Chapter 14 Isabella
I'm counting coins when Lupo walks into the kitchen.
I don't hear him at first. I'm too focused on the pathetic pile of euros on the table, doing the math over and over, hoping somehow it will add up differently this time.
It doesn't.
Twelve euros and thirty-seven cents. That's what I have left until... I don't even know. Until I can sell more vegetables or eggs at the market. Until something changes.
Until a miracle happens.
"Isabella."
I jump, my hand scattering the coins across the table. Some roll onto the floor.
Lupo is standing in the doorway. He must have come in for his nightly shower. His hair is damp, his face clean, wearing my father's clothes. He looks good. Healthy. He's gained weight since I found him, his face less gaunt, his body stronger.
Because I've been feeding him.
"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's fine." I'm already gathering the coins, trying to hide them, but it's too late. He's seen.
He crosses the kitchen and crouches down, picking up the coins that rolled near his feet. He hands them to me, and I can see the question in his eyes.
"Is this all you have?" he asks quietly.
"It's enough." The lie tastes bitter.
"Isabella."
"I said it's enough." I put the coins in the jar where I keep our money, twisting the lid tight.
He doesn't move. Just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"I've been noticing things," he says. "The portions at dinner getting smaller. You give Elena more and take less for yourself.” He pauses. "You're running out of money."
"We're fine."
"Don't lie to me." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please. Don't lie."
I close my eyes. I'm so tired. So tired of pretending everything is okay. Of stretching every euro until it screams. Of going to bed hungry so Elena can have enough.
"We're not fine," I admit, my voice cracking. "We haven't been fine for months. Not since my father died."
He pulls out a chair, gestures for me to sit. I do, and he sits across from me, the same way we sat when I told him about Draco.
"Tell me what’s going on," he says.
I tell him about my father's pension disappearing when he died.
About the property taxes I haven't paid in six months.
About the electricity bill that is overdue, the warning notice that came last week threatening to shut off our power.
About the truck that is burning oil and needs repairs I can't afford.
About choosing between buying Elena new shoes and buying rice.
About the fact that feeding three people instead of two is slowly bankrupting me.
I don't say that last part to make him feel guilty. But I see it hit him anyway. See his jaw tighten, his hands curl into fists on the table.
"I'm sorry," he says roughly. "God, Isabella, I'm so sorry. I didn't, I should have realized,"
"It's not your fault."
"It is. I've been eating your food, using your resources, and you're barely surviving." He stands abruptly, pacing to the window. "I’m a terrible person. I need to leave."
"No." The word comes out sharp. "You can't."
"I can't stay here and watch you starve."
"And I can't let you walk out there when someone might be looking for you. When you have no money, no identification, nowhere to go."
"Then what?" He turns to face me, and there is anguish in his expression. "What am I supposed to do? Stay here and slowly drain what little you have left? Watch you give up meals so I can eat? Watch Elena go without because I'm too much of a coward to face whatever is out there?"
"You're not a coward."
"Then what am I?" His voice rises. "I don't even know. I don't know who I am, where I came from, if I have money somewhere, if I have people who could help. I'm useless to you like this."
"You're not useless. You've been fixing everything,"
"I've been playing handyman while you've been deciding which bills you can't afford to pay." He drags his hands through his hair, frustration radiating off him. "I need to remember, Isabella. I need to figure out who I am so I can help you. Really help you."
"Your memories are coming back. You said,"
"Fragments. Pieces. Nothing useful." He comes back to the table, leaning on it with both hands.
"I remember violence. But I don't remember my name.
I don't remember where I lived or what I did or if I have any resources that could help you.
And meanwhile, you're sacrificing everything to keep me safe. "
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are." His voice softens. "You're choosing me over your own security. Over Elena's security. And I can't," He stops, his voice breaking. "I can't let you do that anymore."
Tears are burning in my eyes. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I need to take risks. Go into town, maybe. See if anyone recognizes me. Try to trigger more memories, even if it is dangerous." He meets my eyes. "I need to remember who I am, even if it means exposing myself."
"They could find you. Whoever is looking. They could kill you."
"Maybe. But at least then you'd have one less mouth to feed."
"Don't." The word comes out fierce. "Don't you dare act like your life doesn't matter."
"It matters less than yours. Less than Elena's."
"Not to me." The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. "Not to me, Lupo."
He's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. "I need to do something. I can't just hide here forever while you slowly go under. I won't."
I want to argue. Want to tell him to stay hidden, stay safe, that we'll figure something out. But he's right. We can't go on like this. The money is running out. Winter is coming. And I can't protect him and feed my daughter at the same time.
"What do you suggest?" I ask finally.
"Let me go into the village. Not the market, somewhere else. A different town, maybe. I'll find work. Construction, labor, anything. I'll use cash, stay off the radar as much as possible, but I need to contribute something."
"It's too dangerous."
"Everything is dangerous." He reaches across the table, taking my hand. "Staying here is dangerous. Those men at the market proved that. Running out of money is dangerous. Me being a burden on you is dangerous. At least if I'm working, I'm useful."
"You are useful."
"Not enough." He squeezes my hand. "Please, Isabella. Let me do this. Let me try to help."
I look at our joined hands. His are rough, scarred, capable. Hands that have built and fixed and, according to his memories, hurt people. But right now, they are just holding mine, warm and solid.
"What if you remember?" I ask quietly. "What if you go out there and your memory comes back and you realize you need to leave? That you have a life somewhere else? What if,"
"What if I'm married?" He says what I haven't let myself think. "What if I have a family?"
"Yes."
He's quiet for a moment. "I don't think I do. When I try to reach for that, for a wife, children, a home, there is nothing. Just emptiness."
"You don't know that for sure."
"No. But I know this." He leans forward, intense. "Whatever I had before, whoever I was, I'm here now. With you. And I'm not walking away from that unless you tell me to."
I want to believe him. Want to trust that when his past catches up with him, he'll choose this. Choose us. But I've been wrong about men before.
"Okay," I say finally. "You can look for work. But carefully. And not in the village where we usually go. Somewhere farther away."
"Agreed."
"And if you feel like your memory is coming back, if you start to remember who you are, you come straight home. We deal with it together."
"Home," he repeats softly. "Is that what this is?"
"I don't know what else to call it."
He stands, pulling me up with him, and wraps his arms around me. I bury my face in his chest, feeling his heart beat steady and strong.
"I'm going to take care of you," he murmurs into my hair. "You and Elena. I promise."
"You can't promise that. You don't even know what your real life is all about."
He pulls back enough to look at me. "I know that whatever I was before, I want to be someone different now. Someone worthy of you. Someone who can provide for you and protect you and be what you need."
"I need you alive."
"Then I'll stay alive." He kisses my forehead. "Trust me."
I do. That is the terrifying part. I trust this man whose name I don't know, whose past is a mystery, whose future is uncertain.
I trust him completely.
"Tomorrow," he says. "I'll go tomorrow. There's a construction site in the next town over. I saw the sign last time we drove past. They might need day laborers. No questions asked, cash under the table."
"How will you get there? Do you want me to drive you?"
"No, that’s too dangerous. I'll walk. It's not far."
"It’s ten kilometers."
"I can handle it." He smiles slightly. "I think I'm used to worse."
Probably true. Whatever life he came from, it wasn't soft.
"Be careful," I tell him.
"Always."
He kisses me respectfully at the door, and I let myself have this moment. Let myself believe that somehow, against all odds, this might work out.
When he pulls away, he touches my cheek. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better."
He leaves, and I'm alone in my kitchen with twelve euros and thirty-seven cents and a heart that is too full of hope for someone in my situation.
I should be practical. Should be preparing for the worst. Should be protecting Elena from the inevitable moment when everything falls apart.
But instead, I'm believing in a man who doesn't know his own name. And maybe that makes me the biggest fool in Tuscany. Or maybe, just maybe, it makes me someone who still knows how to hope.
I check on Elena. She's fast asleep, rabbit clutched tight, completely unaware that the man in the barn is about to risk everything for us.
I go to bed but can't sleep. Instead, I lie awake and think about tomorrow. About Lupo trying to find work, risking exposure.
About the very real possibility that he will not come back.
That someone will recognize him. That his past will catch up with him. That I'll lose him before I ever really had him.
But we are out of options.