Chapter 3 Lupo
Pain.
That's my first conscious thought. Not memory, not understanding. Just pain, white-hot and absolute, splitting through my skull.
I try to open my eyes. One responds. The other doesn’t. Won't open. Swollen, maybe.
The world swims into focus. Wooden beams overhead. Rough walls. Hay. The smell of dust and old animal feed.
Where am I?
The question forms, but there's no answer. Just empty space where something should be.
I try to sit up. My body screams in protest. Every muscle, every bone, everything hurts. My head throbs with each heartbeat, a rhythmic agony that makes my stomach lurch.
Need to—what? What was I doing?
I don't know.
I manage to lift my head an inch before the world tilts violently. I fall back against whatever I'm lying on, hay bales and a rough blanket, and close my eye, breathing hard.
Think. What happened?
Nothing. There's nothing there.
A barn. I'm in a barn. But whose barn? Why am I here?
Was there an accident? I look down at myself—or try to. My vision blurs, but I can see dark fabric. A torn shirt. Expensive-looking, even covered in dirt and what looks like blood.
My blood?
I lift my hand. Even that hurts. My knuckles are split, swollen, crusted with dried blood.
Did I fall? Crash my car?
Do I have a car?
The question should have an answer. It doesn't.
My heart starts pounding harder. I reach for something, anything—a name, a face, where I live, what I was doing—but there's only darkness. Empty darkness where my life should be.
Who am I?
Panic rises, sharp and cold, in my chest. I don't know. I don't know who I am.
I look at the clothes again. Black shirt, expensive fabric. Dark pants, also expensive. These aren't work clothes. Am I—what? Businessman? Why would a businessman end up beaten and bloody in a barn?
Maybe I'm not a businessman. Maybe I just—
The thought dissolves. Everything dissolves. The pain in my head becomes unbearable, a crushing weight that makes thinking impossible.
I try to hold on. Try to stay awake. Try to remember something, anything.
But the darkness pulls at me, insistent and irresistible.
I let it take me.
When I wake again, someone's here.
I hear her before I see her. Soft movements. The sound of water. A quiet breath.
I force my eye open.
She's kneeling beside me, an arm's length away. Dark hair pulled back from her face. Late twenties, maybe. She's holding a wet cloth, and there's a bowl of pink-tinged water beside her.
She's cleaning my wounds.
I must make a sound because she goes still, her eyes meeting mine. Brown eyes. Wary.
"You're awake," she says quietly.
I try to speak. My throat is raw, my tongue thick. "Where?" The word comes out as a croak.
She reaches for something beside her, a cup, and holds it toward me. "Try a sip of water. Slowly."
I try to sit up enough to drink. Pain shoots through my ribs, my head, everywhere. She hesitates, then moves closer, supporting my head with one hand while holding the cup to my lips with the other.
The water is cool, clean. I drink too fast and choke.
"Slowly," she says again, pulling the cup back.
When I can breathe again, I try once more. "Where?"
"My farm. In Tuscany." She sets the cup down, retreating to her previous distance. "I found you yesterday morning. In the olive grove."
Yesterday. I've lost a whole day.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. You were unconscious when I found you." She gestures vaguely at my face, my body. "You’re injured."
I look down at myself again. The torn, expensive clothes. The blood. "Accident? Car accident?" I can’t seem to form sentences.
"I didn't see a car." Her voice is careful. Scared.
"How did I—" I stop, trying to piece it together. Trying to make sense of any of this. "Who am I?"
Something flickers in her eyes. Not surprise. Like she was expecting this.
"You don't remember?"
"No. Don't—" Frustration chokes the words. "Don't remember. Name."
She's quiet for a moment. "You didn't have any identification. No wallet, no phone. Nothing in your pockets."
I struggle to reach for my pockets instinctively, patting them. She's right. Empty.
"Clothes," I say, looking at the torn black shirt. "Expensive."
She nods in agreement.
"Farm work? Worker?" But even as I say it, I know it's wrong. These aren't farm clothes.
"Maybe," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, struggling to think past the pain. "Hospital."
Her expression closes off. "No, I can't take you to the hospital."
"Why?"
"I’m sorry, I can’t. You're not dying." She doesn't sound completely certain. "You need rest. Time to heal. I’ll take care of you."
"Who? I?” The words come out harsh, angry. I don't mean them to, but the fear is overwhelming. "Can’t remember."
"I know." Her voice softens slightly. "I understand you can’t remember. You have a head injury. Pushing yourself won't help. Your head, the injury is serious. Remembering might take time."
Time.
How much time? What if it never comes back?
I look at her, really look at her. The wariness in her posture. The way she's positioned herself close enough to help but far enough to run. Not close enough for me to grab her.
There's fear there. Of me.
"You?" I ask.
"Isabella."
The name doesn't trigger anything. "Why help?"
She's quiet for a long moment. "Because you needed help and I’m here."
"Dangerous?” I gesture at myself.
"Yes, you might be dangerous." She dips the cloth back in the water and wrings it out. "I have a daughter," she says quietly. "She's three. She stays in the house. You stay in the barn. If you go near her, if you threaten her in any way, I'll make you leave. Do you understand?"
I nod, even though the movement makes my head throb.
She moves closer again, carefully pressing the damp cloth against my forehead. I flinch, and she pauses.
"I need to clean the wounds," she says. "To prevent infection."
I close my eyes. Her touch is gentle despite her obvious fear. She works in silence, cleaning dried blood from my hairline and from my temple. When she reaches a particularly tender spot, I hiss in pain.
"Sorry," she murmurs. "This one is deep. It should have stitches."
"Can you?"
"No." She pulls back, studying the wound. "It'll scar."
Scar. Will I have other scars? Do I know what scars feel like?
I don't know. I don't know anything.
"What do I call you?" Isabella asks. "Until you remember your name."
I don't have a name. I don't have anything.
I shrug, unable to come up with an answer.
She's quiet for a moment, then stands, picking up the bowl. "I'll bring you food. And more water. You should rest as much as you can."
"Wait." I don't know what I want to ask. There are too many questions and no answers. "Thank you."
She pauses at the barn door, looking back. "Don't make me regret it."
Then she's gone, and I'm alone again with the pain and the terrifying blankness where my life used to be.