The Enemy Who Saved Me

Chapter Three: The Visitor

Marco arrived at noon.

I saw him through the hospital window before he reached the room. He was walking down the corridor like he owned the place, with his expensive shoes clicking on the tile floor. He was confident, relaxed, and dangerous. That broad smile was already on his face.

The smile that ordered my dad's death.

My grip tightened around Dante's chart.

"Someone's coming to see you," I said, trying to sound casual. "Your brother."

Dante looked towards the door. His face remained emotionless, but I could tell something shifted in his eyes. He seemed wary. Maybe a little scared. It's hard to tell with him.

"I don't remember him," Dante admitted quietly. "He told me we're close. But every time I look at him, something feels—"

He paused.

"Feels what?" I asked.

"Nothing. I feel nothing."

That was interesting. Dante's body seemed to remember what his mind couldn't. Some deep instinct knew Marco was trouble.

Marco stepped through the door.

"Dante." His voice was warm. Concerned. He truly feigned the voice of a 'brother.' "You look better today."

Dante nodded slowly. "Elena says I'm healing."

Marco's eyes flicked to me. It was brief and calculating. Then back to Dante.

"Elena," he said my name like we were strangers. "Thank you for taking care of my brother."

I was almost impressed. He really knew how to act.

"Just doing my job," I said evenly.

Marco then pulled up a chair and sat close to Dante's bed. He was close enough to touch him. Close enough to hurt him if he wanted.

For a moment I saw it. Marco's hands were around Dante's throat. Dante was too weak to fight back—obviously.

𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘪𝘵? The question surprised me.

"Any memories coming back?" Marco asked casually.

"Some," Dante frowned. "They're mostly flashes. Nothing clear."

"Nothing about business?"

"Not yet."

Marco's jaw tightened—barely noticeable. But I saw it.

"Maybe Elena can help with that," Marco said, turning to me.

"She said familiar environments might trigger memories. I was thinking she could take you back to your penthouse. Just for an afternoon."

This was a test. Marco wanted to see if I'd found anything in the penthouse. He wanted to see if I was still working for him.

"I'll need clearance from the medical team," I said. "I can make some calls."

"Good," Marco said, standing up. He patted Dante's shoulder. "I'll leave you to rest. Elena, walk me out?"

It wasn't a request.

We stood in the hallway out of earshot from Dante's room.

Marco dropped the brother act, and his face went cold.

"Any progress?" he asked.

"His memory is returning slowly," I said. "Nothing useful yet."

"You had two hours in his penthouse. What did you find?"

"Journals. They were personal. Nothing about money or locations."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Marco stepped closer. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne—an expensive one. This is something that would belong on a man who's never worked a day in his life.

"You're lying to me, Conti."

My pulse jumped, but my face stayed calm.

"I'm not lying."

"I know you," his voice dropped lower. "You have your dad's eyes. Your dad couldn't lie worth a damn either."

The way he mentioned my dad was deliberate. It was a reminder of what he'd done and what he could do again.

"I found nothing," I said. "If you don't believe me, search the penthouse yourself."

Marco stared at me for a time before smiling again.

"Fine. I'll give you time. One week. If you're holding out on me, Elena, I'll make sure you end up in the same hospital wing as your dad."

Then he walked away.

My legs were shaking, so I leaned against the wall to support myself. I forced myself to breathe.

When I walked back into Dante's room, he was watching me carefully.

"What did my brother want?" he asked coldly.

"He was just checking on your progress," I replied.

"That took a while."

I busied myself with his IV. I adjusted the flow and checked his vitals. I did anything to avoid his gaze.

"Elena?" I looked up.

His expression had changed. The confusion from before was gone. His gaze was sharp now, focused.

"I overheard part of your conversation," Dante said. "When you were in the hallway, your voices carried."

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘞𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

Cold panic rushed through me.

"What did you hear?"

"Twenty-five million," his voice was quiet and careful. "You and my brother are discussing twenty-five million dollars. Why?"

I gaped at him.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬.

"His business," I quickly said. "He's been talking about a deal, but I don't know the details."

"You're a nurse. Why would he discuss business deals with you?"

"Because I'm not—" I stopped myself too late. I almost said "not a nurse." I almost told him the truth.

Dante leaned forward slightly and winced as pain pulled at his stitches.

"Because you're not what?"

Twenty-five million, the journals, Marco's threat, and my dad's face.

All of it pressed against my chest begging to come out.

"Elena," Dante's voice was softer now—not demanding but asking. "I may not remember everything," he continued quietly.

"But you saved my life. You've been sitting with me every night. You hold my hand when I have nightmares. I don't remember much. I remember that."

My throat tightened.

"I know you're hiding something," he said. "I just don't think it's because you want to hurt me."

The truth sat right there on my tongue.

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦.

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

"Elena," his hand found mine. It was warm, calloused, and gentle. I pulled away.

"I need to check on another patient," I said. "I'll be back in an hour."

I walked out before he could stop me.

...

I made it all the way to the supply closet before I broke down.

The door slid shut behind me as my back hit the shelves. Bandages and syringes clattered around me. I slid down to the floor and buried my face in my hands.

𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦.

That was the choice Marco had given me without saying it out loud.

If I helped Marco and got the money, I could rebuild my family. I could make my dad's death mean something.

If I helped Dante, I got nothing. No money. No revenge. Just the truth.

The truth was that I'd been wrong. For two years I'd been wrong about everything.

The closet door opened suddenly. I looked up sharply.

Dante stood in the doorway, barefoot, in his hospital gown that was hanging loose. He'd pulled his IV out. Blood was dripping from his hand.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," I said immediately.

"You've been crying."

"I haven't. I'm fine."

"Your eyes say otherwise."

I wiped my face, stood up quickly, and brushed off my scrubs. I proceeded to grab gauze from the shelf.

"Go back to your room, Mr. Rossetti."

"Dante," he corrected.

"Mr. Rossetti."

He stepped closer as the door shut behind him. We were alone in the dark. The shelves of supplies boxing us in.

"Tell me the truth," he said quietly. "Please."

"About what?"

"About who you are. About why you look at me like you're angry and sad at the time. About why my brother mentioned twenty-five million dollars in front of you."

I looked at his face. The face I'd sworn to destroy.

He wasn't Marco. He wasn't the killer. He was a man who'd tried to do the right thing and failed. The same man who'd held my dad in his final moments. A man who'd spent two years protecting a woman who wanted him dead.

"Your brother," I said slowly. "He's not who you think he is."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the journal.

"I found this in your penthouse. I was going to keep it from you. I was going to use it to—" I stopped and swallowed. "Just read it."

Dante took the journal and opened it to the page. I watched his face as he read.

He had the look of confusion at first, then recognition, and also something that looked like pain.

"I wrote this," he said quietly.

"Yes," I responded.

"I remember some of it, not all, the handwriting and the words."

He looked up at me. "Elena. Who are you really?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"My name is Elena Conti. Enzo Conti was my dad."

Dante went pale.

"You held him while he died, and you promised to protect me. I spent two years planning to kill you for something your brother did."

Dante looked at me. I looked back at him.

"Marco hired me," I said. "He said you killed my dad. He also said that if I helped him get information from your memory, he'd give me twenty-five million dollars, and that it would be enough to fix what your family ruined."

"My family ruined—" Dante said slowly.

"It was your brother, your family, your blood. It felt like they were the same."

Dante then sat on a crate of gauze. He was still holding my journal.

"You came here to kill me," he said.

"That was my plan."

"And instead, you saved my life."

"I don't know why."

That was the most honest thing I'd said all day.

"You held my hand when I had dreams."

"Yes, I did."

Dante looked up at me with tears in his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked, confused.

I stared at him blankly. I had nothing to say.

Then Dante looked at me, so painfully human that it almost shattered me.

"I'm so sorry about your father," he said quietly.

And somehow, that hurt more than everything else.