Tall. Dark hair going gray. Late forties. Connected to organized crime in Rome. Controls through fear and violence.
A man like me.
Or like whoever I was before.
The difference is I used my violence for what? Power? Money? Territory? The specifics are lost in the void of my memory, but the shape of it is clear. I was someone who hurt people for profit, for position, for my own gain.
Draco Vitale hurts people because he enjoys it, because he can. Because a woman and child are easier to control than an empire.
That's the difference.
And it's why, if he comes here, I'm going to kill him.
The thought should shock me. Should make me recoil from what I'm becoming. But it doesn't. It settles into my bones like a promise, solid and unbreakable.
I'll kill him, and I won't lose sleep over it.
The only question is whether he'll come himself or send his people. Based on what Isabella said, he's the type to send others to do his dirty work. Which means I need to be ready for multiple threats. Need to think about weapons, defensive positions, contingency plans.
My mind is already working through scenarios. If they come during the day, I can use the barn as a choke point. If they come at night, I have the advantage of knowing the terrain. If they come with guns, I stop myself and listen to what I'm thinking, how easily the tactical planning comes, how natural it feels to think about killing multiple people in defense of this place.
This is who I am.
Not a carpenter. Not a farmhand. Not some innocent victim of amnesia trying to find his way home.
I'm someone who knows how to kill. Someone who's done it before. Probably many times.
And right now, that's exactly what Isabella and Elena need me to be.
I hear a sound from the house, a door opening quietly, then soft footsteps crossing the yard. I tense, ready to move, then recognize the silhouette.
Isabella.
She's wearing a robe over her nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She stops a few feet from the barn door, hugging herself against the cool night air.
"I saw you from the window," she says quietly. "Couldn't sleep?"
"No."
She steps closer into the barn, and I can see her face in the moonlight. Tired. Worried. But not afraid of me.
She should be.
"What were you doing out there?" she asks. "Walking around?"
I could lie. Should lie. Tell her I was restless, needed to stretch my legs, couldn't settle.
But I'm tired of lying to her.
"Checking for weaknesses," I tell her. "Looking at sight lines. Figuring out how someone would approach if they were coming for us."
She goes very still. "And?"
"And this place is difficult to defend. Too open. Too many access points." I meet her eyes. "If they come, we'll have warning, the driveway is long enough for that. But we won't be able to hold them off for long."
"They might not come."
"They might not." I don't believe it, and neither does she. "But if they do, whether they're looking for you or for me, I need you to know something."
