Deja vu: Blood Memory

The last thing I remembered was the heat.

A jagged, searing white light was tearing through my chest, the smell of burnt silk, and the taste of my own life leaking onto the cold pavement of the Nairobi docks. I remembered Lorenzo’s face—not the stoic, terrifying Mafia heir the world feared, but a man coming apart at the seams. I remembered his scream. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard.

Then, there was nothing. No tunnel. No white light. Just a click. Like a tape being rewound by a giant, invisible hand.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was a flat, sterile grey. The air didn't smell like the salty breeze of the Indian Ocean anymore; it smelled of ozone and expensive disinfectant. My heart—the one that had been shattered by a .45 caliber hollow-point—was beating. It wasn't the frantic, fluttering pulse of the girl who had been in love with Lorenzo.

It was a steady, heavy thrum. Thump. Thump. Thump. Efficient. Mechanical.

I sat up. My movements were fluid, devoid of the usual morning stiffness. I looked at my hands. They were steady—too steady. I reached for the front of my hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside.

There was no wound.

Just a faint, silver circular scar directly over my heart. It looked years old. I touched it, expecting a jolt of trauma. Instead, a cold, analytical thought flashed through my mind: Entry wound centered. Exit wound nonexistent. Probability of survival: 0%. Method of recovery: Unknown.

I froze. That wasn't my thought. Those weren't my words.

The heavy oak door of the private suite slammed open.

Lorenzo stood there. He looked like a man who had spent forty-eight hours in hell. His charcoal suit was wrinkled, his white shirt stained with dried crimson—my blood—and his eyes were dark pits of exhaustion and agony. When he saw me sitting up, his breath hitched. The predatory grace he usually carried vanished, replaced by a raw, staggering vulnerability.

"Alessia," he choked out.

He was across the room in three strides, his large, calloused hands framing my face. His touch should have made me melt. It should have been the anchor that brought me home. He smelled of sandalwood, rain, and the metallic tang of the war he had undoubtedly started the moment I fell.

"You’re alive," he whispered, his voice thick with a relief so sharp it was almost violent. He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closing as he inhaled me. "I watched the light go out of you. I held you while you went cold. God, Alessia... I thought the world ended on that dock."

I didn't pull away, but I didn't lean in. I watched him with a strange, detached clarity. I could see the twitch in his jaw. I could count the broken capillaries in his eyes. I could feel the heat of his skin, but it felt like I was looking at a fire through a thick sheet of glass.

The "love" I was supposed to feel for him—the desperate, all-consuming fire that had defined my life for the last year—felt like a story I had read about someone else.

"Lorenzo," I said.

My voice sounded different. It was lower, melodic but stripped of its usual breathy tremor.

He pulled back just an inch, his brow furrowing as he sensed the shift. "I’m here, piccola. You’re safe. I’ve doubled the guard. Anyone involved in that hit is already dead. I promise you—"

"I know who you are," I interrupted, my voice as steady as a surgeon’s hand.

He stilled. His hands, still cupping my face, felt suddenly too heavy. Too intimate. "What do you mean? It’s me. It’s Lorenzo."

I looked directly into his soul, searching for the spark that used to make me tremble. I found nothing but a cold, tactical curiosity.

"I recognize your face," I whispered, and the words felt like ice hitting a hot stove. "I remember the facts about us. But I don't feel the connection. You feel... important. Like a piece of a puzzle I no longer care to solve."

The color drained from his face. His hands dropped from my skin as if I had burned him. "Alessia, you’re in shock. The doctors said the trauma—"

"The trauma didn't break me, Lorenzo," I said, swinging my legs off the bed. My feet hit the floor with a soft, predatory thud. "I think it woke me up."

I walked past him toward the window, my reflection in the glass startling me. I looked the same, but my eyes—they were sharper. They were older.

In the corner of the darkened glass, a tiny, translucent red light flickered from a vent in the ceiling. A camera.

Subject A has awakened. The thought hissed in the back of my brain like a radio frequency I wasn't supposed to hear.

"You’re distant," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, possessive growl that used to make my knees weak. He stepped into my space, his shadow looming over me. "I don't care if you're angry. I don't care if you're scared. But don't look at me like I’m a stranger."

I turned to face him, tilting my head. "I'm not angry, Lorenzo. I just realized something."

"What?" he demanded, reaching for my waist to pull me back into his heart.

I stepped back, just out of his reach, my eyes narrowing with a chilling, newfound intelligence.

"This isn't the first time I've died for you," I said.

Lorenzo froze, his entire body turning to stone. In that moment, the flicker of the camera in the ceiling turned from red to a steady, glowing blue.

I didn't know how I knew it, but I did. We were being watched. We were being measured. And for the first time in twenty lives, I wasn't going to follow the script.

She doesn’t remember loving Lorenzo—but she remembers the feeling of a gun in her hand.

Author’s Note:

The loop has broken. Alessia is no longer the girl who follows her heart—she’s the woman who follows the blood. But who is Subject B? And why does Lorenzo look like he knows exactly what she means? Drop your theories below!