Page 7 of Lost Prince

The hope inside me withers and dies. Even as a kid, I was solving problems with my fists.

"He always stood up for the little guy,” Lana says with pride. "Remember when he caught that shopkeeper overcharging old Mrs. Rossi? He made sure the guy gave back every penny and then some."

"Made sure?"

Elio smirks. "Let's just say the shopkeeper learned his lesson."

As they continue sharing stories, each one paints me as some kind of vigilante. The "badass" who wasn't afraid to crack skulls to get results. With every anecdote, the disconnect between their words and my sense of self grew wider.

What is most unsettling is how they speak of me with admiration. They value violence in this family, apparently. Well, of course they would. They’re in the Mafia.

I stand, unable to endure this any longer. "I can't do this anymore. I'm not him. I'm not the person you're talking about."

"But Lazaro, these are your memories," Lana insists. "This is who you are."

"No!" I shout, the sound echoing through the room, making everyone flinch. "That man, the one who solved problems with violence, who hunted down traitors, who might have killed a cop, that's not me. I don't want to be that person."

Lana stands, reaching out to me. "Lazaro, please. We're just trying to help you remember?—”

"Remember what?” I jerk away from her touch. "That I was some kind of thug? Well, congratulations. You've painted a vivid picture of a man I want nothing to do with."

Hurt flashes across Lana's face. Part of me wants to comfort her, to take back my harsh words. But the anger, the frustration, the sheer weight of everything they've told me is too much.

"I'm sorry. But I can't be who you want me to be. I'm not your Lazaro anymore. Maybe I never will be. If that’s a problem, I can go back?—”

“No. You’re home.” Lana manages a smile. “That’s what matters. Maybe in time, your memory will return.”

I can’t stand the looks of pity or their lack of acceptance that I don’t want to be Lazaro D’Amato, Mafia enforcer. "I need some air." I head toward the exit.

“Lazaro,” Lana calls out, but I don’t stop. I can't be in that room anymore, surrounded by people who want me to be a manthat I’m not. An enforcer? A murderer? A cop-killer? Good God, no wonder someone tried to kill me.

My feet carry me through the house, and before I know it, I’m in the kitchen. The staff looks up at me, except for Diana. She’s at the counter, her back to me, her body swaying to a tune she’s humming.

Everyone abruptly leaves the kitchen, no doubt afraid of me. Now the wide berth everyone gives me makes sense.

Diana must sense a change as she turns. A warm smile spreads on her face when she sees me. “Hello, Mr. D’Amato. Can I help you with something?”

The genuine warmth in her voice washes over me like a balm. With her, there is no expectation, no pressure to remember or be someone I’m not. The tension leaves my body.

She arches a brow. “Do you need a cookie?”

My lips twitch upward. “Yes.”

She moves to plate a cookie and pour me some milk. “I saved you some. Do you have a favorite cookie? I could make them for you.”

I don’t know if I have a favorite cookie. Well, no, actually, her cookies are my favorite.

I watch her, drawn to her. Her wild red curls. The curves of her body. The light that radiates from her. The way she has no expectations for who I should be. I feel like she sees me, even when I can’t see myself. It pulls me to her. I’m like the proverbial moth drawn to her flame.

3

DIANA

Ilearned at a young age how to read a room, to notice the changes in energy. One minute I’m whisking cream, my hips swaying to the song I’m humming, while around me the other staff are working and chatting. The next minute, the energy changes. It darkens. The usual bustle has died down, leaving an eerie quiet.

Even before I turn, I know it’s one of the D’Amatos. The way the rest of the staff have quickly left the room tells me it’s Lazaro.

I turn to him, my eyes locking with his tormented hazel ones. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The air around him crackles with tension. I wonder if he’s here to smash more dishes.