CHAPTER 81: MEMORIES IN FRAGMENTS

The morning began with the smell of rain and the faint hum of thunder over the city. Aria stood by the window, her hand resting on the cold glass as drops slid down like tears from the sky. Luca was still asleep, sprawled across the bed with a calmness she hadn’t seen in months. He looked human this way, less the Don, more the man. The man she’d fallen for against all reason.

Her heart tugged at the memory of how things used to be, the fire, the chaos, the way his voice could command both fear and desire in the same breath. But those were fragments now, scattered pieces of a puzzle neither of them could completely solve. He remembered flashes: the scent of her hair, the feel of her laughter, the way her eyes used to challenge him. But the timeline was gone. What remained was instinct.

Behind her, his voice broke the silence. "You’ve been awake for hours."

Aria turned. Luca’s eyes were half-lidded, that soft steel-gray gaze following her movements. "You were dreaming," she said.

"Was I?" he murmured, sitting up, his hair disheveled, his tone low. "About you."

She smiled faintly. "Good dream or bad?"

He shrugged, his lips curving just enough to make her heart race. "You were yelling at me. So I’m guessing normal."

A laugh escaped her, light and real. "Then yes, very normal."

He patted the space beside him, and when she hesitated, he tilted his head, that quiet command in his expression. "Come here, Aria."

It wasn’t the Don’s order, it was a request wrapped in the echo of something deeper. She crossed the room, sliding onto the bed beside him. He studied her face with the kind of attention that made breathing feel unnecessary. "I remember flashes," he said softly. "Like you crying. My hands shaking. Something about a night we almost didn’t make it."

Her heart froze. "The safehouse," she whispered. "When you were shot."

He frowned, pressing his fingers to his temple. "I remember blood. You screaming my name. The smell of gunpowder. Then" He shook his head. "Nothing."

She took his hand in hers. "You nearly died that night. I thought I’d lost you."

Luca’s grip tightened. "And you stayed?"

"I never left," she said simply.

He looked at her for a long moment, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing to hers. "Then maybe that’s why I keep seeing you," he whispered. "Even in dreams that feel like nightmares."

Later that day, Aria brought him to the library. The place was vast and quiet, filled with relics of the DeLuca empire, ledgers, photos, and memories encased in dust. She had spent weeks avoiding this room after the accident, but now it felt like the key to something important.

"Maybe being here will help," she said. "You used to come here at night when you couldn’t sleep."

Luca walked slowly, his fingers brushing along the spines of books, his eyes scanning the dim light. "Why?"

"You said silence/../../../ kept you sane," she said.

He paused at a photograph on the shelf, a younger version of himself, standing beside Matteo, their smiles sharp and cold. "That version of me," he murmured, "he looks untouchable."

"He wasn’t," Aria said quietly. "You just never let anyone see it. Except me."

He turned, his gaze piercing. "And what did you see?"

She took a deep breath. "A man who built walls so high he forgot what sunlight felt like. A man who didn’t trust anyone until he had to trust me."

Something in him shifted then, a flicker of emotion breaking through. He moved closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, that intoxicating mix of smoke and cedar. "And did I?" he asked, voice low.

"Eventually," she whispered.

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Then I must have loved you a lot."

"You still do," she said, before she could stop herself.

He froze, studying her face, his breath uneven. "Aria"

"Don’t say it," she murmured, stepping back. "You don’t have to force it. I just"

He caught her wrist, pulling her gently toward him. "I’m not forcing anything."

Her pulse raced. "Then what are you doing?"

He leaned in, his voice rough. "Trying to remember how it felt to lose you."

Her lips parted in shock. "Why?"

"Because if I can remember the pain," he whispered, brushing her jaw with his thumb, "then maybe I’ll remember the reason I couldn’t let you go."

That evening, they sat on the balcony overlooking the estate. The city stretched out below them, a symphony of lights and noise. The air was cool, the wind carrying the faint scent of rain and roses.

Aria brought two glasses of wine, setting one beside him. "Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if none of this happened?" she asked.

Luca chuckled softly. "Probably still running an empire. Still angry. Still lost."

She smiled sadly. "You make it sound like loving me saved you."

"Didn’t it?" he said quietly.

She looked away, her heart tightening. "You don’t even remember all of it."

He reached over, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. "No," he admitted. "But I know the way my body reacts when you walk into a room. The way I can’t sleep unless you’re next to me. The way every part of me wants to protect you, even from ghosts."

Her breath trembled. "That’s not memory, Luca. That’s instinct."

He smiled faintly. "Then maybe instinct’s just love that doesn’t need proof."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was full of everything they couldn’t say. He leaned closer, brushing his lips against her temple. "Tell me something about us. Something small. Something you don’t think I’d remember."

Aria thought for a moment, then smiled softly. "You used to hum in your sleep."

"I did not," he protested.

"You did," she said, laughing. "Low and quiet. I used to fall asleep to it."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I sound ridiculous."

"You sounded human," she said.

He grew quiet again, his hand finding hers. "Then maybe I’ll start doing it again."

Her heart swelled. "Why?"

"Because I want you to sleep peacefully again," he murmured.

And just like that, the walls she’d built around herself began to crumble.

That night, Aria woke to find him sitting by the window, the moonlight casting silver across his bare shoulders. His back was tense, his posture rigid.

"Can’t sleep?" she whispered.

He didn’t look back. "I saw something."

She sat up, frowning. "What do you mean?"

He turned slowly, his eyes shadowed. "A flash. Blood. Your voice. Someone screaming my name. It was like watching a memory through fog."

Her breath hitched. "That sounds like the night of the betrayal."

He nodded. "Matteo. I think he was there."

Aria’s heart pounded. "Then you’re starting to remember."

"Maybe," he said. "But what if I remember too much?"

She rose from the bed, moving to stand in front of him. "Then we’ll face it together."

His gaze softened. "You always say that."

"Because it’s always true," she whispered.

He reached out, pulling her close, resting his head against her chest. "You’re my anchor, Aria. You always were."

"And you’re my storm," she murmured.

He smiled faintly, the first real one of the night. "Then maybe it’s time I learned how to calm instead of destroy."

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as the night stretched on, the city lights flickering like distant stars.

For the first time in months, it didn’t matter how much he remembered.

Because here, in the fragile quiet between them, love was learning to breathe again.

The next afternoon found them in the kitchen, flour dusting the counters like fresh snow. Aria had insisted on baking, something simple, chocolate chip cookies from a recipe scribbled on a faded card. "You used to steal the dough," she said, rolling her eyes as Luca dipped a finger into the bowl for the third time.

"I’m quality testing," he defended, licking chocolate from his thumb with a grin that made her stomach flip.

"You’re a thief," she shot back, swatting his hand away. But she was laughing, and so was he, the sound filling the room like sunlight.

He watched her measure vanilla, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. "You look happy doing this," he said quietly.

"I am," she admitted. "It’s normal. No guns, no empires. Just us and burnt edges."

He stepped behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. "Teach me," he murmured.

She guided his hands, showing him how to fold the chips in gently. Their fingers tangled in the sticky mess, and for a moment, they were just two people making something sweet out of chaos.

That evening, Enzo stopped by with a box of old records, vinyls Luca had collected before everything went digital. They sprawled on the living room rug, sorting through sleeves worn soft from years of handling. Aria pulled out an album, jazz trumpet spilling from the speakers when she set the needle down.

"You played this the night you proposed," she said softly. "Danced with me in the dark, no lights, just the music and your heartbeat."

Luca closed his eyes, letting the notes wash over him. "I feel it," he whispered. "Not the memory. The mood. Like warmth in my veins."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "That’s a start."

Later, under a sky heavy with stars, they walked the garden paths hand in hand. Fireflies blinked like tiny lanterns. Luca stopped beneath the old oak, pulling her close. "I don’t need every piece," he said. "I just need you."

She kissed him then, slow and certain, tasting cookie dough and possibility. "You have me," she promised. "Always."

In the quiet weeks that followed, fragments kept surfacing: the way he used to trace her spine when she couldn’t sleep, the inside joke about her terrible parallel parking, the scar on his knuckle from punching a wall the night she almost left. Each one was a thread, weaving them tighter.

One dawn, Aria woke to find him humming, low and off-key, the same lullaby from their honeymoon. He didn’t remember the trip, but his body did. She smiled into his chest, tears silent on her cheeks.

Love wasn’t a perfect picture anymore. It was a mosaic, chipped and mismatched, but beautiful in its brokenness. And every day, they added another piece, choosing each other in the spaces where memory failed.