In The Mafia's Heart

CHLOE'S POV I woke up with a start, my skull pounding as though someone had hammered nails into the back of my head. The air smelled faintly of roses and lavender, soft, almost nostalgic. I blinked at the ceiling above me, smooth cream, trimmed with delicate cornices I had never seen before. This wasn’t my apartment. This wasn’t anywhere I knew. Panic flickered in my chest. I pushed myself upright, every movement heavy, as though my body belonged to someone else. The room itself was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your skin. I turned slowly, and that was when my gaze landed on the wall. Photographs. Dozens of them. Zoe’s smile, frozen in time, plastered across frames of every size. Zoe at the beach, Zoe blowing out birthday candles, Zoe holding her camera up to the sun. My breath caught. Zoe’s room… But that was impossible. I remembered Zoe’s funeral. I remembered the ache in my throat as the coffin was lowered into the ground, the sound of dirt hitting wood. I cried until my voice gave out. Zoe was gone. So why… Why was I in her room? I staggered to my feet, one hand gripping the side of the desk for balance. My pulse raced as I reached for the nearest frame, fingers trembling. Her handwriting was scribbled across the edge: Don’t forget to laugh. I pressed the photo against my chest. “No… this can’t be happening.” The last thing I remembered was black clothes, wet grass, and the funeral. And now this. My head throbbed harder, as if my brain rejected the memory itself. I had to get out. The door creaked open when I pushed it, leading into a hallway that looked like something out of a film. Golden light spilled from wall sconces onto marble floors. A patterned carpet ran the length of the corridor. The sheer size of it made me feel small, like I had woken up in someone else’s world. Someone very wealthy. Someone powerful. Each step echoed faintly as I walked, heart hammering against my ribs. I had no idea where the staircase was, but the hall seemed to stretch forever. Paintings stared back at me, serious men in suits, women in pearls, oil strokes of power and old money. Then, from somewhere down the hall, came a sound. A muffled voice. Male, trembling. “Please… don’t kill me.” I froze instantly. My blood drained to my feet as the words sank in. Then, laughter. Cruel, jagged, a sound that twisted my stomach into knots. It wasn’t the laugh at someone amused. It was the laugh of wolves toying with prey. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath. BANG! A gunshot shattered the silence, ricocheting through the corridor. My knees almost buckled. I slapped a hand against my mouth to keep from screaming. Tears pricked my eyes as I fought to stay absolutely still. My whole body screamed at me to run, but my feet felt glued to the marble. The door ahead creaked open. Footsteps. Heavy. Certain. I stumbled back, step by step, trying not to make a sound. My heel brushed against the polished wood of the staircase banister. One more step and I would tumble. Then, he appeared. Richard. My brother-in-law. My sister’s husband. His suit jacket hung open, his tie loosened. His face was calm, unreadable, but his eyes… There was something cold there, something I had never seen before. My heart stopped. “Richard…?” The word slipped out before I could swallow it. He looked up sharply. For a moment, I thought I saw recognition, but it was fleeting, like a shadow crossing his face. His gaze locked onto me, hard and searching. I panicked and stepped back, my heel catching onto the top stairs. The world tilted. I felt myself tipping backward, weightless, air rushing past, Then strong hands caught me. My body slammed against his chest, his arm steady behind my back, stopping my fall. My breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, my eyes wide as I found myself inches from him. His cologne, rich, smoky, wrapped around me. The world shrank to the space between us. Richard’s eyes bore into mine, dark and unyielding, but not cruel. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw shifted slightly, as though he was trying to place me, to understand me. Then, in a voice so gentle, so disarmingly tender it sent shivers down my spine, he whispered: “Zoe… are you okay?” The words hit me like another gunshot. Zoe? My stomach lurched. My mind spun. Zoe is dead. I’m not Zoe. Why is he calling me Zoe? What the hell is going on here? I couldn’t breathe. My thoughts tangled in knots. The same man I had just heard kill someone, Richard, my sister's husband, was holding me as if I were made of glass, speaking to me with the softest voice I had ever heard. And calling me by a name that shouldn’t exist anymore. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t move. My body shook, my vision blurred. His hand lingered at my back, steady, protective, but his eyes remained searching, almost desperate, as if he needed me to be Zoe, as if he wanted to believe I had never left. I opened my mouth, but no sound came. The pressure in my chest grew w tighter and tighter until the edges of my vision darkened. And then, everything went black.