Chapter 25 Lupo #2
"He's in university now. Studying engineering.
Because of you. Because you gave a shit about a kid who wasn't even yours.
" Ciro's voice is rough. "That's who you are.
Not just a boss. Not just someone who gives orders and makes money.
You take care of your people. Your family. And we are your family."
I want to believe him. Want to trust him. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm being manipulated. That I’m a pawn in a game I don’t understand.
"I need time," I say. "I need to think about this. Talk to—" I stop.
"Talk to the woman. Of course." Ciro pulls out a card with just a phone number. "When you're ready to talk again, call. Day or night. We’re not leaving. If you see anything suspicious—anyone asking questions, anyone watching—call me immediately. We’ll be there."
"Are you sure the Florence organization isn’t looking for me?"
"Not yet. They believe Dante. Think you're dead and buried somewhere. But eventually, someone will get curious. Or they’ll find out we’re holding Dante. Someone will investigate what really happened. And when they do—" He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
I take the card. "What's my name?"
Ciro hesitates. "It might be better if you try to remember it yourself. When it comes back, I want you to know it's real. Not something I told you or pushed on your brain. Does that make sense?"
Strangely, it does. "What if it doesn't come back?"
"Then I'll tell you. But I think it will.
You're already remembering feelings, instincts.
The rest will follow." He opens the car door.
"Think about what I've said. Be careful.
And remember—you're not alone. I swear that to you.
You have loyal people on your side. Even if you don't remember us, we remember you. And we're not giving up on you."
I get out, and he does too. The other men are still positioned around the parking area, watchful but not threatening.
"One more thing," Ciro says. "The life you've built here with the woman and child. It's good. You seem happy. I haven't seen you look like this in years."
"Like what?"
"At peace." He smiles sadly. "Maybe losing your memory was a gift. A chance to be someone different for a while. Someone better."
"Or maybe it was just an escape from whoever I really am."
"Maybe." Ciro extends his hand. "Whatever you decide, I'm here. We all are."
I shake his hand, and the gesture feels familiar. Natural. Like I've done this exact thing hundreds of times before.
"I'll be in touch," I say.
"I'll be waiting." Ciro pauses, then reaches into his jacket. "One more thing."
He pulls out a handgun. My body tenses automatically, but he's holding it by the barrel, offering it to me handle-first.
"For protection," he says. "You need this if things go wrong. Even if you don't remember, your body will know what to do with it."
I stare at the gun. It's a Beretta. I know that without thinking about it. Know the model, the caliber, how many rounds it holds.
How do I know that?
I take it slowly. The weight of it in my hand is... familiar. Natural. Like shaking hands with an old friend.
"Here’s a spare magazine," Ciro says quietly, handing it to me. "The safety is on. But I'm guessing you already knew that."
I did. My thumb found the safety automatically.
"If anything happens—anything that makes you feel unsafe—you use this. Don't hesitate." He meets my eyes. "You know how. Even if you don't remember learning. Trust your instincts and don’t be afraid to protect yourself. Hesitation could get you killed."
I nod, slipping the gun into my waistband at the small of my back. Hidden under my shirt. And my body knows exactly how to position it for quick access.
Ciro sees this and nods with satisfaction. "See? Muscle memory. It's all still there."
He gets in the car and they drive away. I stand in the parking lot, very aware of the weight of the gun against my spine.
Sal is watching from across the site, but he's too far away to have seen what Ciro gave me. I wave to him, try to look normal, then finish out the day.
But I can feel the gun with every movement. A presence. A reminder.
A weapon I apparently know how to use.
When Sal finally dismisses us, I walk home slowly, my mind still spinning.
The gun feels heavier with each step. By the time I reach the farm, I've made a decision.
I can't talk to Isabella with this thing on me.
Can't have her see it and panic. Can't explain why a stranger just gave me a loaded weapon.
I go to the barn first. Hide the gun in the back corner of the workshop, wrapped in an old rag, tucked behind some tools where Elena would never find it. Then I stand there for a moment, staring at where I've hidden it.
I should check it. Make sure it's loaded properly, that the safety works, that it's ready if I need it.
The thought comes automatically. Like I've done this before. Many times. I unwrap it again. The weight feels perfect in my hand. Natural. I eject the magazine without thinking. Check it. Fifteen rounds. Full capacity. I slam it back in. Chamber a round. Thumb the safety on and off. On and off.
Every movement is automatic. Like I've done a thousand times before.
And with each movement, memories surface.
Standing at a range, teaching younger men to shoot. "Sight alignment. Trigger control. Breathe."
In a warehouse, gun raised, a man begging for his life. "You stole from me." The gun kicks in my hand. He drops.
In a car, checking my weapon before a meeting. Making sure it's ready. Just in case.
In an office, cleaning this exact gun while someone reports back on a job. "It's done, boss. No witnesses."
Boss.
The word echoes in my head.
My hands are shaking now. Not from fear or uncertainty. From recognition.
I know this weapon. I've used it. This is one of my guns. I've killed with it.
And my body remembers every single time.
I set the gun down on the workbench and stare at my hands. These hands that know how to field-strip a Beretta in thirty seconds. That know exactly where to aim for a kill shot. That have pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Ciro was telling the truth.
I'm not just someone who worked for an organization. I'm someone who led one. Who made decisions about life and death. Who held this gun and used it to protect my territory, my people, my power.
I've always been dangerous.
And losing my memory didn't change that. Just hid it for a while.
I wrap the gun back up carefully, hide it again behind the tools. Then I stand there in the growing darkness of the barn, trying to steady myself.
Isabella and Elena are in the house. Waiting for me. They don't know what I've just remembered. What I've just confirmed about myself.
They think I'm just a man who lost his memory. Someone trying to figure out who he is.
They don't know I'm someone who's killed with this exact weapon. Someone who gave orders that ended lives. Someone who—
"Lupo?" Isabella's voice carries from the house. "Are you coming in?"
I take a deep breath. Push the memories down. Try to remember who I am now, not who I was.
"Coming," I call back.
I walk toward the house, toward the light spilling from the kitchen windows, toward the sound of Elena's laughter. Toward the only good thing I've built in a life I can't remember.
And I pray that when I tell Isabella everything—when I explain what Ciro said, what it all means—she won't look at me differently.
Won't realize that the man she's let into her home, into her bed, into her daughter's life, is exactly the kind of monster she's been running from all along.