Chapter 24 Jane
JANE
The headache hasn’t let up since my nightmare last night.
It’s a low, relentless throb behind my eyes, pulsing like the beat of something ancient, a beast clawing its way out of me.
It’s not just pain—it’s pressure.
Something under the surface, pushing, waiting.
I keep thinking it’ll ease up as the day goes along, but it’s been my constant companion all morning, and I knead my temples with my fingertips, closing my eyes against the bright light that filters through the shop window as I try to process.
I can’t stop thinking about what Gio said about my dream last night—how it might be my subconscious trying to tell me what really happened to wipe away my memories.
I’ve been tiptoeing around the idea myself lately, too scared to look it plainly in the face, because the truth behind that possibility is terrifying.
If I really was taken, then how could that person who I’ve subconsciously slapped Gio’s face on not have come looking for me in all this time?
Unless I was never meant to be found.
Unless I was taken to be erased.
Maybe that’s why I could never remember what happened to me.
Maybe these vivid dreams are, in fact, all memories, broken into jagged little shards so sharp that they cut when I try to grasp onto them.
I don’t know what’s real or imaginary anymore.
What if I was a mistake someone had to clean up?
A lesson meant to hurt someone else?
What if Gio was that someone?
But no, that couldn’t be. He would have said something if he recognized me. If we had what I had with the man in my dreams.
I dropped Jackson off at school in a daze this morning, made him breakfast because Gio had to run, then smiled for his teacher like everything was normal when she greeted us outside the school.
Because with Gio in our lives, Jackson and I have started to actually get out of bed on time.
Then, with those doubts about my reality swirling in my brain, I took the train into town and opened the shop. Because normal is what I need right now.
Even if it’s a lie.
The white lilies arrive just after nine in the morning—a truck full of them pulling up in the back parking lot.
It took four men to unload them, and I had to put them in the cold-storage room rather than the cooler because they simply wouldn’t fit.
I knew they would show up today.
I marked the calendar as soon as I got the confirmation—and I put off calling Mr. Tanaka until the moment his funeral flowers arrived.
A thousand white lilies now sit in the back room of my shop—the kind that smell like peace but feel like cold stone and silence. Death wrapped in velvet petals.
And once more, I feel a nervous quiver in my stomach when I think about my phone call with my creepy customer.
When I called the number he left, it only rang once.
“Your order’s in,” I said, trying to keep it professional—even if I wished he would change his mind at the last minute and ask me to ship them to a different address.
He laughed softly, the sound gritty and dark—the kind of laugh that made my stomach knot. “Right on time.”
I hung up without another word—before I could even ask when or how he intends to pick them up—and now, the anticipation of his arrival is only intensifying the pain behind my eyes.
It’s nearly noon, and so far, the morning’s been quiet—too quiet when all I want is to get his transaction over with and get him out of my life.
The bell above the door jingles, light and familiar. But the air shifts the moment the customer steps in. It’s Mr. Tanaka—and he’s not alone this time.
Three men, all with distinctly Japanese features, come in with him.
They’re broad, quiet, passively formidable as their eyes scan the shop.
One of them carries a long box cutter clipped to his belt.
Another has the unmistakable bulk of a holster under his jacket.
Outside, a white van idles at the curb.
My creepy customer smiles when he sees me, his eyes lit with a dark pleasure. “I hope these flowers of yours are as beautiful as I imagined,” he says, voice smooth like silk over broken glass.
“They’re in the back room,” I reply, trying to keep my voice level as I gesture in their direction. “And packed for easy transport.”
“Wonderful.” He beams. “I knew I picked the right person for the job.” He follows me back to the fridge where the boxes wait—a thousand stems wrapped in white tissue and packed with great care.
He gazes down at them like a man admiring a lover in a casket. “They’re perfect,” he murmurs. “So white. So clean. So… final.”
I swallow, a chill rippling down my spine. “They’re all yours.”
He nods and gestures to his men.
They move like they’ve done this before—efficient, silent, practiced.
It doesn’t feel like they’re just picking up flowers.
It’s like this is just one piece in a larger, uglier puzzle.
I retreat behind the counter as they get to work, keeping my hands busy with a vase and some flowers.
But I’m wound too tightly to pay much attention to what I’m doing, so I pretend to work while they load the boxes into the van.
Every muscle in my body remains locked.
I can’t wait for him to be gone.
Just a few more minutes.
The door opens again, the bell jingling, and I look up.
My breath catches. Gio.
He steps into the shop like a storm—dark hair damp from a recent shower, jaw set, tension radiating off him in waves.
There’s a bruise forming on his jawline, fresh and purple-blue. He looks like he’s been through hell since I saw him last.
The moment our eyes meet, something in me steadies.
Even with the headache pounding and my nerves rattled from my creepy customer, I feel… safe.
I move out from behind the counter to greet him, words forming on my tongue.
But before I can speak, Gio’s gaze shifts—and he tenses.
His eyes lock on Mr. Tanaka, and the air in the shop snaps tight.
The man’s back is to him at first, but when he turns, recognition dawns like a sunrise, a slow, delighted grin stretching across his face. “Well, well,” Mr. Tanaka says. “Look who wandered in.”
Gio doesn’t move. “I thought you were dead,” he says quietly, voice flat and cold.
The man chuckles. “You’re not the first.” He takes a step forward, slow and casual, like he’s not standing in a flower shop but on a battlefield. “Leo did a number on me,” the man confesses. “I still wake up with a limp.”
Gio’s jaw tightens. “I should’ve made sure he finished the job.”
“Yeah.” My creepy customer’s eyes glitter. “You should’ve.”
I glance between them, stunned. “Wait—what is this?”
Neither of them acknowledges me.
The creepy man looks back at the van, then at the lilies still sitting near the door, waiting to be loaded. “You know, you and your brothers always did seem to have perfectly terrible timing.”
Gio’s eyes narrow, his tension palpable.
“You spoiled my surprise,” the man adds, voice dark with amusement. “I heard you took over your brother’s position.” He nods toward the lilies. “Those were for you—a parting gift, you might say.”
My stomach drops, my breath catching, but no one’s paying me any mind.
Still, my mind is reeling, adrenaline slamming through my veins faster than I can process.
His funeral flowers were meant for Gio?
Oh God, he means to kill him.
The look on Gio’s face shifts—but not to fear. Just quiet, deadly understanding. “I’m done with that life,” he says. “I’m not your enemy anymore.”
The man smirks. “Good to know. Saves me the trouble.” Then he gives a mocking bow. “Always a pleasure, Giovanni Chiaroscuro,” he says with a sneer.
And the sound of that name tears my world in half.
The moment he says it, something inside me breaks.
No—not breaks.
Opens.
Like a locked door bursting off its hinges.
Because I know that name.
I knew it before.
Not recently.
Not Gio, my friendly neighbor who I’ve been sleeping with for the past few weeks.
No.
I knew it in another life. A real one. A full one.
My name isn’t Jane.
It’s Stephanie, Stephanie Winters.
And suddenly, I remember everything.
Gio’s mouth on mine, wicked and sinfully addictive.
My laugh echoing as we walked along the sunlit Promenade beside the Chicago River.
His hand in mine as we ran through the rain in the botanic gardens, breathless and dizzy with love.
His fathomless hazel eyes peering into mine, promising me forever as he cupped my face.
Then, tires screaming, hands grabbing, darkness, fear—and pain.
I stagger back a step, my hips finding the counter, my hand flying back to catch me and colliding with the vase patiently waiting for its flowers.
The glass shatters as it hits the floor, the sound like a gunshot in the middle of the deadly silent room.
Everyone’s eyes snap in my direction, and when Gio’s find mine, all I can see is a deep, overwhelming concern.
He’s by my side in an instant, shoving past my creepy customer to catch me before I can hit the floor. “Are you okay?” he asks, his powerful arms snaking around my waist, holding me up as if I weigh nothing.
I look at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving. “You called me Stephanie,” I whisper. “That first night. God, you’ve known all along.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve just returned from the dead.
Maybe I have.
My vision blurs with tears as a lifetime crashes down around me. Not just the name. Not just the place. Everything.
I remember the love. I remember the loss. I remember him.
And as all the emotions come crashing down on me, I shove Gio away.