Page 14 of The Don's Soulmate

I’m prepared to walk over to her, to let her know no one holds a candle to her, when an arrow hits her neck. I gasp, running towards her as she falls, the lifeblood seeping out of her.

A second later, I’m running through a dark hallway, three men at my heels. I turn a corner, readying myself and take down the first. Not waiting for the other two, I duck into an alcove, begging the gods that they will keep her safe this time, that myred-haired maiden has found a hiding place from those who’ve taken the castle, but I never find out for a sword finds me first.

And then, we’re at an Izakaya. Her pale pink kimono complementing her black, almond-shaped eyes. I sip my tea and she bites an oyster. I watch helplessly as the poison ravages her body, causing her to wither and die within the same night..

By now, tears are streaming down my face. First one woman, then another, then another. Sometimes she dies, other times it’s me. A cycle of death we can never escape.

The ballroom doors swing open once more, releasing a wave of heat and laughter that floods the foyer. A different time and place, but the same outcome. Suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness. Panic surges as confusion ripples through the crowd. It takes only moments before the screams begin. The princess gasps. I stare at my chest, warmth blooming from where the dagger was plunged into my heart.

I jolt awake, my heart pounding against my ribs. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead as vivid images from the dream fade, replaced by the familiar surroundings of my bedroom. But the deaths still haunt me.

I throw off the sheets, tired from battling windmills. Something needs to change. I shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to banish the residual nightmare and inject some energy into my body. I comb my hair and shrug on my usual black suit, forgoing my typical meticulous grooming routine."Dammit," I mutter as I fumble with my tie, finally securing it around my neck and turning to leave the room.

My mind races as I stride downstairs, driven by the need to get a grip on these visions that plague my sleep. I'm a man accustomed to control, but this situation has left me feeling powerless, and it's infuriating. There’s only one person I can call on for help.

Once outside, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The air is cool against my skin, yet I can't shake off the chilling memories of those women's eyes just before they died. How can I stop them from haunting me? How can I prevent seeing death once again, in this life?

I speed through the empty streets of Rome, taking every turn with a dangerous edge, pushing the limits of the machine beneath me.

It doesn’t help.

As the engine of my Ferrari roars, glimpses of my dream resurface—a woman's anguished cry, the glint of a knife in candlelight. "Dammit, why can't I shake these images?" I growl to myself.

I’m done being tossed about like a ship in a storm. It’s time to confront this thing head-on, just like I’ve done every other challenge.

The sun is just about to rise as I reach my destination: a small, quaint cottage nestled within the heart of Rome. I park my car and step out. A rooster is crowing somewhere. This time, the cozy atmosphere of Elma's home is doing little for my troubled state of mind. The warm lighting spilling out from her windows seems to beckon me inside, telling me it’s not too early.

I walk up the cobblestone path to the carved wooden door and knock. The door to the small cottage creaks open, revealing Elma standing in the doorway. She's a vision of warmth and comfort, her silver hair pulled back into a loose bun.

"Come in, Ettore dear," she says softly, opening the door wider and gesturing for me to enter.

I follow her into the cozy living area, adorned with embroidered pillows and fresh flowers.

"Have a seat, I just put on some tea."

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” I tell her.

She gently takes my hand, patting it as she guides me to sit. “Something told me I would be needed in the early hours,” she says, before turning away.

I sink into an overstuffed armchair as Elma busies herself preparing two cups. The familiar ritual soothes my frayed nerves. She hands me a steaming cup and sits across from me.

"Now tell me, what's troubling you?" she asks, her wise gaze searching mine. I grip the cup tightly. Elma is perhaps the only person I fully trust. If anyone can guide me to the truth, it is her.

I look down into the swirling liquid, gathering my thoughts before answering. "I've discovered something...unusual about myself recently. I seem to have an innate talent for diplomacy, and I've even understood Russian without ever studying it."

Elma nods thoughtfully, not at all surprised by my revelation. "These are important abilities, Ettore. But just one amongst the many you hold.”

“That is true,” I tell her, unable to form the words for the true reason I find myself here. She sits there, quietly, and I sit the same. She’s waiting for me to speak, but when I don’t, she helps me remember the bond we share. This has always been Elma’s way to get me to open up.

"Ettore, do you remember some of our first sessions when you were just a child? Your mother brought you to me, desperate for help."

A heavy sigh escapes my lips at the memories of those difficult times. I was so young, confused by the strange skills and inexplicable knowledge that seemed to manifest from nowhere. I used to scream and cry, pleading with my mother to understandthat my dreams were real, and not simply the fruit of an over-active imagination.

For a while, she was skeptical. But when my teachers stood amazed at my ability to solve college-level physics theories, when I assisted a tourist in fluent Mandarin, or when I told my father that his gun might backfire, she got scared. No longer able to deny that this was not normal for a boy of eight, my mother started seeking answers for the peculiar abilities her oldest son displayed.

Of course, my father was hugely disappointed in a son who refused to learn how to fight. Unable to reveal that I was not only skilled in various combat arts but also knew how to kill, I withdrew.

When we had company over, I would be told to stay in my room. An attempt to curb the rumors of an idiot son in the Mancini family.

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