Chapter 6
RENZO
‘Come closer,’ I repeat softly when she ignores me.
Her breath catches sharply in the silence.
The doctor’s footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving only the sound of machines and her uneven breathing.
She doesn’t move at first. Then she rises from the chair in one stiff motion, palms flat against her skirts as though bracing for a blow.
‘This is wrong,’ she whispers.
‘What is, angel?’
Her breath feathers out a little quickly at the endearment. ‘Us. This.’
My eyes narrow and I feel the valve of fury wheeze a warning deep inside me. The renowned Salvatore temper is never far away from the surface.
It’s what’s gotten every one of Orazio’s progeny into trouble more than a few dozen times. But I do my best to throttle it now. ‘Says who?’
‘God.’
The word hangs between us like heavy incense, cloying and sanctimonious. I drag in a slow breath, fighting for patience I don’t own.
‘God,’ I echo, voice low. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t step back. I can see the pulse at her throat beating fast, betraying her nerves. The habit makes her look untouchable, but that pulse tells another story.
It fascinates me beyond measure and I can’t fight the way my tongue tingles, eager to stroke it. Stroke other parts of her body.
Soon, I swear to the same God she’s hiding behind.
‘Who are you, really?’ she asks suddenly. ‘And why… why don’t you want your family to know you’re awake? If I had family…’ She pauses and a wave of sadness sweeps over her perfect features. ‘I would want them to know.’
The question lands with the soft sting of censure. She’s braver than she looks.
I study her for a moment, the way her hands twist around the beads of her rosary. I remember those hands differently… longer nails painted bright fuchsia, those delicate wrists wrapped in twin Cartier bangles – a gift from me for her eighteenth birthday.
Those same hands, warm and unafraid, tracing down my naked chest, then digging in as she rode my cock, her head thrown back as she screamed through one of a handful of breathtaking orgasms.
Now they tremble in prayer instead of pleasure.
‘Family,’ I say, half-smiling, only able to take my eyes off her fingers because I can look at her face. ‘They’re a blessing until they’re not. Mine… they have a way of turning miracles into weapons. They’ll find out I’m awake soon enough. But for now, I want a little peace.’
‘Peace?’ Her brows draw together. ‘You call this peace? Threatening your doctors and kidnapping people and barking orders?’
My lips twist at the quiet censure in her voice. ‘I didn’t kidnap people, ragazza. Just you. As for the rest, I call it necessary quiet.’
She hesitates, eyes narrowing as though she’s trying to see past the scar tissue and bruises. I let her look. Let her see what’s left.
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘If you don’t remember who you are, why haven’t you wanted to know?’
‘I do want to know,’ she says quickly. ‘Every day. But the Madre Superiora told me to be patient – that God will reveal what He chooses when He’s ready.’
I don’t hold back my snort. ‘And you believed that bullshit?’
She frowns. Then attempts to look away. I like that she doesn’t succeed for more than a second before those eyes flick back to mine. ‘Of course. I… had to.’
I tilt my head, the faintest smile curling my mouth. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’
She exhales, a soft shiver of air. ‘Before the fire, she promised to show me my file. The records from when they found me. She said it contained my real name, my history. But then the fire came. She said it burned with everything else.’
‘Fucking convenient,’ I murmur.
Her eyes flick up. ‘You think she lied.’
‘I think having blind faith is the kinda bullshit cowards tell themselves so they don’t face up to the truth.’
Her mouth drops open and the tiniest wave of anger washes over her face. She wrestles it down quickly enough but I’m electrified with the need to poke her again. Just to see that spark. Set fire to whatever fortress her memories have retreated behind.
She shakes her head, more in desperation than denial. ‘No. She wouldn’t lie. She said I should see the fire as a cleansing.’
I laugh, rough and humourless. ‘And you bought that? Sounds like she’s protecting herself. Or at the very least, someone else.’
‘No,’ she repeats, stronger this time. ‘She… the sisters, they’ve shown me nothing but kindness. They’ve helped me overcome the gaps in my memory with prayer and hard work. I had nothing else to believe. They’ve given me a future.’
There’s a hollow ring to the confession that hits harder than I expect. Her fingers twitch on the rosary again, like she can pray herself back to safety.
‘You ever wonder,’ I say softly, ‘what would happen if you stopped waiting for God to give you permission to live?’
She meets my gaze, startled. ‘That’s blasphemy.’
‘No.’ I lean forward, ignoring the sharp pull in my arm and my back. ‘That’s truth.’
The machine at my bedside ticks once, loud in the hush. I can feel her thoughts spinning with fear, doubt and confusion. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, caught between faith and curiosity.
‘You said the Madre Superiora was going to show you who you were,’ I press. ‘And when the file burned, you just accepted it? No questions?’
‘What choice did I have?’ she fires back, voice rising. ‘I was found half-dead. My head was bleeding, I couldn’t remember anything. The convent gave me a name, a purpose. I owe them my life.’
‘And if they stole it instead?’
Her breath hitches. ‘I don’t understand what you’re implying.’
‘Yes, you do. I think deep down you’ve always wondered what they were hiding from you.’
I reach out again, not touching her this time – just letting my hand hover close enough for her to feel the heat of it. ‘You feel it, don’t you? Somewhere deep. That this isn’t your life. That Benedetta isn’t your name.’
She blinks hard, shaking her head. ‘You’re confused. You’ve been injured—’
‘I’ve been haunted,’ I cut in. ‘And you’re the beautiful ghost responsible for every one of my crazy dreams.’
While I mean them like a confession, the words eject like an accusation, and she flinches.
I could tell her everything right now. The church. The blood. The agony of Mama’s funeral. The way her name ripped my life apart and the carnage that came after. But something stops me.
Maybe it’s the way she looks at me – not with guilt, but with pity. Or the faint tremor in her voice when she says ‘God’.
Instead, I sit back against the pillow and let the tension stretch between us until it hums.
Her eyes fall to my hand, to the veins marked with bruises and IV scars. To the damaged ribs covered by a thin sheet. ‘You should rest,’ she says softly. ‘You’re still healing.’
‘So are you, apparently,’ I murmur.
She doesn’t answer.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then I tilt my head, voice dropping to a whisper meant for her alone.
‘Tell me something, Sister. When you pray for salvation, do you ever ask who you’re really trying to save?’
She stares at me, lips parting, but no sound comes out.
And in the quiet, I see it again, the flicker of something familiar behind her eyes. Memory, maybe.
Or the ghost of a name trying to claw its way back to the surface.
* * *
Sister Benedetta
I shake my head. Again. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing since I walked into this stranger’s room.
But the things he’s doing… saying. I thought once the doctors left he would deliver the same sharp commands, the sort of orders men bark in power corridors and expect the world to obey.
But his voice has been softer. Still harsh, yes, roughened by pain and pride, I expect. But it’s more contemplative. As if he wants to truly know my thoughts. Or work out the puzzle he thinks I am.
But… why? And what he said about Madre Superiora?
I shake my head, taking a few steps to sit back down before my weakened knees give out.
‘You’re going to have to stop doing that, baby.’
The endearment scrapes along my nerves. Heat shoots to my face and alarming parts of my body before I can stop it. ‘Please don’t call me that.’
‘What should I call you?’ His mouth crooks, not quite a smile. ‘Benedetta? We both know you don’t wear it well.’
‘I am Benedetta,’ I insist, though the words wobble as if they’ve never learned to stand. ‘It’s the name I was given.’
‘By women who also told you your past turned to ash.’ He studies me with that unnerving focus, like he’s reading more than my face.
‘Why haven’t you insisted on knowing who you are?
Really insisted, I mean. With the viciousness of the tigress I know prowls beneath your memories.
Surely, your Mother Superior read the file herself and should have some recollection of it? ’
‘I have.’ My fingers twist and knot and I force myself to still. ‘I asked for my records. She promised to show me when the time was right—’
‘And let me guess,’ he says dryly. ‘The time was never right?’
A brittle silence falls. I feel a childish urge to defend her, to defend all of them, even as something small and sharp twists in my chest.
He tilts his head. ‘What did the doctors say? About this… condition you have?’
I breathe in slow. I’ve said these words before, the medical ones that feel like armour when faith slips. ‘Retrograde amnesia due to trauma. The neurologist said memory can return, but forcing it risks consolidating false narratives. He warned that aggressive therapy could… cause more damage.’
His gaze never leaves mine. ‘So you were told to wait.’
‘Yes.’
‘And to pray.’
‘Yes,’ I say, flinching at the judgement I hear in his tone. ‘And I do.’
He reaches for the phone on his tray and taps the screen, one-handed, quick. The device chimes as it dials. My stomach tightens.
‘Dottore,’ he says when the call connects. ‘On speaker.’
A tinny shuffle, then the older doctor’s careful voice fills the room. ‘Signore?’