perimeter of the property, and it's like someone else is guiding me. Someone who knows exactly what to look for.
Sight lines from the road. Places where someone could approach unseen. Weak points in the fence. The old oak tree that provides cover but also obscures visibility. The driveway that's too long, too exposed.
This farm is a security nightmare.
Too isolated to call for help. Too open to defend effectively. One road in and out, which means one way to be trapped. The house has too many windows, too many entry points. The barn provides storage but no real cover.
If someone comes, whether for her or for me, we won't be able to hold them off.
The knowledge settles in my gut like ice. I'm thinking tactically now, strategically, like I've done this before. Like I've assessed threats and planned defenses and prepared for violence.
Like it's second nature.
I complete the circuit and end up back at the barn, but I don't go inside. Instead, I stand in the shadows and watch the house, and I make promises to myself.
No one will hurt Isabella.
No one will touch Elena.
I don't care who comes. I don't care what I have to do. I don't care what it costs me.
They're under my protection now.
The certainty of it is absolute. It doesn't matter that I've only known them for a short time. Doesn't matter that I don't even know my real name. Doesn't matter that I'm probably one of the bad men Isabella spent her life running from.
None of it matters.
What matters is that I'm here now, and I'm not letting anyone hurt them.
Movement catches my eye, the kitchen light has gone off. A moment later, I see Isabella's silhouette in her bedroom window. She's looking out, and I wonder if she can see me standing here in the dark.
If she can see the monster she's invited into her home.
But maybe that's what she needs right now. Not the man I'm trying to be. Not the gentle stranger who fixes fences and plays with her daughter.
Maybe she needs the monster.
I go back into the barn, but I don't lie down. Instead, I sit with my back against the wall where I can see the door, and I think about Draco Vitale.
Tall. Dark hair going gray. Late forties. Connected to organized crime in Rome. Controls through fear and violence.
A man like me.
Or like whoever I was before.
The difference is I used my violence for what? Power? Money? Territory? The specifics are lost in the void of my memory, but the shape of it is clear. I was someone who hurt people for profit, for position, for my own gain.
Draco Vitale hurts people because he enjoys it, because he can. Because a woman and child are easier to control than an empire.
That's the difference.
And it's why, if he comes here, I'm going to kill him.
The thought should shock me. Should make me recoil from what I'm becoming. But it doesn't. It settles into my bones like a promise, solid and unbreakable.
I'll kill him, and I won't lose sleep over it.
The only question is whether he'll come himself or send his people. Based on what Isabella said, he's the type to send others to do his dirty work. Which means I need to be ready for multiple threats. Need to think about weapons, defensive positions, contingency plans.
My mind is already working through scenarios.
If they come during the day, I can use the barn as a choke point.
If they come at night, I have the advantage of knowing the terrain.
If they come with guns, I stop myself and listen to what I'm thinking, how easily the tactical planning comes, how natural it feels to think about killing multiple people in defense of this place.
This is who I am.
Not a carpenter. Not a farmhand. Not some innocent victim of amnesia trying to find his way home.
I'm someone who knows how to kill. Someone who's done it before. Probably many times.
And right now, that's exactly what Isabella and Elena need me to be.
I hear a sound from the house, a door opening quietly, then soft footsteps crossing the yard. I tense, ready to move, then recognize the silhouette.
Isabella.
She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She stops a few feet from the barn door, hugging herself against the cool night air.
"I saw you from the window," she says quietly. "Couldn't sleep?"
"No."
She steps closer into the barn, and I can see her face in the moonlight. Tired. Worried. But not afraid of me.
She should be.
"What were you doing out there?" she asks. "Walking around?"
I could lie. Should lie. Tell her I was restless, needed to stretch my legs, couldn't settle.
But I'm tired of lying to her.
"Checking for weaknesses," I tell her. "Looking at sight lines. Figuring out how someone would approach if they were coming for us."
She goes very still. "And?"
"And this place is difficult to defend. Too open. Too many access points." I meet her eyes. "If they come, we'll have warning, the driveway is long enough for that. But we won't be able to hold them off for long."
"They might not come."
"They might not." I don't believe it, and neither does she. "But if they do, whether they're looking for you or for me, I need you to know something."
"What?"
I stand, moving closer to her. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me, close enough that I can see the pulse beating at her throat.
"I meant what I said earlier. I'm going to keep you safe. You and Elena." I pause, making sure she understands. "Whatever that takes. Whatever I have to do. No matter what it costs."
"Lupo."
"I'm not a good man, Isabella. I don't know exactly what I was, but I know it wasn't good. The things I can do, the way I think about violence, it's not normal. It's not right."
"I know."
"But I'm going to use it to protect you. All of it. Every dark, brutal part of whatever I am, I'm going to put it between you and anyone who tries to hurt you."
She's quiet for a long moment, searching my face. Then, so quietly I almost don't hear it, "I believe you."
"You should be afraid of me."
"I’m not." She reaches out, and her hand brushes my arm, just a touch, feather light, but it burns.
We stand there in the darkness. "Lupo," she whispers, and the way she says my name, the name that isn't even mine, undoes something in me.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us. Maybe neither. But suddenly the space between us is gone and my hands are in her hair and her mouth is on mine.
The kiss is fierce. Desperate. Like we're both drowning and the other is air. Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against the barn wall, careful not to hurt her but unable to be gentle. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat nearly destroys me.
This is wrong. I know it's wrong.
I'm a stranger with a violent past, she's a woman running from abuse, we're both in danger, and this is the worst possible time.
But God, I want her. Want this. Want to feel something other than confusion and fear and rage. Want to be someone other than whoever the hell I really am.
Her fingers thread through my hair, and I deepen the kiss, pressing closer. For just this moment, nothing else exists. Not Draco. Not the men at the market. Not my missing memory or the violence written into my bones.
Just her. Just this.
Then she pulls back, gasping.
For a heartbeat, we stare at each other in the darkness. Her lips are swollen, her hair messed from my hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks beautiful and terrified and wanting all at once.
"I can't," she whispers. "I can't do this."
The rejection stings, but I understand.
"It's not—" She stops, pressing her hand to her mouth. "It's not that I don't want to. God, I want to. But this is—"
"Complicated."
"Impossible." She takes another step back, putting distance between us. "You don't even know who you are. And I, I can't let myself feel this. Not when everything is so—"
"I understand." And I do. She's right. This is reckless. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical threats. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you."
"Don't be sorry." Her voice breaks slightly. "Just give me time. Give me space to think."
"Of course. Take all the time you need."
She backs toward the door, and I can see her fighting to regain her composure, to rebuild the walls that the kiss just shattered.
"Goodnight, Lupo."
"Goodnight, Isabella."
She leaves then, walking back across the yard to the house. I watch until she's safely inside, until the door is locked behind her, until the lights go off one by one.
Then I sit back down with my back to the wall, and I keep watch.
Because that's what I do now.
That's who I am.
Not Lupo, the name a child gave me.
Not whoever I was before, lost in the fog of amnesia.
I'm the man who stands between Isabella and the world that wants to hurt her.
And God help anyone who tries to get past me.