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His sorrow on my behalf is palpable. I get the sense he’d volunteer to take my place in that car if he could have. “That had to have been devastating.”
I give a sad smile. “It wasn’t easy, for sure, but Ario gave his life for me, and I wanted to honor that sacrifice by not giving up. I wouldn’t have survived at all if Ario hadn’t turned the car to take the brunt of the impact. I was hurt badly enough that I didn’t even remember the wreck when I woke up in the hospital, but I was alive. After that, it only felt right to dedicate myself to my family. My father—he’s all I had left.”
Elio studies me, concentration furrowing his brow. “You didn’t remember the accident?”
“Not at first, but it came back to me after a few days.”
He nods absently, his fathomless gaze shifting to the twinkling stars out the window. We sit quietly for several long minutes before he lowers my feet to the floor.
“It’s time for us to get some sleep.”
He helps me dress, then makes a quick call. A few minutes later, one of his men takes over at the computers, and Elio follows me down to our room. We get ready for bed in companionable silence, and once we’re under the covers, he curves his body around mine.
Possessive. Protective. Comforting.
Like two halves of a whole reuniting.
I quickly drift to sleep, only vaguely aware of the words he whispers behind me.
“Meet me in your dreams, buttercup. I’ll be there waiting.”
CHAPTER 32
ELIO
Amnesia. Could the answer be that simple? She didn’t remember the accident when she woke up at the hospital, so who’s to say she didn’t forget more than the accident? And if so, why me? Why forget everything about our relationship and nothing else?
It wouldn’t help that no one else knew about us. No one would bring it up or notice her lack of memory on a subject they didn’t know existed. A case of amnesia would explain so much.
That or she was right, and I made the whole thing up.
I can’t imagine that’s the case. My memories are too damn specific—too ingrained in my DNA—to be fabricated. I feel a little crazy for even entertaining the idea, but if her mind could erase the past, I have to consider that my mind could have invented an alternate reality. I don’t like it, but I suppose it’s possible.
Fuck, that would explain why she wasn’t there the day I was taken. Though, I’m not sure why I would have added that part. Why involve her in that day at all if the relationship was pure fantasy to begin with?
Because you were with her and she didn’t show up. That’s the truth.
That takes me back to the question—why wasn’t she there? It could be totally innocuous. Maybe she had a stomachache or her dad needed to talk to her. Her disappearance didn’t feel nearly as important before I came back and discovered she didn’t remember me. That threw everything into question.
Now that I know amnesia could be the culprit, the boulder that’s been crushing my chest has finally lifted. Maybe I’m clinging to false hope, but I feel like if I can help her find her way back to me, the world will be right again.
And on top of all that, I’m currently on my way with Yannis into the city to get information from our Russian captive. We got back to the US coast early this morning on the transfer boat while the Calypso remains offshore. The men I left at the warehouse let us know our friend is ready to talk. I must be there to make sure I get as much information as possible from him. This is too important to leave to someone else.
The day is shaping up to be pretty fucking fantastic, so long as nothing goes sideways.
Yannis and I shore up the tender boat not far from the warehouse at a discreet dock. No mainstream marinas for us now that my identity is known and half the city is after me. Anonymity was nice while it lasted.
Inside the warehouse, we find our guys scrolling on their phones.
“Captain.” They both rise out of respect.
I nod and eye the broken man tied to a chair. He lasted longer than I expected—a testament to his will to live. He knows he won’t make it out of this place alive. The only thing standing in his way of an end is himself and his willingness to accept death.
“You look like shit, Trustov,” I tell him as I approach. Aside from the filth coating his skin and layers of bruising, both eyes have been plucked out.
Head listing to the side, he doesn’t move. “Please, I’ll tell you what I know, just give me peace. End this.”
I’m more than happy to oblige. In fact, I’d prefer if we could skip over the torture part of these discussions, but loyal men won’t talk until they are stripped of all hope. It’s a process that can’t be rushed.
