Page 2 of Finding Love

Those nightmares follow me down the hall of my family home, taunting me with every step I take.

My fault.

All my fucking fault.

Sometimes, in those dreams, I find her dead. Other times, I hear her screams and the sound echoes in my head long after I’ve woken up. It’s echoing in my head now—her pain and terror.

Vinny is waiting for me when I step outside, where I can almost taste snow in the air. I barely feel the cold that quickly penetrates my button-down, and it doesn’t occur to me until I’m in the car that I forgot to put on my coat before leaving. What does it matter?

I growl and grit my teeth at my own weak, pathetic thoughts. Emilia has never needed me more than she does now, even if she doesn’t know it yet. She will soon. I have to believe she will. I can’t let her find me exhausted and sick when she does.

The first snowflakes land on my shoulders once I exit the car and hurry into the hospital. It’s been five days since we first rushed Emilia through these doors, I know the layout like the back of my hand. I don’t bother going through the motions of checking in with the front desk staff or getting a stick-on name tag. They know better than to try to stop me on my way to the bank of elevators, one of which I step into before pressing the button for the top floor.

The guards are changing shifts when I arrive. “How is she?” I ask Massimo, who was arriving as I was leaving for home last night.

“Just woke up maybe an hour ago. The roses you ordered got here before that.” He barely stifles a yawn before leaving while Bruce takes his place on a folding chair outside Emilia’s door. His brother, Bruno, was murdered in the guest house the night of Emilia’s kidnapping, so he takes his duty seriously. It’s personal for him. No doubt he wishes one of Vitali’s guys would come along so he could have his pound of flesh in return.

Rather than enter through the door to the family waiting room on the other side of the suite, I open the one to Emilia’s room to say good morning. Oddly enough, it’s one of the things I miss most—something as simple as wishing her a good morning, basking in the warmth of her sleepy smile, and watching her return to life after hours spent resting in my arms.

How was I supposed to know it would all end so suddenly? That I’d go back to being the enemy, someone to fear and dread?

I have to pretend not to notice the way she stiffens and draws the blankets closer to her chin as soon as she sees me. “Good morning,” I offer with a grin. “I heard your flowers arrived. What do you think of them?”

How can she look so much like the Emilia I left for what I thought would only be an hour? Granted, there are changes, starting with the uneven tufts of hair left behind after the Vitali crew crudely chopped most of it off. Then there are the slowly healing bruises and lacerations to her face. The sight of them sickens me, not because of the damage they do to her perfect beauty, but because they, too, serve as a reminder of how I failed her. I should be the one whose face looks like a punching bag, not her. She’s never done a single thing in all her life to deserve what happened to her.

All she did was love me.

“Roses are my favorite.” She won’t look at me, focusing her attention to the lush blooms arranged in a crystal vase on the bedside table. I can let that go since the twitching of her lips is more important. The way she smiles softly, looking at the flowers.

I still have the power to bring a smile to those bruised lips.

“How are you feeling today?” Fuck, this is so awkward. I’ve been inside this woman. I was minutes from asking her to marry me the night she was taken. I’ve envisioned our life together so many times the future seems more real than the present.

Yet here we are, strangers to each other.

She glances away from the blooms before averting her gaze again. “I was watching the news earlier. I saw you on TV. Now I know where I recognize you from.”

Goddammit. “What did you see?” I ask, approaching the bed, one slow step at a time.

“Something about violence between your family and another,” she explains. “Vitali, the name was. I recognized that too. From work, I guess.” She lifts a shoulder, her voice flat and emotionless. “So, at least I understand that much. How I knew your face.”

What am I supposed to do? Congratulate her? Tell her I’m glad? Once again, I’m torn between patiently loving her and desperately needing her to love me, this constant back-and-forth, push and pull. It’s infuriating, but I can’t show her my fury.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” I ask, fighting to be gentle as I sit on the edge of the bed. She sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, but I won’t get up when it’s her nearness I need most. I can’t stay away. “Whatever it is. I’ll do my best to help you remember.”

She’s considering the idea. Her memory of the past few months might have vanished, yet some things don’t change. She’s as easy to read as ever. “No,” she finally decides, drawing her knees close to her chest when my hand drifts too close to her leg.

The bitter bile of rejection rises in my throat, leaving me fighting to maintain composure as I draw my hand back. There’s no way in the world she doesn’t remember how useless it was to deny our connection. Fuck, I tried to deny it myself, yet I had no choice but to threaten to turn my back on my entire family if it meant protecting her life.

“You mentioned work,” I prompt. “You remember your job?”

Her twitchy fingers work the blanket’s hem, almost compulsively picking at a loose thread. Anything, so long as she doesn’t have to look at me. “Sure. I mean, mostly. I know I have a partner, but I can’t picture them. I can’t remember the last case I worked on. I need to get back to it,” she points out. “They have to be wondering why I haven’t called. Why don’t I have a phone in this room? Why can’t I have my cell?”

This again. Like my answer is going to change. “I told you already. It’s complicated,” I murmur as gently as I can when what I want to do is scream.

I should be glad to see the anger that flashes across her face. It means she’s stronger. Why does that strength have to be directed at me? “Letting the people who know me know I’m alive is complicated?” she snaps.

And I thought it would be a good thing to visit her. This is the first time she’s dared to make a demand of me. I should be glad she’s feeling strong enough, but that’s the furthest from my mind. “You’re not missing anything, I promise. Besides, the doctors didn’t think it would be a good idea,” I remind her. “There’s too much missing from your memory, and you might not be able to process everything coming at you all at once.”

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