The sun was too bright.
It streamed through the gaps in the curtains, slicing across the living room floor and hitting me right in the eyes. I groaned, shifting in the uncomfortable armchair I'd dragged into the corner. My neck was stiff, my back ached, and for a split second, I forgot.
I forgot the storm. I forgot the cliff. I forgot the man on my sofa.
Then I heard a sharp intake of breath.
My eyes snapped open. The memories crashed back into me like a tidal wave.
Roman.
I sat up, my hand instinctively going to the pocket of my cardigan where I'd hidden the small paring knife.
The sofa was empty.
My heart stopped. The blanket was thrown back, a chaotic heap of wool. The pillows were dented. But the six-foot-two mafia don who was supposed to be incapacitated by a severe concussion was gone.
Panic, cold and immediate, flooded my system.
He remembered.
That was the only explanation. He woke up, the fog cleared, he realized he was in the home of a Moretti, and he was currently prowling around looking for a weapon to finish the job.
I scrambled out of the chair, my socks sliding on the hardwood floor. I moved silently toward the kitchen, my ears straining for any sound—the click of a gun, the creak of a floorboard.
"Damn it," a low voice muttered.
It came from the kitchen.
I froze against the doorframe, peering inside.
Roman was there.
He was standing by the sink, gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white. He was shirtless, the bandages around his ribs stark against his bruised skin. He looked like a wreck—sweaty, pale, his legs shaking slightly under his weight.
But he wasn't looking for a weapon.
He was staring at the coffee machine.
"Stupid," he hissed under his breath, frustration radiating off him in waves. He reached out a trembling hand to press a button, missed, and swore again.
I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. He wasn't hunting me. He was trying to make caffeine.
"You shouldn't be up," I said, stepping into the room.
He flinched, spinning around too fast. Ideally, he would have looked intimidating. In reality, the sudden movement made him sway dangerously. He grabbed the counter to stop himself from face-planting onto the linoleum.
"I didn't hear you," he gritted out, his hazel eyes narrowing. "I... I wanted to make you coffee."
I stopped in my tracks. "What?"
"Coffee," he repeated, gesturing vaguely at the machine. "I woke up. You were sleeping in that chair. You looked... exhausted. I thought..." He trailed off, looking down at his hands with a scowl. "I thought I could at least make coffee. But my hands won't stop shaking."
He looked so genuinely defeated that the knot of fear in my stomach loosened, replaced by a strange, twisting guilt.
The Wolf of the Underworld, the man who had ordered hits on senators and rivals alike, was upset because he couldn't make me a latte.
"Adam," I said, the lie tasting like copper on my tongue. "You have a concussion. Your brain is practically rattled loose in your skull. You're not supposed to be playing barista."
I walked over to him, gently prying his fingers off the counter. His skin was burning hot. Fever. Great.
"Sit," I commanded, pointing to the small breakfast table.
He hesitated, his jaw set in a stubborn line that was 100% Roman Corso. "I'm not an invalid, Sophie."
"No, you're a husband who took a nasty fall," I countered, putting a hand on his arm. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my spine, but I ignored it. "And if you faint on my kitchen floor, I am not dragging you back to the couch. You're too heavy."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It transformed his face, softening the sharp angles. "I'm heavy?"
"Like a sack of wet cement," I muttered, guiding him to the chair.
He sank into it with a groan, closing his eyes for a moment as the room likely stopped spinning. I turned my back to him, focusing on the coffee machine. It gave me something to do with my hands. It gave me a moment to compose my face.
He believes it, I thought, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. He really believes it.
"Tell me," he said suddenly.
I stiffened. "Tell you what?"
"About us."
I poured two mugs, stalling. I knew this was coming. I had prepared for it. But hearing him ask in that raspy, vulnerable voice made my throat tight.
I set the mug down in front of him. Black, no sugar. I knew how he took it because I'd read his file a thousand times.
"What do you want to know?" I asked, sitting opposite him.
He wrapped his large hands around the mug, using the heat to ground himself. He looked around the small kitchen—the yellow curtains, the herbs growing on the windowsill, the chipped paint on the cabinets. It was a humble, feminine space. It was the complete opposite of the cold, sterile penthouse I knew he lived in.
"Everything," he said, his gaze locking onto mine. "I look at this place, and I know I live here. My body knows where the light switch is. But my mind..." He tapped his temple. "It's blank. It's terrifying, Sophie. I feel like a stranger in my own life."
You are, I wanted to scream. You are a stranger. You are the enemy.
Instead, I took a sip of my coffee and started weaving the web.
"We've been married for two years," I began, keeping my voice steady. "We met at the clinic. You brought in a stray dog you'd found on the highway. It had a broken leg."
It was a safe lie. It painted him as kind. It explained why he would be with a vet nurse.
"A dog?" He raised an eyebrow. "I like dogs?"
"You love them," I lied. "You're a softie, Adam. You act tough, but you're a big softie."
He snorted, looking down at his bruised knuckles. "I don't feel like a softie. I feel... angry. Like I'm used to fighting."
"You work in construction," I added quickly. "It's a hard job. Physical. That's why you're so strong. That's why your hands are rough."
He turned his hand over, inspecting the calluses and the faint scars on his knuckles.
"Construction," he murmured. "That makes sense."
"You fell off a roof," I continued, the lies coming easier now. "It was raining. You slipped. That's why you're hurt."
He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. He was building a new identity brick by brick, using the mortar I was handing him.
"And you?" he asked, looking up. "Why do you look so sad?"
The question caught me off guard. "I'm not sad."
"Yes, you are," he said softly. He reached across the table. I flinched, but he didn't grab me. He just brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. His touch was gentle, reverent. "Your eyes... they look haunted. Did I do that? Did I make you sad?"
My breath hitched.
Yes, I thought. You killed my uncle. You threatened my father. You made me run away from the only home I ever knew.
"I was just worried," I whispered. "I thought I lost you."
Roman stared at me, his hazel eyes searching for something deep inside me. For a second, I thought he saw the deception. I thought he saw the terrified Moretti girl hiding behind the mask.
But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I promise, Sophie. I'm going to get better. I'm going to remember. I won't let you be sad anymore."
The sincerity in his voice felt like a physical blow.
He wasn't acting. This man—this version of Roman Corso—was genuinely promising to protect me from the sadness he had caused.
"Drink your coffee," I said, standing up abruptly. "I need to... I need to check your bandages."
I fled to the bathroom to get the first aid kit, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The rest of the day settled into a strange, uneasy rhythm.
I couldn't go to work—Luca had made it clear I was on babysitting duty—so I stayed home. I tried to keep busy. I cleaned things that were already clean. I reorganized the bookshelf.
Roman—Adam—was restless.
He hated being idle. I could see it. He paced the small living room like a caged tiger, wincing every few steps but refusing to sit down.
"Sit down before you fall down," I scolded him around noon.
"I can't," he muttered, looking at the window frame. "It's drafting."
"What?"
"The window," he pointed. "The seal is broken. The wind is coming through. It's making the house cold."
Before I could stop him, he was rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen. He found a roll of duct tape and a screwdriver.
"Adam, seriously—"
"I can fix it," he said, his voice firm. "Let me do this, Sophie. Please. I can't remember my name, but I know how to fix a draft. Let me be useful."
I stopped. I watched him work.
His hands, despite the tremors, were precise. He moved with an efficiency that was mesmerizing. He stripped the old seal, taped the gap temporarily, and tightened the latch.
It was such a mundane, domestic thing.
My father, the great Don Moretti, had never fixed a window in his life. If something broke, he bought a new house. If someone broke, he had them killed.
But Roman Corso was kneeling on my floor, fixing a draft so I wouldn't be cold.
"There," he said, standing up and dusting off his hands. He looked proud. A simple, masculine pride. "That's better."
"Thank you," I said, and to my horror, I meant it.
"I'm hungry," he announced, looking at the fridge. "I'll cook."
"You will not," I said, stepping in front of him. "You are the patient. I am the nurse. I cook."
He looked down at me. He was so tall. Even with the slump of his shoulders, he towered over me. The proximity was overwhelming. I could smell the soap he'd used—my soap, lavender and vanilla—mixed with his natural scent of rain and musk.
"You take care of everything, don't you?" he murmured, stepping closer.
I backed up until my lower back hit the counter. "Someone has to."
He placed a hand on the counter on either side of my hips, trapping me. He wasn't being aggressive. He was just... there. Solid. Real.
"I don't like it," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I don't like seeing you carry the weight. I'm the husband, Sophie. I should be taking care of you."
He leaned down. His face was inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
For a second, the world narrowed down to just him.
The lie dissolved. The war dissolved. It was just a man looking at a woman he thought belonged to him.
And God help me, for a split second, I wanted to lean into it. I wanted to rest my head on his chest and let him take the weight.
He's a killer, my brain screamed. He's the Wolf.
"You need to change your bandage," I blurted out, ducking under his arm and escaping to the other side of the room.
My heart was beating so fast I thought I might pass out.
Roman stayed where he was for a moment, his hands still gripping the counter. He looked disappointed. Confused.
"Right," he said, his voice rough. "The bandage."
He turned around, his expression unreadable.
"I'll go sit down."
He walked back to the sofa, his steps heavy.
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the dark window. My cheeks were flushed. My pupils were blown wide.
I was playing a dangerous game. I thought the hardest part would be convincing him that he was Adam.
But as I watched him sit on the sofa and gingerly touch his head, waiting for me to come take care of him, I realized I was wrong.
The hardest part wasn't going to be the lie.
The hardest part was going to be resisting the truth: that Adam was a better man than Roman ever was. And I was stuck in a house with him, pretending to be his wife, while the rest of the world waited for us to burn.