Chapter 5 – Memory Is a Loaded Gun
1190 Words
Morning came too softly.
Sabrina stirred beneath her sheets, a slow return to consciousness. For a moment, she forgot where she was—or who was beside her. Her hand drifted across the mattress, brushing warmth.
Not a dream, then.
She rolled onto her side, eyes adjusting to the dim light bleeding through the curtains.
Isaac Hale. Still asleep.
She studied him, quietly, carefully. His face was relaxed in sleep—less sharp, less guarded. He looked almost… human. Not the mafia heir. Not the gunshot survivor. Just a man.
Vulnerable.
She wasn’t sure if she hated or admired that.
Carefully, she slid out of bed and padded into the kitchen, making a mental note to get dressed before her neighbors saw a half-naked mafia prince in her apartment. Not that she owed anyone an explanation—but she owed herself the illusion of normalcy.
The kettle hissed behind her, and she leaned on the counter, staring out at the gray sky.
Her mind wasn’t on the weather.
It was on the file.
The one still open on her desk, pages spread like fresh wounds. She’d reread it three times before falling asleep beside Isaac—every word, every redacted line. All the things she was told didn’t happen.
And she could almost hear Linarez’s voice again, smooth and certain.
“Your mind protects you by forgetting what it can't handle, Sabrina. Trust the process.”
But what if the process was just a prettier name for erasure?
What if she hadn’t been healing—but silenced?
Behind her, a door creaked.
She turned as Isaac stepped into the kitchen, shirtless, hair a bit of a mess, as if sleep was still clinging to him.
“You left the bed,” he murmured, voice rough.
“I needed tea.”
He eyed the steam curling from the cup in her hand. “Tea again. You really are trying.”
She smirked, faintly. “No one ever said I try well.”
He walked to her slowly, stopping just close enough to make her aware of him—but not close enough to trap her.
That was something she was starting to notice about him.
Isaac Hale didn’t trap. He waited.
“What did you read last night?” he asked, eyes sharper now.
Sabrina hesitated.
He already knew. Of course he did.
“You read the file,” he said for her.
She nodded slowly. “It’s worse than I remembered.”
“It usually is.”
“He changed everything,” she whispered. “I knew something didn’t feel right growing up. The way my relatives acted like I was wrong, not hurt. Like I had embarrassed them.”
Isaac didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“I thought maybe I was lying. That maybe I was dramatic. That I made it all up in my head.”
“You didn’t,” he said firmly.
Her eyes found his. “But when people tell you the same lie over and over, eventually… you learn to live in it.”
She looked down into her cup.
“I don’t think I ever left that lie.”
He stepped closer.
This time, she didn’t back away.
“I’m going to destroy him,” he said.
Her head snapped up. “You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can.”
“I’m not asking you to fix this for me, Isaac. This isn’t some mafia job you can handle with threats.”
“I know,” he said. “But it is personal now.”
She set the cup down, hands trembling again. “I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore.”
“You should be,” Isaac said. “Men like him don’t destroy with fists. They destroy with suggestion. With paper trails. With whispers that bleed.”
Sabrina looked at him. “And what do you destroy with?”
Isaac stepped close—so close now she could smell the rain still clinging to his skin.
“Only what deserves it.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
And then, softly: “I think I hate how much that comforts me.”
His lips tilted faintly. “Then we’re both in trouble.”
Later that afternoon, she went to work.
Isaac didn’t follow.
He stayed behind, claiming he had “business,” but she suspected it had something to do with Linarez. She didn’t ask for details. Not because she didn’t want to know, but because part of her was terrified she *did*.
She kept her head down in the hospital halls, ignoring the side-eyes from coworkers, the whispers.
Word traveled fast.
And Isaac Hale wasn’t a man who stayed invisible for long.
Still, she made it through her rounds—until she reached the elevator and everything froze.
Standing just outside the surgical wing was a man in a dark blazer, holding a leather briefcase.
Clean-cut. Smiling.
Sabrina’s blood went cold.
It had been over a decade, but she knew that face.
Dr. Emilio Linarez.
His eyes lit up like a father seeing a long-lost daughter. “Sabrina. My goodness… it is you.”
She didn’t speak.
Her mouth was dry. Her hands were cold.
He stepped closer, all charm and polished menace. “You’ve grown into such a fine young woman. I’ve followed your career. A trauma surgeon, imagine that.”
She said nothing.
“I thought about reaching out, but I didn’t want to disturb your healing journey.”
That was the word that did it.
Healing.
Sabrina’s voice was quiet. Icy.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m consulting,” he said lightly. “Federal case. Organized crime. Some interesting names on the watchlist. Your hospital has ties to certain—let’s say—problematic patients.”
She knew what he meant.
Isaac.
She also knew this wasn’t a coincidence.
Not even close.
“I won’t stay long,” Linarez continued, adjusting his cuffs. “Just long enough to ensure everything’s clean. You understand.”
He turned to leave.
Then paused.
“Oh,” he added. “It’s truly wonderful to see you again, Sabrina. We should talk soon. Maybe over coffee. Just like the old days.”
She stood frozen in place until he was gone.
Only when the elevator doors closed behind him did her knees begin to shake.
That night, she didn’t wait for Isaac.
She called him.
He answered on the second ring. “Sabrina?”
“He’s here.”
Isaac went still. “Where?”
“Here. In my hospital. He’s consulting with the feds. He knows *everything*.”
Silence.
Then Isaac said, “Pack a bag.”
“What?”
“I’m getting you out of there. Tonight.”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re not running,” he said. “You’re repositioning.”
She was silent.
Then softly: “Will you stay with me?”
“I’ll never leave again.”
Meanwhile, Linarez entered a private office across the city. He removed his glasses, smirking to himself.
“She still doesn’t remember everything,” he murmured.
Then, to no one at all:
“But she will.”
- Writer
