Chapter 13 Lupo
I wake up thinking about the way Isabella kissed me last night.
Soft. Deliberate. Like she was choosing me with full awareness of what I might be.
The memory should make me happy. Instead, it fills me with dread.
Because she doesn't know. She suspects, yes. But she doesn't truly know what I am, what I've done. And when she finds out, when I remember, it's going to destroy whatever fragile thing is building between us.
I’m a bad man.
I know this deep in my gut.
I force myself out of bed and get to work. The henhouse needs a new support beam. The old one is rotting through. Simple work. Mindless. Exactly what I need.
I'm measuring the lumber when I hear Elena's laugh from inside the house. High and bright and innocent.
Then I think about the men at the market. About Draco Vitale. About anyone who would hurt that little girl or her mother.
The rage comes swift and cold again, murderous thoughts swirling through my brain.
I pick up the hammer, positioning the nail, and swing hard.
And suddenly I'm somewhere else.
A warehouse. Concrete floors. The smell of motor oil and blood. A man on his knees in front of me, begging. Tears and snot running down his face. He's saying something in Neapolitan, pleading for his life.
I raise the hammer high above my head.
He screams and begs for his life.
I bring it down.
The sound of his skull cracking is sickeningly wet. He drops, twitching. Blood pools beneath him, spreading across the concrete in a dark puddle.
I raise the hammer again.
Again.
Again.
Until he stops moving.
Until I'm sure he’s dead.
I'm back in the present, gasping, the hammer raised over the perfectly innocent piece of wood. My hands are shaking, heart pounding.
That wasn't my imagination.
That was a memory.
I killed that man. Whoever he was. Whatever he'd done. I beat him to death with a hammer, and I didn't stop until I was certain he was dead.
I drop the tool like it's burning me. It clatters to the ground, and I back away, pressing my hands against my thighs.
Oh God. Oh God.
I'm not just dangerous. I'm a killer.
I force myself to breathe. To think. The man in my memory was begging, yes, but he wasn't innocent. I could feel it, even in the fragment. He'd done something. Betrayed someone. Stolen. Informed. Something that warranted—
Warranted what? Death?
Who the fuck am I to decide who lives and dies?
But even as I think it, I know the answer.
I'm exactly the kind of man who makes those decisions.
I leave the lumber and walk toward the fence line, needing distance from the hammer. From the memory. From myself.
But I can't escape my own head.
Because now I'm thinking about Isabella. About Elena. About Draco finding them.
About what I'd do to him if he showed up here.
The rage builds again, hot and vicious. I imagine his hands on Isabella. Imagine him hurting her. Breaking her arm again. Taking Elena.
My fists clench.
And another memory slams into me.
A different man. Younger. In an alley behind a restaurant, the smell of garbage and piss in the air. He's pressed against the brick wall, and my hand is around his throat. He's clawing at my wrist, trying to break free, but I'm stronger.
"Please," he chokes out. "I have kids—"
"Should have thought of that before," I hear myself say. My voice is cold. Dead. Like I'm commenting on the weather.
I squeeze harder.
His eyes bulge. His face turns purple. His struggles get weaker.
I don't let go.
I watch him die.
When he finally goes limp, I release him and he crumples to the ground. I straighten my shirt, check my watch like I have somewhere to be, and walk away.
Just walk away.
Like I didn't just murder a man who had children.
I come back to myself leaning against the fence post, bile rising in my throat.
That was me. That was what I did. Casually. Without remorse.
I'm a monster.
But the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream, is that I still don't feel remorse. Even now, knowing what I've done, I can't muster guilt for those men.
I don't even know who they were or what they did, but I know they deserved it. I feel that certainty in my bones.
Which means I'm exactly the kind of monster who thinks murder is justified.
I look back at the house. Isabella is at the kitchen window, washing dishes. Elena is probably playing nearby, safe and happy.
What would they think if they knew? If they could see inside my head, see the blood on my hands, see the bodies I've left behind?
They'd run. They should run.
But they need me.
The thought is selfish and true. With Draco out there, with men asking questions at the market, they need someone who can protect them. Someone willing to do what needs to be done.
Someone exactly like me.
I force myself back to work. Pick up the hammer with hands that remember killing. Drive the nail with precision that comes from practice.
But every swing brings more images. More fragments.
A knife pressed to a throat, blood spilling hot over my fingers.
A gun in my hand, the recoil, a man dropping.
My foot on someone's chest, holding them down while—
I stop. Breathe. Keep working.
This is who I am. This is what I was.
A killer. An enforcer. Someone feared.
By afternoon, I've finished the henhouse, but I feel like I'm coming apart. The memories are piling up, each one worse than the last. Not complete pictures, just flashes. Moments of violence. The weight of bodies. The sound of breaking bones. The copper taste of blood.
And underneath it all, a name that keeps surfacing, just out of reach. My name. My real name.
I'm working on repairing the garden gate when Isabella comes out with water and bread.
"You've been working hard," she says, setting them down on the nearby bench. "You should rest."
I can't look at her. Can't let her see whatever's in my face.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." She steps closer, and I force myself not to back away. "Lupo, what's wrong?"
Everything. I'm remembering. I'm a murderer. I'm exactly the kind of man you ran away from.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just a little tired and sore."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push.
"Will you come for dinner again tonight?" she asks quietly. "Elena's been asking."
Dinner. Sitting at their table like I belong there. Like I'm someone safe. Someone good.
Like I'm not a killer with blood-soaked hands.
"I don't think—"
"Please," she says, and the word breaks something in me. "I liked having you there. We both did."
I should say no. Should keep my distance. Should protect them from the truth of what I am.
But when I look at her, all I can think about is Draco Vitale. About the men at the market. About anyone who would try to hurt her.
And I realize I will them all.
Every single one of them. Without hesitation. Without mercy.
I would tear apart anyone who threatened her or Elena. Would paint this farm red with their blood. Would do things that would make my past murders look gentle.
Because they're mine to protect now.
Even if I don't deserve them. Even if they'd hate me if they knew what I really am.
They're mine.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'll come to dinner."
She smiles, relieved, and touches my arm. Just a brief touch, but it burns.
"Good," she says. "Six o'clock."
She leaves, and I stand there holding a hammer and thinking about all the ways I could use it to protect her.
The violence in me isn't going away. It's getting stronger. Clearer. With each memory that surfaces, I remember more of what I'm capable of.
And the terrifying part is that I'm grateful for it.
Because Isabella and Elena need a monster right now. They need someone willing to do terrible things. Someone who won't hesitate. Someone who knows exactly how to kill and isn't afraid to do it.
They need me.
Not the man I'm trying to be, gentle, helpful, safe.
They need the man I actually am.
I just hope that when they finally see the truth, they won't hate me for it.
That night, I go to dinner. I sit at their table and eat Isabella's cooking and listen to Elena chatter about her day. I help with dishes. I accept another soft, sweet kiss at the door before I leave. I don’t push for more because I don’t deserve it. Not after the things I’ve done.
And the whole time, I'm aware of the violence thrumming under my skin. The memories of blood and death. The cold certainty that I could kill everyone in this house without breaking a sweat.
But I wouldn't.
That's the only thing I know for sure.
I would die before I hurt them.
I would kill before I let anyone else hurt them.
And when the time comes, when Draco or his men or whoever's looking for me finally shows up, they're going to learn exactly what kind of monster they're dealing with.
Back in the barn, I lie awake and let the memories come.
I don't fight them anymore.
Because I'm going to need them.
Every brutal, violent, unforgivable piece of who I was, I'm going to need it all.