The Enemy Who Saved Me

Chapter Two: The Journal

The penthouse was what I expected.

It was cold, dark, and expensive—the kind where you can tell someone has money but has no one to share it with. Like, who puts a marble fireplace in a room no one sits in?

Marco gave me the access code before I left the hospital. "Two hours," he'd said. "Find anything that might trigger his memory. Journals, recordings, combinations—anything."

I found the journals in his bedroom. They weren't hidden—surprisingly. Just sitting on his nightstand like he'd been reading them before bed. Like he was a person.

The first journal was dated five years ago. I opened a page.

𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘪 𝘣𝘰𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘯𝘰.

I frowned and flipped to another page.

𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦. 𝘔𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

His handwriting was sharp and controlled, but there was exhaustion beneath the words.

Another page.

𝘔𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘐'𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘦𝘵, but 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵.

Enzo Conti, my father.

I sat slowly on the edge of Dante's bed and kept reading.

𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘔𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

My hands started shaking.

𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳.

The next few entries grew messier and angrier.

𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰, 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘯.

My eyes burned. I already knew how this story ended, but I kept reading anyway.

𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵—

The sentence stopped abruptly. The next words were smeared. Water damage. Tears.

𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, '𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢.' 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱. 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.

I covered my mouth with my hand.

No.

Another entry followed beneath it.

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰. 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.

His handwriting became uneven.

𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰. 𝘐 𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦.

I was so overwhelmed that I didn't realize that the journal slipped out of my hands and hit the floor. I couldn't breathe.

For two years, I'd hated Dante Rossetti, and I'd blamed him for my father's death. I'd always imagined him dead. An eye for an eye.

Now I was sitting on his bed, reading his handwriting, his tears on the page, and realizing I'd hated the wrong person.

It was Marco who ordered the hit, and Dante tried to stop it. He held my father while he died. He promised to protect me.

I'd spent two years planning revenge on the only person who ever tried to help.

I picked up the journal again. There was one final entry. It was dated three weeks ago. The day Dante got shot.

𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘚𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺'𝘴 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘌𝘯𝘻𝘰; 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵—𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘸. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰? 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯. 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳."

The entry stopped midsentence. I stared at the unfinished line for a long time before realization hit me. That was when they came for him. He'd been writing when Marco's men came.

I slowly closed the journal and pressed my forehead against my knees.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦?

I accepted money from Marco, I agreed to extract information from Dante, and I stood over his hospital bed with a scalpel and actually considered ending his life.

All along he'd been trying to protect me from across the city. Without me knowing.

I thought about my father's words. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢.

Dante had been trying to keep that promise for two years while I'd been trying to kill him for it.

My phone buzzed. A notification from my messages popped on the screen.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗼: "𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴?"

I stared blankly.

I could tell him the truth, confront him, and demand answers.

Marco is dangerous. If he knew I'd found the journals, he'd kill me. He'd already killed my father to protect his secrets. He wouldn't even hesitate to do the same to me.

I typed back: 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗡𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗼: "𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗻𝗼𝘄. 𝗗𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲'𝘀 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀."

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬.

I looked at the journal in my lap. The proof of what Marco did. The proof that Dante was innocent.

If Dante remembered the truth, he'd go after Marco, and Marco would kill him before he even got close.

Unless I warned him first. Unless I told him everything.

I stood up, slipped the journal into my bag, and walked out of the penthouse.

...

Back at the hospital, Dante was wide awake.

He was sitting up in bed and staring out the window, looking at the city lights. The room was dark except for the glow of the monitors beside him.

"You came back," he said when I walked in.

"I told you I would."

"You didn't have to. Visiting hours ended a while ago."

I pulled a chair next to his bed. I sat so close that our knees almost touched.

"I wanted to," I said.

He looked at me for some time. Those dark eyes searching my face.

"You look sad," he said.

"I'm not sad."

"Your eyes are saying a different thing."

I looked away. My reflection stared back from the window. I looked pale. Tired even.

"I found something today," I said slowly. "Something that made me realize I've been wrong about a lot of things."

"What kind of things?" He asked, curiosity in his eyes.

I reached into my bag and felt the corner of the journal.

But I stopped.

If I told him now, he'd act. He'd leave the hospital. He'd confront Marco before he was healed.

"Elena?" His voice softened lightly.

"What's wrong?"

I pulled my empty hand back out.

"Nothing," I lied. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he reached over and took my hand gently.

His fingers were warm despite the bruises and tape marks on his skin—from where they'd secured the lines during surgery.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying."

I should've pulled away, but I didn't.

I looked at the man I'd sworn to destroy. The man who'd spent two years protecting me from the shadows. The man who was holding my hand like I actually mattered.

For the first time in two years, I had absolutely no idea what to do.