Page 103 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

“That…” I bring a shaking finger to the picture of the child. “That’s me,” I whisper.

He goes pale in the face, and lets go of my arm, sitting on the bed, right next to me. “It’s you,” he repeats. “I thought so. When was this photo taken?”

"Vincenzo," I choke out, the weight of the revelation crushing me, "I don’t know.”

The image of the woman before me sparks a flood of memories that make no sense. A smell envelopes me, tender and sweet like fresh flowers, I hear a song in my head that I swear I’ve never heard before, sung in a sweet voice I don’t recognize.

“Stop!” I groan, shoving the photo aside, burying my head into a pillow. “Make it stop!” I shriek, as her face, so warm and filled with love, now stares down at me in in my mind, asking if I’d like strawberries or mangoes this morning, both of which are my favorite fruits.

“Camela,” Vincenzo exclaims in shock as I shudder under the weight of these memories threatening to engulf me. His touch on my shoulder feels distant, as though he’s a ghost trying to reach me. I keep my head buried in the pillow, rocking back and forth.

“I remember something, Vincenzo,” I whisper into the pillow. “A woman, kissing me goodnight. Now, she’s making me clean a cage for a guinea pig and telling me I could get a dog if I remain good. She’s putting a bandage on my finger, kissing my forehead, now she’s asking if I prefer the walls to be pink or green…” I look up from the pillow, the tears streaming down my face and stare at Vincenzo, almost shouting in his face. “What the hell is happening to me? Where are all these thoughts coming from?”

“What thoughts, cara mia?”

I grab the photo back in my hand and shove it in his face. “These thoughts… with this woman in them,” I tell him, and they immediately feel like a lie on my lips.

With trembling hands, I bring the picture back up under the light, tracing the curves of the woman’s face. Then, proceed to my own. I look out, into the mirror by the door, watching myself, before bringing my eyes back to the photo. As I stare at the photo, my eyes are drawn to a faint inscription in the corner.

Squinting through my tears, I manage to make out the words: "Rose and the little munchkin." My heart catches in my throat. Rose – my mother's name. This photo isn't just a random snapshot; it's a piece of my past, a tangible link to the family I'd almost forgotten.

“Mother?” I whisper. My voice falters, unable to form the words that burn in my throat, as the truth claws its way to the surface.

But, what demands to be said, needs to be said.

"Vincenzo, this woman..." I gasp, tears welling up in my eyes, "this woman is my mother. Her name was Rose,” I show him the inscription. “And that’s me," I point to my toddler self.

“He told me he dated a Rose once,” Vincenzo mumbles, shaking his head.

My mind races as I try to piece together the fragments of a past I can barely recall. How did this photo end up here in Vincenzo’s home?

“Why did I have no recollection of her, until this moment?” I gush. “Could she still be … alive?” I ask Vincenzo.

"You were probably forced to forget all signs of her," Vincenzo's voice cracks. "Sometimes, when one sees photos, it can trigger memories buried, hidden. The Handler must have–”

“The Handler told me my parents died when I was a baby. That they barely ever held me,” I say, in shock as the evidence contradicting that, lies in my hand.

“He lied,” Vincenzo says, through gritted teeth. “I know this must be so much for you to take in, Camela. But think now, tell me, what could my brother be doing by your mother’s side? By your side?”

“Antonio?” I gasp, for the first time truly studying the man’s features. I had been so caught up in what was mine, I never looked that way. “It all makes sense now,” I mutter.

“What?” Vincenzo grasps my hand. “What makes sense?”

“When I saw Antonio’s photo in your living room that day, I couldn’t sleep all night. For some reason, it felt like I’d met the man before. Now, I know why.” I continue to take in the sight.

“Is there anything else you can remember about him?” Vincenzo begs. “Anything at all?”

“I’m sorry,” I shake my head, and clutch the photo to my chest. “I don’t know what he meant, but now as it comes back to me, he’s in many of my memories. Could he perhaps be… my father?” I whisper, feeling fear go down my spine. For what it could mean for Vincenzo and I.

“No,” Vincenzo shakes his head vehemently. “Never. My brother would never keep such secrets. I knew he dated a Rose once, just never knew what she looked like. Had he fathered a child, Camela. I would have known.”

“But-” I argue.

“Trust me,” he growls, taking my face in his palms and forcing me to stare into the certainty in his eyes. “I would have known.”

"Then why does his face seem so familiar?" I ask, frustration creeping into my tone. "Why do I have memories of him with my mother?"

"Camela, I can't be sure," Vincenzo admits, his own confusion clear as he rubs the back of his neck. "But we can't jump to conclusions. There must be an explanation for all this, and we'll find it."

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