"That won't happen."
"How do you know?"
"Because—" He stops, and I see him struggle with something. "Even now, before my memory returns, I know what matters. And it's not power or money or control. It's Elena asking me to make eggs. It's you sleeping in my arms. It's fixing a fence and gathering olives and reading bedtime stories. Being with the two of you matters to me."
My throat is tight. "Lupo—"
"I'm not good with words. I don't know how to explain what this—what you—mean to me. But I know I can't lose it. Won't survive losing it." He reaches across the table again, and this time I let him take my hand. "Whatever I have to do to keep you safe, to keep Elena safe, to make it possible for us to have a future—I'll do it. Even if it means going back temporarily. Even if it means facing who I was."
I stare at our joined hands. His are so much larger than mine, scarred and calloused from work. Hands that have killed. Hands that have held me gently.
"When will you call him?" I ask.
"Tomorrow. After work. I'll find out what the situation really is, what my options are." He squeezes my hand. "And then we'll figure out the next step."
"Together?"
"Together," he agrees.
We sit like that for a while, holding hands across the table, neither of us ready to let go or say goodnight. Because we both know that once he makes that call, everything changes.
This fragile peace we've built—this pretense that we're just a normal family on a quiet farm—will shatter.
And we'll have to face the reality of who we both really are.
Two people running from violent pasts, trying to build something good in the wreckage. Two people who found each other by accident and are desperately trying to hold on.
We might not survive what's coming.
But at least we'll face it together.
Finally, Lupo stands. "You should sleep. It's late."
"So should you."
"I will later." But we both know he won't. He'll stay awake in the barn, thinking through scenarios, preparing for threats, making plans.
Because that's who he is. Who he's always been. A man who protects what's his. And somewhere in the past few weeks, Elena and I became his to protect.
He walks to the door, then pauses. Turns back to look at me.
"Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not running. For listening. For—" He stops, struggling again. "For not looking at me like I'm a monster."
"You're not a monster."
"I might be. I’m fairly certain I am."
"You're my monster then," I say quietly. "And Elena's. And maybe that's enough."
Something in his expression shifts. Softens. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe it is."
