Chapter 26
Vito's POV
The leather seat of the Bentley creaked softly as I shifted, the photograph trembling slightly in my hands despite my usual iron control. Golden hair caught the light like spun silk, blue eyes bright with innocence, and a smile so sweet it could have graced the face of an angel.
Maria Castellano.
After twenty years of searching, countless dead ends, and more resources than most small countries possessed, this was supposed to be her. The little girl who'd saved my life in those tunnels beneath Little Italy, who'd appeared like a guardian angel and vanished just as quickly.
"Are you certain it's her?" I asked Tony, my voice carefully measured despite the chaos of emotions churning in my chest.
Tony shifted in the front passenger seat, his bulk making the expensive car seem suddenly cramped. "Yes, boss. We've been tracking leads for two years, and this is the first solid connection we've found. She clearly remembers the shooting that day."
Two years. The same timeframe that had haunted me since that night at the hotel, since the mysterious woman had fled my bed and left behind nothing but crumpled sheets, a hundred-dollar bill, and my mother's ring.
"And the ring? She can confirm that detail?"
"That's where it gets complicated," Tony admitted, his scarred face creasing with uncertainty. "Two years ago, she lost all her family members. Someone poisoned her—probably a rival dealer when she got too deep into the drug scene. She's been in and out of rehab ever since, and her memory... it comes and goes. But she did mention losing a ring around that time. Said she might have pawned it or lost it during one of her binges."
Lost all her family members two years ago. The timing sent ice through my veins as I remembered that night, remembered the woman in my arms sobbing about her brother's life hanging in the balance.
"My brother... I can't lose him. He's all I have."
I leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes as that night played out in vivid detail behind my eyelids. The dimly lit hotel bar where she'd sat alone, drowning her sorrows in wine. The way she'd looked up at me with eyes full of pain so raw it had made something twist in my chest. The hours we'd spent tangled together in my bed, her soft gasps and whispered pleas creating a symphony of need and comfort I'd never experienced before or since.
And then dawn had broken, and she was gone. Vanished like smoke, leaving behind only that cursed ring and a hundred-dollar bill that had insulted me more than any bullet ever could.
Did she think I was some kind of prostitute she could pay for services?
The memory still made my jaw clench with a mixture of amusement and rage. But I'd chased after her anyway, desperate to find the woman who'd marked my soul in ways I didn't understand. I'd been so focused on catching up to her, so determined to demand answers, that I hadn't seen the truck running the red light.
The accident that had supposedly left me blind and paralyzed—the perfect cover for my investigation into my enemies—had been caused by my obsession with finding her.
And now, two years later, I was finally about to come face to face with the woman who'd haunted my dreams and nearly cost me my life.
"Drive faster," I commanded the driver, impatience eating at my composure like acid.
The rehab facility was a far cry from the luxury I was accustomed to.
When I finally saw her, sitting in a corner of the common room with her thin arms wrapped around her knees, I felt... nothing.
No recognition. No surge of memory. No connection to either the brave little girl who'd saved my life or the passionate woman who'd fled my bed.
She looked up as Tony wheeled me closer, and those blue eyes—the same ones from the photograph, the same ones that should have sparked immediate recognition—regarded me with the vacant stare of someone who'd spent too many years numbing pain with chemicals.
"Maria?" I said softly, studying her face for any flicker of awareness.
"Yeah," she replied, her voice hoarse from years of abuse. "You the guy Tony said wanted to talk to me about the old neighborhood?"
I nodded, though something felt fundamentally wrong about this entire encounter. She was beautiful, even worn down by addiction. But sitting here, looking at her, I felt nothing but a vague disappointment.
Why doesn't she feel familiar?
The thought was troubling in ways I couldn't articulate. I'd spent years imagining this reunion, wondering what I'd say to the woman who'd saved my life as a child and then rocked my world as an adult. But now, faced with what should have been the culmination of my search, all I could think about was another woman entirely.
Isabella.
The way she'd trembled in my office just hours earlier, fear and defiance warring in her dark eyes. The soft sounds she'd made as she'd followed my commands, her body responding despite her shame. The scent that clung to her skin—jasmine and vanilla, subtle but intoxicating.
And most disturbing of all, the way something deep in my chest had tightened when she'd touched my face and called me beautiful.
"Tell me about the shooting," I said to Maria, forcing my attention back to the present. "In 1995. You would have been about eight years old."
Her eyes grew distant, and she began to rock slightly—a motion I recognized from other addicts trying to self-soothe. "There was this boy," she said slowly. "Older than me. Maybe ten? They were chasing him."
The details were accurate. Close enough to what I remembered, close enough to be convincing.
"I pulled him into the tunnels," she continued, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "My dad showed me those passages when I was little, before the cancer took him. I knew every inch of those underground spaces."
"And after? When you got him to safety?"
"He gave me something," Maria said, her hand moving unconsciously to her throat. "Something special. Said he'd find me again when he was big enough to protect me."
The ring. She was describing the ring, even if she wasn't being specific about it.
Every detail aligned perfectly. The age, the location, the circumstances, even the promise I'd made to a brave little girl who'd risked her life to save mine.
So why did this feel so wrong?
"Maria," I said gently, "do you remember what he gave you?"
But before she could answer, her entire body went rigid. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and she began to shake violently.
"Shit," Tony muttered. "She's having an episode."
I moved without thinking, catching her as she slumped forward. Her slight weight felt insubstantial in my arms, like holding a broken bird. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat, and her breathing came in short, panicked gasps.
"Don't leave me," she whispered, her fingers clutching at my jacket with desperate strength. "Please don't leave me. I only have you. I only have you left."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I only have you left.
My heart hammered against my ribs as she went limp in my arms, unconsciousness claiming her mid-sentence.
"Tony," I barked, my calm façade finally cracking. "Get Dr. Reeves to the estate immediately. I'm taking her home."
As Tony rushed to make the arrangements, I found myself staring down at Maria's pale face, searching for something—anything—that would make this reunion feel like the closure I'd been seeking for twenty years.
Instead, all I could think about was the way Isabella Cohen had looked at me in my office.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be focused on Maria, on finally reuniting with the woman who'd saved my life twice over. But as I carried her fragile form toward my car, all I wanted was to return to that glass office where another woman had knelt beside my wheelchair.
The woman who was supposed to marry me in a matter of days.