Remember Me, Kill Me

Chapter 3 – Echoes of the Past

The storm began just after midnight.

Rain lashed the windows as thunder echoed across the cliffs. The guards rotated shifts lazily, distracted by the noise. Linda watched them from behind her half-closed door, noting their patterns.

When the hallway finally emptied, she moved.

Barefoot, heartbeat sharp in her ears, she slipped down the corridor, past the grand stairwell, toward the forbidden east wing.

Her fingers trembled as she picked the lock with a hairpin.

*Click.*

The door creaked open.

The scent of dust and forgotten history clung to the air. Paintings hung shrouded in cloth. Stacked crates bore the DeLuca crest. Everything looked abandoned—except for one room at the end.

A study.

The moment she stepped inside, something shifted.

The desk was thick with papers, most old. But one ledger sat open in the center, oddly clean. She ran her fingers over the leather cover. The name on the front made her stop:

**Kingsley Foundation — Private Donor Records**

Her breath caught.

Inside, page after page listed donations—mostly anonymous. One entry stood out, freshly circled in red ink:

*Donation to San Vincenzo Orphanage – Donald Kingsley. $1.2 million.*

Her father.

Linda's hands began to shake.

That name. The orphanage. The drawing. It was all connected.

Footsteps.

Fast. Heavy.

She turned too late.

Alex burst into the room like a thunderclap. “What are you doing here?"

“I—this was open, I just—"

He grabbed the ledger from her hands and slammed it shut.

“I told you," he hissed. “Stay out of my memories."

“You circled that name," she said. “You wanted me to see it."

His jaw tightened. “I warned you."

“I don't remember who I am, Alex. But maybe I want to. Maybe you do too."

He stared at her, breathing hard. Rain pounded the windows.

Without a word, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her out.

“Where are we going?"

“You like history?" he snapped. “Then let me show you the legacy you're trapped in."

—

The grand ballroom loomed before her once more.

But this time, Alex didn't stop at the threshold. He led her to the center, under the chandelier, then turned toward the largest painting on the wall.

“Look closely."

It showed a masked man shaking hands with a U.S. senator. In the background, a child stood near a coffin.

“Your father," Alex said coldly, “is the reason this family died."

Linda's voice was barely a whisper. “What did he do?"

Alex's eyes burned. “He set a trap. Promised peace, offered money, then sold us out to the Feds. My father was arrested. Killed himself in a cell. Our estate seized. I grew up eating powdered eggs in a stone orphanage while your family added wings to their penthouse."

“No…" Linda shook her head. “That can't be true."

“I saw the papers. The wire transfers. The testimony. I spent years digging."

“You think I had anything to do with it?"

“You? No." His voice darkened. “But your blood does."

They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, she spoke. “Is that why you brought me here? Revenge?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he pointed at another portrait. A teenage Alex, flanked by masked men, a coffin behind them.

“That's the day I stopped trusting anyone."

“And yet you kept that drawing in your mother's vault," she said. “The orphanage. Yourself. Why?"

His jaw clenched. “Because sometimes even I forget what I've become."

A long silence.

Finally, he turned to the guard posted at the door.

“She's under watch. No more wandering."

“Yes, sir."

Alex walked out without another word.

Linda stood alone beneath the gaze of dead kings and broken legacies.

And in her mind, a lullaby hummed again—soft, haunting, and familiar.

---

**Later that night…**

Linda sat on the floor of her suite, her back against the cold wall.

She stared at the ledger page she'd torn from the book before Alex noticed.

She unfolded it now, smoothing the crease with trembling hands. Her father's signature glared up at her, crisp and damning.

What kind of man had Donald Kingsley really been?

What kind of woman had she been?

The door creaked.

Alex.

He entered slowly, tie loosened, glass of whiskey in hand.

“You took a page, didn't you?"

She didn't flinch. “Yes."

He sat across from her on the floor, uninvited.

“Do you believe me now?"

“I believe something happened between our families," she said. “But not all of it makes sense."

“Doesn't need to. I lived it."

“Then why keep me here?"

He stared at the glass. “Because I don't know what I want anymore."

A beat passed.

Linda looked at him. “What did you want before?"

He didn't blink.

“To destroy you."

She swallowed hard. “And now?"

“I don't know," he said softly. “You confuse me."

She stood slowly, approached him.

Her voice was quiet. “You're not the only one confused."

He looked up, and for a second—just a second—he wasn't the mafia prince. He was the boy from the drawing.

She turned away before he could see her pity.

“Good night, Alex."

He didn't follow.

---

**In her dreams, Linda saw fire.**

A masked man.

A wedding.

A white dress stained red.

And her own voice screaming from somewhere far away—

“Alex, no!"

Then darkness.

Always, the darkness.