Chapter 7 - The Memory I Was Never Supposed to HaveI stared at the hospital photograph until the edges blurred.
“That can't be me.”
Dante said nothing.
The photograph showed a young woman standing beside Isabella.
Same height.
Same hair.
Same face.
Me.
Only I looked younger.
Perhaps nineteen.
I touched the photograph.
A memory struck.
A baby crying.
Isabella laughing.
A hospital bracelet.
My sister whispering:
“Promise me.”
I heard my younger voice.
“I promise.”
“Never let them take him.”
Then darkness.
I stumbled backward.
Dante caught me.
“Elina.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“I remember.”
“What?”
“The hospital.”
He went still.
I looked at Gabriel.
“I was there.”
Dante nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know whether the memory was real.”
I stared at him.
“How long have you known?”
“Three days.”
I felt betrayed.
“You knew I had seen Gabriel before.”
“I knew there was a possibility.”
“You let me think I was losing my mind.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I looked down at Gabriel.
He reached for my face.
His fingers touched my cheek.
The same spot as the dimple.
I suddenly remembered Isabella placing his tiny hand against mine.
“He knows you,” she had whispered in the memory.
“Even if he forgets everything else.”
I looked at Dante.
“She gave him to me.”
His voice softened.
“What?”
“She trusted me with him.”
That explained everything.
The baby wasn't recognizing my face.
He was recognizing the person attached to it.
The smell.
The voice.
The heartbeat.
Something from before he was old enough to remember.
But one question remained.
Why had I forgotten?
Dante took me to the private library.
Clara joined us.
She placed an old medical file on the table.
“You were given a sedative.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The night Lucia disappeared.”
“Why?”
“You had witnessed something.”
“What?”
Clara looked at Dante.
“She saw Carlo Moretti kill a man.”
My blood ran cold.
At six years old.
I had seen a murder.
“That is why your mother erased your memory.”
“How?”
“She had a doctor induce a trauma-blocking treatment.”
Dante's face darkened.
“My father knew.”
“Yes.”
“And he let it happen?”
Clara nodded.
“He wanted you unable to identify him.”
I looked down.
The pieces were fitting.
Then I saw the doctor's name.
Dr. Victor Salazar.
I recognized it.
He was my pediatrician growing up.
I whispered:
“He was there.”
Dante looked at me.
“Who?”
“My doctor.”
“Victor Salazar.”
Dante's eyes widened.
“He disappeared twelve years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because he was one of the men working for Carlo.”
I stared.
“Then my whole childhood…”
“Was monitored.”
Silence.
Then the library door opened.
One of Dante's men rushed in.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found Clara's car.”
“And?”
“There's a body inside.”
My stomach twisted.
“Whose?”
The guard hesitated.
“Dr. Salazar.”
Dante's expression hardened.
I felt sick.
“Someone killed him.”
He nodded.
“An hour ago.”
I looked at the medical file.
Then at the bodyguard.
“How?”
The guard looked at Dante.
“A single bullet.”
“Where?”
“In the back of the head.”
Dante closed the file.
“Someone knew we were looking for him.”
I whispered.
“Then the killer is close.”
The guard handed Dante a second item.
A photograph.
Taken outside my apartment.
I recognized the date.
Three days before I met Dante.
In the image, Dr. Salazar was standing across the street.
Watching my building.
And beside him stood a man I knew very well.
I stared.
“No.”
Dante looked at me.
“Who is that?”
May you like
My voice barely worked.
“My landlord.”
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