Page 4 of Finding Love

Dear Emilia…

2

EMILIA

What am I doing here?

And why won’t he leave me alone?

I don’t know which question makes me shiver harder or makes my blood run colder. I only know I have never wrestled this kind of confusion and dread in all my life.

At least, the life I can remember.

It’s easier when he’s here to pretend I’m asleep. Sure, I feel sort of childish, but I would rather feel like a child than endure this guy’s constant, penetrative stare. I feel it even when he’s in the next room with a glass door between us. I can almost taste the expectation in his gaze. It makes me want to rip my skin off and scream until my throat bleeds.

Now I know what it means to be an animal in a cage.

Even now, I have to consciously calm myself down when panic threatens to undo me. It’s a good thing they removed the heart monitor yesterday, so at least he can’t hear the effect he has on me. He’d probably demand a nurse come in if he heard the beeping get faster. He’s that obsessed with every aspect of my care and condition.

I don’t understand it. No matter how hard I concentrate, there’s no memory of him. Nothing personal or meaningful. He could very well have been the man who put me in this bed for all I know.

What do I know for sure? I know there’s a constant ache in the back of my head. I know somebody hurt me badly enough to land me in the hospital and wipe out the last few months of my life—at least. I vaguely remember this past summer. I remember being assigned a partner at work, though I can’t remember who it is. Mom and Dad were supposed to take their trip to Australia this autumn, weren’t they? Are they still there? Would Luca know if I asked him?

Luca. Luca Santoro. The name rang a bell when I saw it on the news today, but the photo they shared of the men in the Santoro family sealed it. There was the father and his two sons—Dante, the underboss, and the younger son, Luca. Handsome, more so in person.

But dangerous.

It doesn’t matter that he treats me so sweetly, like he’s concerned for me. As if he’d die without me, desperate and aching, always hoping I’ve uncovered more of my memory. It doesn’t matter that he acts like I mean something to him. Anybody can pretend. Especially a notorious criminal like him.

Either he’s lying to me about us having a past, or it’s something else. Was I undercover? That’s the only other explanation I’ve been able to come up with as I lie here alone, sometimes praying for the next dose of pain meds to help me get through the worst of my headache. I hate the way they make me feel, all loopy and foggy. Still, it’s better than suffering.

He told me I resigned. Is that true? Why would I? Then again, how did he know about the scar on my arm, which hasn’t been visible to him thanks to the sleeves of my hospital gown? How did he know I sometimes notice numbness and tingling in my right hand? Strangely enough, his explanation brought me relief. I was starting to wonder if I was imagining the tingling, like it was all the result of my head wound. But now it makes sense, even if the implications chill me.

You would think I’d remember something so monumental, being shot and walking away from the only career I’ve ever wanted.

You would think I would remember being with this man.

If I could only talk to somebody I know and trust, except he won’t let me have my phone. Another reason for me not to believe him. He seems caring, but how concerned can he be if he won’t let me contact anybody else in my life? I could at least call the station to confirm his explanation. But no, that’s something else he won’t let me do, which doesn’t exactly make me trust him any more than I already do, which isn’t saying much since I don’t trust him at all. How can I when I’m supposed to be one of the good guys, and he is most definitely not playing on my team?

Was I working on a case involving the family?

Concentrating hard only makes my head hurt worse, but that’s what I need to do more than anything. I need something to focus my confused and conflicting thoughts. Rolling onto my side, I face the wall, my eyes closed quickly in case he’s watching from the other room and takes consciousness as a sign I want to have a chat. That’s the last thing I want or need. All he does is confuse me more than ever because if I didn’t know better, I would swear there’s genuine tenderness and concern in every word he utters.

My instincts are usually spot on—that much I remember. I can’t believe a head injury would shake them up so badly. As far as I know, I’ve been here five days, and already, I’m thinking clearer, remembering more each day. Like the way I recognized Luca the day after our disastrous first meeting when all I could do was cry and feel like an alien who just landed on a strange new planet.

I need to believe more will come back in time.

What happens if I remember something horrible about him when it’s already too late for me to protect myself?

What a time for the sweet scent of roses to catch my attention. Easing one eye open, I stare at the deep red blooms. They’re enormous, so fragrant, and seeing them makes me smile despite knowing who they came from. He knew my favorite flower. I mean, I’m sure roses are a lot of people’s favorite flowers. Still, what if he had gotten it wrong and proved he doesn’t know me?

The son of a notorious mob boss wouldn’t take a stupid risk.

Why would I get involved with him in the first place? It couldn’t only be physical, no matter how gorgeous he is. It doesn’t matter that he walks into the room and instantly commands it or that my heart tends to skip a beat when I first see him—even feeling like I do, there’s no denying it. That’s not enough of a reason for me to turn away from everything I ever thought I wanted and toward a man whose life is based on crime and destruction.

There’s a brief knock on the door leading out to the hall, and I roll over, sitting up a little in anticipation of lunch. If there’s one thing hospitals thrive on, it’s sticking to schedules.

“How are we feeling?” I recognize the orderly who wears a friendly smile as he nudges the door open, tray in hand. “It feels pretty heavy. I think they doubled up your fries.” He winks playfully.

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