Moving a hundred-and-ninety-pound unconscious man is not like in the movies.
In the movies, the heroine draped the guy's arm over her shoulder and they hobbled away together. In reality, it was dead weight. It was like trying to drag a sack of cement that happened to be wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.
By the time I got Roman Corso out of the passenger seat of the black SUV and onto the gravel driveway of my cottage, I was sweating, cursing, and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
"You are heavy," I grunted, hooking my arms under his armpits and hauling him backward toward the front door. "And stubborn. And currently ruining my flower bed."
His heels dragged through my prize-winning hydrangeas. I didn't even care.
I paused to catch my breath, my chest heaving. He was completely out. His head rolled slightly to the side, the white bandage Luca had wrapped around his skull stark against his dark hair. Even unconscious, he looked dangerous. His face was pale, his breathing shallow but steady.
I looked around. The coastal road was empty. No one had seen me pull the SUV around the back. No one had seen me dragging the Wolf of the Underworld into my house like a bag of groceries.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Just get him inside. Just get him on the couch. Then panic."
It took me another ten minutes of struggling, slipping, and one very undignified moment where I almost dropped him on my foot, but I finally managed to get him into the living room.
I heaved him onto the old, floral-print sofa I'd bought at a thrift store. He was too long for it; his legs hung off the end, his expensive leather shoes looking ridiculous against the faded chintz fabric.
I locked the door. Then I bolted it. Then I pulled the heavy blackout curtains I usually only used during storms.
Only then did I allow myself to collapse into the armchair opposite him.
My hands were shaking. I clasped them together to stop it, but the tremor ran all the way up my arms.
Roman Corso was in my house.
The man who had pointed a gun at my chest less than twenty-four hours ago was now sleeping on my sofa.
"This is insane," I muttered, running a hand through my messy hair. "This is actually insane. I should have just let Luca shoot me. It would have been faster."
But I was a nurse. And the nurse part of my brain was already overriding the terrified-hostage part.
I stood up and walked over to him. I needed to assess the damage properly. Luca had done a rough patch job, but if Roman had a brain bleed, he could die right here on my couch. And knowing Luca, he'd blame me for it.
I knelt beside the sofa. Up close, Roman looked... different. Without the sneer, without the cold hatred in his eyes, he just looked like a man. A tired, hurt man.
I reached out and gently peeled back the bandage on his forehead.
The wound was ugly—a nasty gash near his hairline, stitched up clumsily. Probably by one of Luca's street doctors. But the swelling wasn't catastrophic. His pupils, when I carefully lifted his eyelids, were equal and reactive to the light from my phone.
Concussion, definitely. Ribs likely bruised from the fall. But he wasn't dying.
"Lucky bastard," I whispered, taping the bandage back down. "Even gravity can't kill you."
I spent the next hour stripping him of his ruined suit jacket and tie, checking for other injuries. I found a gun holster (empty, thank God) and a wallet.
I opened the wallet. A thick stack of cash. A black credit card. And a photo.
I pulled it out. It was old, creased at the corners. It showed two boys—one older, one younger—standing in front of a stern-looking man. The older boy had his arm protectively around the younger one.
Roman and Luca. Even back then, Roman looked serious. He was protecting his brother.
I shoved the photo back in the wallet and tossed it on the coffee table. I didn't want to humanize him. I didn't want to know that the monster had a family he cared about. It made it harder to hate him.
And I needed to hate him. Hate was the only thing keeping me sharp.
The first two days were a blur of fear and exhaustion.
I didn't go to the clinic. I called in sick, faking a flu that made my voice raspy. I spent every waking hour sitting in the armchair with a kitchen knife on my lap, watching his chest rise and fall.
Every time he twitched, I flinched. Every time he groaned in his sleep, I gripped the knife handle so tight my knuckles turned white.
What if he wakes up now? I'd think, my heart racing. What if he grabs me? What if he remembers the cliff?
I had a plan, sort of. If he woke up, I'd tell him... what?
Oh, hey Roman. Your brother dropped you off. Please don't kill me.
Yeah, that would go over well.
By the third night, I was exhausted. I hadn't slept more than an hour at a time. I was running on caffeine and anxiety.
I was in the kitchen, making a sandwich I knew I wouldn't eat, when I heard it.
A sound.
A low, guttural groan from the living room. Then the rustle of fabric.
The knife slipped from my hand and clattered onto the counter. I froze, staring at the open doorway.
"Water..."
The voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. It was weak, but it was unmistakably him.
He was awake.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. This was it. The moment I'd been dreading.
I grabbed the knife again. I held it behind my back, taking a deep, shaky breath. You can do this, Sofia. You're a Moretti. Act like one.
I walked slowly into the living room.
Roman was trying to sit up. He was pale, sweating, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the dark bruising on his chest. He looked disoriented, his hand pressing against his bandaged head as if trying to hold his skull together.
He heard my footsteps and froze.
Slowly, painfully, he turned his head to look at me.
I stopped five feet away, my muscles coiled tight, ready to run or fight.
His eyes opened. Those hazel eyes locked onto mine.
I waited for the recognition. I waited for the flash of anger, the smirk, the accusation. You pushed me. You ran.
But there was nothing. He looked at me the way a stranger looks at something disposable.
He blinked, squinting at me as if I were out of focus. His gaze drifted from my face to the room around us—the floral curtains, the cozy fireplace, the storm raging outside the window—and then back to me.
Confusion. Pure, unadulterated confusion.
"Where..." He coughed, wincing as the movement pulled at his bruised ribs. "Where am I?"
I swallowed hard. "You're home," I said, the lie slipping out before I could stop it. "You're safe."
He frowned. His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to solve a complex math equation in his head. "Home?"
He looked down at his hands. Then he looked at me again.
"Who are you?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and impossible.
Luca hadn't lied. He really didn't know. The Wolf had been reset to factory settings.
This was my chance. I could tell him the truth—that we were enemies, that he should leave. But if I did that, he might leave. And if he left, Luca would kill me.
Or... I could do what Luca suggested. I could give him a reason to stay. A reason to trust me implicitly. A reason that would keep him docile and inside this house until his brother came back.
I took a step closer. I uncurled my fingers from the knife handle behind my back and let it drop silently onto the carpet.
"You don't remember?" I asked, putting as much gentle concern into my voice as I could muster.
He shook his head, then hissed in pain. "I... no. My head is pounding. I can't... everything is blank."
He looked at me with a vulnerability that was terrifying. He was waiting for me to fill in the blanks. He was handing me the pen to write his history.
I took a deep breath. Forgive me, God.
"I'm Sophie," I said softly. I walked over to the sofa and knelt beside him, forcing myself to reach out and touch his hand. His skin was warm. He didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers instinctively curled around mine, seeking an anchor.
"Sophie?" he repeated, testing the name on his tongue.
"Yes," I lied, looking him straight in the eye. "I'm your wife."
The silence that followed was deafening.
I watched his face closely, waiting for him to call my bluff. Waiting for him to laugh and say, Nice try, Moretti.
But he didn't.
He looked at our joined hands. He looked at the simple gold band I wore on my finger (my grandmother's ring, which I wore on a chain usually). Then he looked back at my face, searching for the truth.
And he found it. Or at least, he found the truth I was projecting.
The tension in his shoulders drained away. He let out a long, shaky breath, as if a weight had been lifted off his chest.
"My wife," he whispered. It wasn't a question anymore. It was a realization.
"Yes," I said, squeezing his hand. "You were in a car accident. You hit your head pretty hard. The doctor said you might have some memory loss, but... I'm here. I've got you."
He stared at me for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching mine. Then, the impossible happened.
Roman Corso—the man who had murdered my uncle, the man who terrified an entire city—gave me a small, weak, grateful smile.
"I... I don't remember you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But I feel..." He paused, struggling to find the words. "I feel like I should. You look... safe."
Safe.
The irony almost made me throw up.
"I am," I whispered, feeling like the worst person on earth. "I'm safe, Adam. Just rest now."
"Adam?" he asked.
"That's your name," I said firmly. "Adam."
"Adam," he repeated, closing his eyes. "Okay. Okay."
He didn't let go of my hand. He held onto it like a lifeline as he drifted back toward sleep.
I sat there on the floor, trapped by his grip, staring at the man I had just married with a lie.
I had survived the first encounter. The Wolf was asleep, and Adam was awake.
But as I looked at his sleeping face, I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't just guarding a prisoner anymore. I was building a house of cards on the edge of a cliff, in the middle of a hurricane.
And when this fell apart—and it would fall apart—it wasn't just going to hurt.
It was going to destroy us both.