Adrenaline surges through me, and my eyes land on the bag holding my personal belongings. My truth. I begin to tremble, a sign of denial and weakness I can no longer afford. Shoving off of the sink, I take the two steps between me and the bag and lower myself onto the ground in front of it, the hard tile biting into my knees. Unbidden, I flash back to being in the same position, with cobblestone pavement instead of tiles punishing my skin, and I want to know how I got there, why I was there. I grab the zipper and try to tug it down the bag, only the stupid shaking of my hand interferes, and I grab it, willing it to still.

Kayden settles to one knee in front of me. “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, soothing caress I do not expect, nor do I accept, after all he’s just said and done.

“You just told me that I’m linked to a mobster, who now most likely wants to kill us both. Nothing about this is easy.”

“Any memories you find within the contents of this bag won’t be as bad as what Niccolo will do to both of us if we let him catch up with us.”

“Thanks for making me feel better.”

“I’m not a feel-good kind of guy. You have to do this.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement, unzipping the bag himself, and reaching inside to set a neatly folded pile of clothes on my lap.

I stare down at the garments, a pair of dark jeans and a lavender V-neck T-shirt, praying for that switch I told Kayden didn’t exist to flip on in my head, but the now familiar white noise remains. “Nothing,” I say, unable to bring myself to look at him, but he’s not having it.

“Look at me,” he orders, and I don’t want to, but somehow I do, and I can feel him compelling me to give him a different answer, one I can’t give. “There has to be something.”

“There isn’t. Those clothes might as well be someone else’s.”

“That’s not good enough,” he says, and while his voice is low, the undertone of truth cuts like a knife.

I snap back, “You think I don’t know that?”

His eyes glint, the wolf back in spades, and he grabs the clothes, tossing them in the bag and shoving it aside, his hands closing around my arms. “It’s time to remember.”

My anger is instant, fear nowhere in sight. “You can’t order me to remember and I just do it.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” he declares, standing and lifting me with him.

“Stop bullying me,” I hiss, grabbing two handfuls of his shirt, and giving not even a tiny flip about my gaping gown. “Stop bullying me!”

“I’m trying to save your life,” he says, rotating me and pressing me against the hard wall, fingers flexing into my shoulders where he still holds me. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“No,” I bite out. “I don’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Your memories could change everything we do when we walk out of this room—you know that, right? Every move we make that could be wrong, you can make right. Now: what’s your name?”

I don’t know, but I can’t say that to him again. “Let me off the wall.”

“After you tell me your name.”

“Stop being an asshole!” I explode, shoving against his hard, unmoving body.

“I’ve been called worse, sweetheart,” he says, cupping my face. “Give me what I want.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“I told you—”

“What’s your damn name?”

“Ella,” I shock myself by saying. “My name is Ella.”

four

Ella,” I repeat, joyful laughter bubbling from my lips. “Ella. Ella. Ella!” I grab his shirt, balling it in my hand. “Kayden, I remember! I remember my name! Thank you for being an asshole.” I point a finger at his chest and manage a moment of sternness to warn, “But don’t do it again. It won’t work next time. I’ll know what you’re doing.”

His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, those blue, blue eyes meeting mine as he says, “Ella.”

“Ella!” I exclaim, absolutely giddy. “Oh God. It feels good to hear my name.” Even better in his rich, deep, sexy voice, and I demand a replay. “Say it again.”

His fingers flex where he holds me. “Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me.” His voice is firm, directive. “I know you’re happy, but—”

“But?” I repeat, my bubble quickly deflating. “That’s not a good word. It prefaces a problem.” My eyes go wide. “Please tell me my name doesn’t mean something horrible to you.”

“I’ve never heard your name before now. And what it means to me isn’t what’s important.”

“If I’m a crazy person and don’t know it, but you do, yeah, I kind of think it does.”

“You’re about to make me the crazy person, woman. Time is not our friend right now. I need to know if ‘Ella’ is just a name to you. Or did we unlock your memory?”

I inhale on the question that might as well be a knife drawing blood. Ella is as much a stranger to me as Kayden. “Ella is not just a name¸” I argue, rejecting that this revelation means nothing. “It’s my name. And I know it’s my name, and that’s more than I had five minutes ago.”

“I understand that,” he says. “But—”

“It’s not enough.”

“Can you remember your last name? Give me that name and I’ll find out who you are and how you might be connected to Niccolo.”

“A last name,” I repeat, willing it to come to me.

“Don’t think,” he reprimands. “Just answer like before. Yes or no. Time is ticking.”

“No, but Ella isn’t a common name. Surely there can’t be that many of us who’ve traveled to Italy in the short window tourists are allowed to be in a country.”

His eyes sharpen, his tone with them. “I take it that’s a no on the last name.”

I force out a reluctant, “No.”

“And we don’t even know if you are a tourist.” He releases me, adding a murmured, “Fuck,” before diving fingers through his hair and flashing the tattoo on his left wrist, which appears to be some sort of bird, while I can now tell the box on his right has a chess piece inside. I wait for either to mean something to me, like his watch and his scent, but nothing comes to me.

“You’re sure?” he presses, his hands settling on his jean-clad hips.

The fact that he’s gone from “Don’t think” to this says he’s desperate, and I’m pretty sure he’s not a man who gets desperate often. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“Not even a possible name?”

I give a shake of my head and his lips tighten, his chest expanding on a breath he exhales with the declaration, “Plan B it is, then.”

“Plan B?” I ask.

“That’s right,” he says, giving me a once-over that has my nipples puckering beneath the thin gown, before he levels a stare at me and orders, “Get dressed. We need to be gone before Gallo gets back.”

“Please tell me the extent of Plan A, which is always the best plan, wasn’t just you being an asshole to try and jolt my memory.”

“Plan A was, and is, you remembering who you are, and that will remain the case. I told you. The details of your relationship to Niccolo are a potential game changer.”

My fingers curl into fists by my sides. “I don’t have a relationship with Niccolo. I’d know if I did. I’d feel it. Like I know you’re . . .” My voice trails off while the certainty of knowing this man beyond that alleyway takes root, and reality hits me. I’ve been swept away by this man so much so that I chose him over a detective, and I’m about to leave the hospital without even knowing where we’re going.

“I’m what?” he presses.

“I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

He reaches for me, pulling me to him, his hand nestling intimately over the bare skin under my gown and above my backside. “Please don’t do this,” he pleads, his gentle tone defying the tension wafting off of him. “I know you’re scared and confused, but don’t start doubting me now. I am not your enemy, Ella.”