“I don’t care what you did or didn’t do with or to Niccolo to piss him off. I just know you did something, and his men won’t chase you and forget you, because he doesn’t forget those who burn him. And that is not only your problem; it became mine when I gave my name to the emergency personnel and it ended up on the police report.”
I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “He’s going to look for me through you.”
“Yes, he is, which is why I had a hacker erase my name from the police report. He also amended the ‘Jane Doe’ version of your records to show you were transported here to the hospital, but never admitted.”
“That’s why you registered me under an alias. So this Niccolo person couldn’t find me.”
“That’s right
. I even had your registration date changed.”
“But Gallo found you, and us.”
“Because someone who knows how much he hates me heard my name on the emergency radio and told him. He intercepted the paper version of the police report about sixty seconds before it would have disappeared as well.”
“He hates you.”
“Yes. He hates me.”
“Why?”
“It’s about a woman. Kind of like now.”
“About me, you mean?”
“For me, yes. For him it’s about her, and she’s a bitter pill he refuses to swallow. Which is why I’m here before he draws the attention to us I’ve ensured we don’t get. One of the nurses just informed me that he spent the past two days going room to room, looking for me until finally someone recognized me. He talked to a lot of people. Too many for me to feel safe staying here, with Niccolo looking for you.”
“How can you know he’s really looking for me?”
“He never leaves loose ends. That’s why he’s survived.”
“Because no one else does,” I say, my throat suddenly raw and dry.
“You’ve got it, sweetheart, but to be clear, no one outruns Niccolo. We’re going to attack this and win—and to do that, I need what’s inside your head.” He pushes away from me and crosses to a long, rectangular cabinet and removes a duffel bag, which he tosses on the floor. “It’s time for you to remember who you are. Your laundered clothes are inside. Open it and get in touch with your past, because who and what you are to Niccolo will decide what we do next.”
“Don’t say that like I’m intimately involved with him,” I snap. “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t be involved with a mobster.”
“A scenario that makes this easier to fix. So open the bag, grab your memories, and give us both a reason to believe that’s true.”
Adrenaline surges through me, and my eyes land on the bag holding my personal belongings. My truth. I begin to tremble, a sign of denial and weakness I can no longer afford. Shoving off of the sink, I take the two steps between me and the bag and lower myself onto the ground in front of it, the hard tile biting into my knees. Unbidden, I flash back to being in the same position, with cobblestone pavement instead of tiles punishing my skin, and I want to know how I got there, why I was there. I grab the zipper and try to tug it down the bag, only the stupid shaking of my hand interferes, and I grab it, willing it to still.
Kayden settles to one knee in front of me. “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, soothing caress I do not expect, nor do I accept, after all he’s just said and done.
“You just told me that I’m linked to a mobster, who now most likely wants to kill us both. Nothing about this is easy.”
“Any memories you find within the contents of this bag won’t be as bad as what Niccolo will do to both of us if we let him catch up with us.”
“Thanks for making me feel better.”
“I’m not a feel-good kind of guy. You have to do this.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement, unzipping the bag himself, and reaching inside to set a neatly folded pile of clothes on my lap.
I stare down at the garments, a pair of dark jeans and a lavender V-neck T-shirt, praying for that switch I told Kayden didn’t exist to flip on in my head, but the now familiar white noise remains. “Nothing,” I say, unable to bring myself to look at him, but he’s not having it.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I don’t want to, but somehow I do, and I can feel him compelling me to give him a different answer, one I can’t give. “There has to be something.”
“There isn’t. Those clothes might as well be someone else’s.”
“That’s not good enough,” he says, and while his voice is low, the undertone of truth cuts like a knife.