Chapter 7 – Fire and Memory
The warm Venetian sun had turned to a crimson dusk, painting the canals like molten glass. Emma had been walking with Lorenzo's bodyguards for hours—trying to convince herself she didn't feel trapped—when a sharp scream ripped through the narrow streets.
Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth. Another grabbed her arm, dragging her into the shadowed depths of a narrow alley.
"Emma!" Lorenzo's voice rang out behind her, panic slicing through the air.
Fear surged through her chest, and in that instant, the haze that had clouded her memories fractured. Faces, places, and moments she had struggled to recall came rushing back with painful clarity:
The crowded New York streets, the first time their eyes had met.
The mission where she had risked everything to save him, the crash, the cliff, the cold surge of water.
The sacrifices she had made, the fights she had started, the love she had tried to ignore.
She gasped, mind spinning. She wasn't just remembering—they were alive, vivid, and urgent.
And then, before she could process more, Vittorio's men—the same rival who had hunted Lorenzo before—surrounded them, dragging her forward as leverage.
"Step away from her!" Lorenzo barked, appearing like a shadow from the rooftops, his dark coat billowing as he lunged forward.
The fight was brutal and fast. Emma watched in terror as Lorenzo moved with lethal precision, striking and disarming enemies almost as if he anticipated their every move. But one man slipped past him, slashing toward Emma. Without thinking, Lorenzo pushed her out of the way—and the man's blade caught him across the shoulder.
Emma's breath caught. He staggered but caught her in a fierce, protective embrace, holding her close as he fought the remaining men with feral strength. Every movement was a deadly dance, every blow a reminder of his power and his obsession with keeping her safe.
Finally, silence. The last of the attackers fell. The alley was empty except for them. Lorenzo leaned heavily against the wall, breathing ragged, blood seeping through his shirt.
Emma's hands shook as she touched him, her chest rising with horror. "Lorenzo! You're hurt… oh God, why didn't you let me—"
He silenced her with a trembling hand, dark eyes searching hers. "I… I'll always protect you," he whispered, voice raw and intimate. He lowered his face, brushing his lips against hers—a kiss born from fear, relief, and a lifetime of suppressed longing. Soft, fierce, claiming. Emma responded instinctively, wrapping her arms around him, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the taste of his lips, the solidity of his protection.
When they finally pulled apart, Emma's mind spun. Every memory, every moment she had ever shared with him, every brush with danger and love, had returned fully. She pressed her forehead against his, whispering, "I remember everything… I remember you… us… everything."
He nodded slowly, lips brushing her hair. "And I will never stop protecting you. Never."
Back at the villa, Emma worked carefully to tend his wounds. His arm was bandaged, his shoulder bruised, but he insisted on sitting quietly while she cleaned and applied ointment.
"I… I should have—" she began, but her voice caught.
"You should have what?" he asked softly, voice steady despite the pain.
"Saved you… I got us both into this," she whispered, tears brimming. "It's my fault you're hurt."
Lorenzo reached out, cupping her face. "Emma… stop blaming yourself. You saved my life, again. You're the bravest person I've ever known."
She exhaled shakily, brushing blood-stained hair from his forehead. "Then… teach me. Teach me how to fight. How to protect myself… how to protect you. I can't just sit here anymore."
He studied her for a long moment, dark eyes softened by pride and something more—love, awe, and a spark of admiration. "If you insist," he said, voice low and serious. "But you must promise… you will always remember: the first rule is to survive. No heroics without a plan."
Emma nodded, determination hardening her features. "I promise. I want to fight… beside you."
He smiled faintly, despite the pain. "Then we begin tomorrow. Together."
For the first time, the villa didn't feel like a cage. It felt like a home. It felt like the beginning of something unstoppable—for both of them.