I shoved him away and scrambled to the far side of the bed, ignoring the wet, sticky trail between my legs. I couldn't even look at the sheets, at the proof my body had betrayed me. I wiped the last of my tears with the back of my hand, hating how easily he could unravel me.
Shame burned low and vicious in my stomach as I watched the way he rose from the bed. He didn't even rush. He never did. The calm way he reached for his pants, buttoning them with hands that still looked too steady for what he had just done.
"I don't belong to you, Alex," I said, my breath coming in too fast, my chest tight like it might cave in on itself. "You need to understand that. I'm not her."
"You are," he said, his voice rough, cracking around the edges like it hurt to force the words out. "You ran from your family. You disappeared. We fell in love anyway. We got married." His eyes didn't leave mine. "I don't care what name you're hiding behind or what life you think you can build, I know who you are. You're my wife."
"No." The word ripped out of me, fragile with panic. "You're in love with a woman who doesn't exist anymore. She died in that—" I swallowed. "—that incident."
"'Incident'?" he repeated softly.
The mattress dipped as he climbed back onto the bed. His movements unhurried, predatory. Every inch of space he closed felt intentional, like a countdown I couldn't stop.
"You really believe that's what it was?"
I froze, my breath caught. That was the story I had been given. I was hit by a car while I was driving away.
"There was no incident," he said.
His fingers closed around my chin, forcing my face up until I had no choice but to look at him. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, which somehow made it worse. His lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Those green eyes darkened, possessive, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
"They tried to erase you," he murmured. "To take what was mine."
My pulse thundered.
"You," he continued, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my lips, "and our baby."
I stiffened, just as his thumb brushed my lower lip, tender as a lover though unyielding.
"You haven't remembered everything, after all," he said softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded, satisfied. "Good. That's fine. You can take your time, my love."
I slapped his wrist away, but he didn't stop me. He didn't need to. I hated the way those green eyes flared with heat instead.
"Mark my words, Princess," he said calmly. "When you have all your memories back, you'll ache for me the way I've been aching for you, all these years."
"You hated me," I said, the words scraping out of my throat as he left me and rose from the bed. "You couldn't even stand the thought of me then. What changed?"
He was already at the door. His hand closed around the handle, then stilled. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
"I never hated you," he said quietly. "I hated that I can't stop wanting you."
He looked back at me then. The grief in his expression hardened into something darker. More precise, calculated.
"And I miss my wife," he said softly. Not with longing, but with certainty.
I didn't stop him once the door clicked shut behind him. I simply stayed where I was, seated on the bed, my hands still fisting the sheets like some scorned woman.
I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand, irritated by how easily he could unravel me. Shame coiling low in my stomach, as I stared at the empty space he had left behind, my thoughts tangling with the emotions I hadn't yet understand.
I didn't even know why I had kissed him. It was just instinctive, like some muscle memory. As if my past self had emerged in that moment.
That was when it finally sank in.
The penthouse. The restaurant. The explosion at the warehouse. My grandfather's party. How easily he had moved around our men, unnoticed. He had been familiar with our routines.
I slid off the bed slowly, my bare feet pressing into the soft carpet as I steadied myself against one of the wooden posts. My chest felt tight as the realization settled deeper, heavier, threading itself through every thought.
He hadn't just faked his death.
Somehow, quietly and methodically, he had already begun infiltrating the Famiglia. And he was going to use me. Not as leverage, but as a means to gain full control. It was never a coincidence. No, this was all a deliberate plan.
But had he known all along? Had he known who I was, when I ran?
My knees gave way as I sank onto the floor, the weight of it forcing the air out of my lungs. The truth coming into focus with terrifying clarity. All this had never been accidental. Not the timing. Not the marriage. Not even me.
Alexandre is a smart man. Calculative. I had studied him long enough to know that much. He wouldn't leave something like this to chance. He had asked me to marry me barely a month after we met, and I had walked into it willingly, blind to who he truly was.
The door flew open and I jumped. The instinct I've honed all these years, gone and forgotten in the span of a single night. Especially when I saw Dario storming in.
He was no longer wearing his suit jacket. His dark hair a mess, as a bulletproof vest that sat rigid over his shirt, a gun already in his hand.
He didn't hesitate to lift the barrel, pointing it straight at me, steady and unforgiving. Those dark, piercing eyes locked onto mine, sharp and burning. Two more men barging in behind him, doing the same.
Then Dario's gaze dipped.
Just for a second, but long enough.
I could see the way his jaw tightened as he took in the tangled sheets, the glimpse of lace on the bed that I hadn't bothered to hide. Something ugly and volatile flashing across his face. Not desire, not jealousy but possession, twisted into rage.
His grip on the gun tightened.
"Where is he?" he demanded, his voice low and lethal.