DANTE’S POV
My father is dead
I tried not to let my expression betray the flurry of questions hammering in my mind. Antonio was gone? When? Why did that feel so… wrong? The harder I pushed at the memories, the more my head throbbed, a needle of pain pressing into my skull, warning me against trying too hard. But I couldn’t stop. I wanted to ask her more, to draw some thread of memory from the blank canvas in my mind. Why did she seem so familiar yet so out of reach?
The only thing I knew for sure was that there were enormous gaps in my memory. And this woman, Helena, claimed to be my wife. But I couldn’t remember a thing about her-no touch, no voice, not even a single look. It made no sense. I opened my mouth to ask, to say anything that might make her stay and fill the silence with answers.
But she turned away.
Helena. I let the name linger on my tongue, trying to connect it with anything-any feeling. Helena.
“What did you say?” Gianna’s voice cut through my thoughts. I realized I must have said the name out loud. She was staring at me, her head tilted, looking both concerned and irritated.
“Nothing,” I muttered, shaking my head. She slipped her arm through mine, tugging me back into the house. Her hand clung to me, as if she were afraid I might disappear, though the way she pulled me along felt more possessive than tender.
Inside, everything was the same as it had always been, yet something felt off. My eyes drifted to the couch in the sitting room. A flash of a memory hit me out of nowhere, vivid and potent. I could see myself tangled with a woman on that very couch, bodies pressed close, a sense of need as thick as smoke. Her scent lingered like a ghost, so familiar it sent a jolt of awareness through me. I tried to see her face, to recall some detail, but the memory slipped away like smoke between my fingers.
It wasn’t Gianna, that much I knew. Gianna’s bright, fiery blonde hair was unmistakable, a burnished gold that practically gleamed. The woman in my memory-her hair was dark, a softer shade, almost brown. Was it Helena? But no face came to mind, just a sense, like I was groping in the dark for something solid.
“When did Antonio die?” I asked suddenly, needing to know something concrete.
Gianna looked at me from her place at the bar, cigarette in hand. She shrugged, her face a blank mask. “Who’s Antonio?”
Pointless, asking her anything. She’d always kept herself above it all, feigning aloofness about everyone’s business but her own. I clenched my jaw, frustration mounting. Why was I having flashes of another woman when I was supposed to be madly in love with Gianna? But even that didn’t feel right.
“I’m going for a drive,” I announced.
Gianna barely glanced up from her phone, waving me off without a second thought. I grabbed one of my car keys and stepped out into the cool air, the weight in my chest a storm of emptiness. I knew there were things I was missing-things I could almost reach, yet remained stubbornly out of my grasp. The memories jumbled together, twisting through my mind until a dull ache pulsed in my temple.
I’d barely registered the fuel gauge until the light flashed, low on fuel. Of course. Matteo was supposed to fill the tank, but somehow, he’d let it run almost dry. I pulled into the nearest gas station, stepping out to fill the tank. The silence was nearly a relief, though I could still feel the tension crawling under my skin.
That’s when I heard it-a low, heated argument from the far end of the lot. The voices grew louder, one masculine and the other sharper, fierce. I wasn’t in the mood to intervene, and part of me wanted to ignore it, but then I caught a glimpse of the woman involved. Her dark hair, her posture. It was her-Helena.
I watched her silently for a moment as she argued with the gas station attendant. Her eyes flashed, fierce and unyielding. There was a fire in her gaze that pulled me forward almost against my will. I moved closer, and before I knew it, she was right in front of me, almost colliding into me. Her eyes widened in surprise when she realized who she’d run into.
“Did he hurt you?” I asked, keeping my tone even. “Do you want me to take care of him for you?”
She rolled her eyes, a dry laugh escaping her. “What are you going to do this time? Burn his store down to the ground?”
A flash of something-fire. The memory hit me like a bullet, a burst of heat and light, followed by a stab of pain in my head. I winced but pushed it away, focusing on her. “If that’s what you want.” I smirked.
She shook her head, rolling her eyes again as if I were nothing more than an annoyance, and moved to walk past me. But I couldn’t let her go. Not yet. There was something about her that gripped me in ways I couldn’t explain, a familiarity I couldn’t shake, like she was a puzzle piece that might unlock everything.
I blocked her path, my gaze steady. “There’s something about you that bothers me. Some sort of familiarity that I can’t place. I can feel it, but I just…can’t remember it.”
She held my gaze, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something but then hesitated. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly. “You had an accident, Dante,” she said, her tone edged with impatience. “You lost your memories. End of story.”
She said it with a kind of finality that made it clear she didn’t want to discuss it further. And yet, I wasn’t ready to let her walk away, not this time. I needed answers.
“Well then, help me remember them. You claimed we were married,” I pressed. “Prove it.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I could see a glimmer of something-pain, maybe?-flicker across her face. “We didn’t sign the marriage certificate,” she replied coolly. “You kept postponing it. So there’s nothing to prove.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. “Well then, give me something else-anything. I know there’s something missing, and it’s killing me that I can’t fill the gaps.”
She looked at me, her gaze wavering as though debating something. Finally, she sighed, pulling out her phone. She held it up between us, her expression a mix of resignation and sorrow. A moment later, I heard my own voice playing from a recording on the device.
“Helena…” The voice was unmistakably mine, though I could hear the tension in it, a kind of desperation. “I can’t lose you a second time. We can work this out. I love you, and-”
The recording cut off, leaving a heavy silence between us, and I made her play it again. My words hung in the air, dark and raw. And in that silence, something stirred-a sliver of emotion, a hint of recognition so faint it felt like trying to grasp smoke. I could almost feel it-the burn of the memory, the weight of those words. I didn’t remember saying them, didn’t remember why I’d felt so fiercely about this woman, yet I knew the voice on that recording was mine.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, her gaze wary, as if she’d just bared a part of herself she hadn’t intended to. “Is that enough for you?” she asked, her voice quieter now, the fierce edge replaced by something almost vulnerable.
I stared at her, struggling to process the fragments she’d given me, the thin thread of memory, the ache of not knowing. “No,” I admitted, voice rough. “But it’s a start.”