Chapter Five - Aleta

Darkness fades into blurry shapes as pain drums through my skull. White walls surround me, and I clutch at silken sheets that belong to someone else’s life.

Who am I?

Terror floods my veins at the simple question with no answer. My name, my past, my identity—all of it has vanished behind a wall of fog. Fragments of consciousness float like islands with no bridges between them. My body knows itself—knows pain, knows fear—but my mind has become a stranger.

Beneath the covers, bandages wrap around my ribs, and bruises paint abstract patterns across skin I don’t recognize as mine. Panic bubbles in my throat as I struggle to sit up despite stabbing pain.

“Easy.” A deep voice with an Italian accent comes from my left. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

I turn my head too quickly, sending lightning through my skull. A man sits beside the bed, watching me with dark, intense eyes. Tall and imposing even while seated, with broad shoulders pulling at an expensive shirt. His jawline could cut glass, though well-maintained stubble softens it. Tattoos peek from beneath his collar to creep up his neck like vines.

Dangerous and beautiful. Familiar in ways I can’t place.

“Who are you?” My voice emerges dry and rough. “Where am I?”

He leans forward, revealing tension across his forehead that doesn’t match his controlled tone. “My name is Elio Castellano.” His hand reaches for mine but stops short of touching. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing.” Tears sting my eyes as emptiness expands inside my head where memories should live. “Not even my own name.”

“Aleta. Aleta Castellano. You’re my wife.”

Wife? The word finds no purchase among my blank memories. I study his face, searching for recognition that refuses to surface.

“We’re married?” Suspicion threads through my question.

Sadness passes across his features. “Three years now. Secretly. Your brother would kill me if he knew.”

My free hand moves to my face, where I find more bandages and tender spots. “What happened to me?”

“You were attacked. Mugged, two nights ago. I’ve been looking for you ever since you disappeared from the charity gala.”

Fragments tease the edges of my consciousness—music, a crowded room, rain—but dissolve when I reach for them.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask as I press the back of my head against my forehead.

“Dr. Moretti says you have amnesia from the head trauma.” Elio runs his fingers through his hair, which sends dark strands tumbling across his forehead. “It could be temporary or…permanent. Nobody knows for sure.”

Moretti. The name triggers nothing. “And my brother? Who is he?”

Something flashes behind Elio’s eyes, but it’s gone too quickly to interpret. “Nico Ricci. Your only family besides me. Your parents died when you were young.”

“Why would he kill you if he knew about us?”

“Our families have been enemies for generations.” Elio stands and moves to a wooden dresser to retrieve a small box. “We met in Italy five years ago. Neither of us meant for anything to happen, but…”

His voice trails off as he returns to the bedside and opens the box to reveal photographs. The woman in them is undoubtedly me—younger, carefree, smiling at the camera on beautiful beaches and cobblestone streets. In some, Elio’s arm is wrapped possessively around my waist. His lips press against my temple in others.

“This was us in Positano,” he explains, pointing to a photo of us before an incredible coastal view. “Where it all began.”

I run my fingers along the images in search of emotional connections to the moments captured.

“And this…” Elio reaches into his pocket and produces a platinum wedding band. “You wore it on a chain around your neck to keep our secret.”

The ring glints in his palm. It looks expensive and simple.

“We’ve been living this double life for years,” he continues. “Meeting in secret, stolen weekends, building a life in the shadows.”

Questions swarm like angry bees. “What do you do? For work, I mean.”

“I run businesses—some legitimate, some not.” His honesty surprises me. “My family has always operated in gray areas. Yours too.”

“Criminal?”

“Your brother prefers ‘entrepreneur,’ but yes. That’s why our relationship is dangerous. Our families compete for the same territories and the same connections.”

The revelation should frighten me, but instead, I sit forward, curious. “And what do I do?”

“You were studying art history before… Before your brother sent you away to Switzerland last year. After he suspected someone had caught us together.”

Switzerland. More empty rooms in the mansion of my memory. My head throbs harder as I struggle to force recollection.

“Stop pushing,” Elio urges me. “Moretti warned it would only make things worse. Memories might return naturally, or…”

“Or never,” I finish for him.

His hand finally touches mine, and the contact feels unexpectedly warm and familiar. “I’m here either way.”

Instinct tells me to pull away from this stranger, yet deeper instinct draws me toward him. My body remembers what my mind cannot—the comfort of his touch, and the safety of his presence.

“We should tell my brother I’m alive,” I suggest, watching his reaction carefully.

“Not yet. We’re safe here, but Nico has men everywhere. If he finds out you’re with me, especially in this condition…”

“He’d think you kidnapped me.”

“Give yourself time to heal first. Then we’ll figure out how to approach him.”

Logic argues against trusting this man’s version of my life, yet what choice do I have? The alternative—facing a world where I recognize nothing, not even myself—terrifies me more than the potential deception.

“Rest now,” Elio says before releasing my hand. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

“Wait.”

He pauses with one hand on the doorframe. “Yes?”

“Stay.” The word escapes before I can consider its implications. “Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

Resignation and something softer pass across his face as he returns to the chair beside my bed.

Truth or lies, dangerous or safe—this man is the only connection I have to whoever I was before darkness swallowed my past.