I had asked him more times than I could count, always carefully, always hoping for a different answer.
"When can we stop hiding?"
Every single time, he brushed it off with the same vague excuse.
"The timing's not right."
I used to believe him.
I used to tell myself that there was a reason, that the Family's politics demanded patience, that one day things would be different.
But today, I finally understood.
When he thought I had lost my memory, the first thing he did was draw a line between us.
I'm your boss.
That was the truth.
That was all I had ever been to him.
An associate working the books in his legitimate front.
A secret.
My injuries weren't serious, so the doctor kept me under observation for three days before discharging me. Everything was routine. Quiet. Uneventful. The private clinic smelled of antiseptic and old money, and the staff moved with the particular carefulness of people who knew better than to ask whose name was really on the bill.
The charges went through the Family's insurance arrangement, and whatever was left over was refunded directly back to Salvatore's account.
Three days.
Not a single visit.
Not even a message.
And then, on the day I was discharged, my phone rang.
"You're out already?" Salvatore's voice came through, casual, almost mildly annoyed. "You could've at least given me a heads-up."
I held the phone in silence.
"I've got a meet today," he continued. "Can't come pick you up."
"…Okay."
That was all I said.
I swallowed everything else. The questions that rose to my throat. The ones that used to matter.
I didn't ask where he was.
I didn't ask who he was with.
Instead, I opened my phone and checked his location.
A hotel. One of the ones on Family-controlled territory, the kind with discreet staff and no cameras in the hallways.
I didn't need him to explain anything. I didn't need confirmation.
Then, faintly, through the receiver, I heard a woman's voice.
"Come dry my hair, will you?"
The line went dead almost instantly.
He hung up.
I stared at my phone for a moment, unmoving.
Not long after, two transfer notifications popped up.
$1,314.
$1,520.
The numbers hit me harder than anything else.
They weren't random.
They meant something. They always had.
1314 meant forever.
1520 meant I love you.