Chapter 1: The Wedding Ambush
THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN dipped low over the Moretti estate, casting golden streaks across the manicured lawns and the white marble fountain where water danced in lazy arcs. It was September 1952, and the air carried the faint tang of autumn leaves mingling with the sweeter notes of roses strung along the trellises. Inside the grand ballroom, a hundred guests swirled to the brassy pulse of a jazz band—trumpets blaring, saxophones crooning—while waiters in crisp tuxedos darted between them, balancing trays of champagne flutes that sparkled like liquid stars. At the heart of it all stood Vincent "Vinnie" Moretti, thirty-four years old, lean and sharp-eyed, his dark suit tailored to perfection. He was the youngest don in New York’s underworld, a title earned through charm as much as bloodshed, and today he was a groom.
Beside him, Clara Rossi glowed in a cream satin gown that hugged her frame like a second skin, her chestnut hair swept up in a cascade of curls. She was thirty-two, a former nurse with hands that had stitched up more soldiers than mobsters, though Vinnie had changed that. Her hazel eyes flicked to him now, catching the way his lips quirked into a half-smile as he surveyed the room. This wasn’t love—not yet, not in the way the poets wrote—but it was something. A deal, a dance, a fragile thread tying the Moretti and Rossi families together after years of knife-edge rivalry. The guests knew it too; their laughter rang a little too loud, their glances a little too sharp, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Vinnie raised his glass, the crystal catching the chandelier’s light, and the room hushed. “To my bride,” he began, his voice smooth as velvet, carrying that easy cadence that could coax a smile from a stone. “Clara Rossi—Moretti, now, I suppose.” A ripple of chuckles spread through the crowd. “They say marriages are made in heaven, but this one? This one’s forged right here, in the grit and glitter of New York. To peace, to family, and to a woman who’s already got me tripping over my own feet.”
Clara tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. “Careful, Vinnie,” she said, loud enough for the front rows to hear. “I might make you trip again before the night’s out.”
The room erupted in laughter, and Vinnie grinned, tipping his glass to her before taking a sip. It was a performance, sure—he’d always been good at those—but there was a flicker of something real in it, a warmth he hadn’t expected when Paulie Greco, his consigliere, first pitched the idea of this union six months ago.
The band struck up again, a jaunty rendition of “It Had to Be You,” and Vinnie offered Clara his hand. She took it, her fingers cool against his, and they stepped onto the polished oak floor. The guests parted like a sea, their murmurs blending with the music as the couple swayed. Vinnie pulled her close, his breath brushing her ear. “You’re good at this,” he murmured. “The whole blushing bride bit.”
“And you’re good at pretending you’re not nervous,” she shot back, her voice low but teasing. “I can feel your pulse, you know. Right here.” Her thumb pressed lightly against his wrist, and he laughed—a real laugh, not the polished one he used for the capos and lieutenants.
“Caught me. But it’s not every day a man marries a woman who could probably stitch him up faster than she’d kiss him.”
“Keep talking like that, and you’ll find out which I’m better at.”
He was still grinning when the first gunshot cracked through the air.
It came from the east wing, a sharp pop that sliced through the music like a blade. The band faltered, notes tumbling into discord, and for a split second, the room froze—glasses mid-air, smiles half-formed. Then the windows shattered, glass raining down in a glittering storm as men in dark coats burst through, submachine guns spitting fire. Screams erupted, drowning out the last wail of the saxophone as tables overturned and guests scrambled for cover.
Vinnie’s instincts kicked in before his mind did. He yanked Clara down, shielding her with his body as a bullet whizzed past, splintering the edge of the head table. “Stay low!” he barked, his hand already reaching for the .38 snub-nose tucked inside his jacket. He’d insisted on carrying it, despite Paulie’s assurances that the wedding would be a neutral zone. Trust was a luxury he’d never afforded himself.
Clara’s breath hitched, but she didn’t freeze. She grabbed a fallen champagne bottle by the neck, smashing it against the table’s edge to form a jagged weapon. “Who are they?” she hissed, her eyes darting to the gunmen fanning out across the room.
“Santoros,” Vinnie growled, recognizing the red silk handkerchiefs tied around their wrists—a signature of Don Emilio Santoro’s crew. The old bastard had never forgiven Vinnie for muscling in on his Harlem rackets two years back. This wasn’t a hit; it was a declaration of war.
Paulie’s voice cut through the chaos from across the room. “Vinnie! Over here!” The consigliere crouched behind an overturned buffet table, a pistol in one hand, rallying three Moretti enforcers. Vinnie grabbed Clara’s arm, pulling her toward Paulie as bullets chewed up the floorboards behind them. A guest—a Rossi cousin, judging by his pinstripe suit—caught a round in the chest, collapsing with a wet gurgle. Clara flinched but kept moving, her gown tearing at the hem as she crawled.
They reached Paulie just as a second wave of Santoro men stormed in from the garden doors, their Tommy guns blazing. “We’re pinned!” Paulie shouted, his graying hair slick with sweat. “They’ve got the exits!”
Vinnie peeked over the table, counting heads. Ten gunmen, maybe twelve, plus the ones outside. His own crew was scattered—some returning fire, others bleeding out on the dance floor. He spotted Frankie, his best shooter, slumped against a pillar, clutching a red-stained shirt. The odds were ugly, but Vinnie had faced worse. “We make a break for the kitchen,” he said, voice steady despite the adrenaline clawing his chest. “There’s a service door out back.”
Paulie nodded, barking orders to the enforcers, but Clara grabbed Vinnie’s sleeve. “What about the others? My family—”
“No time,” he snapped, more harshly than he meant. Her eyes flashed—anger, fear, something he couldn’t place—but she didn’t argue. Another burst of gunfire raked the table, wood chips flying, and Vinnie shoved her down again, firing blindly over the edge. He clipped one Santoro in the shoulder, the man spinning away with a curse.
“Go!” Vinnie yelled, and the group bolted, weaving through the wreckage of the ballroom. Clara stumbled, her heel catching on a fallen chair, and Vinnie hauled her up, his arm around her waist. The kitchen loomed ahead, its double doors swinging as a waiter fled the other way. They were almost there when a figure stepped into their path—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar slashing across his left cheek. Luca Santoro, Emilio’s top enforcer.
Luca raised his gun, a sleek Beretta, and smirked. “End of the line, Moretti.”
Vinnie didn’t think. He lunged, shoving Clara aside as the shot rang out. Pain exploded in his skull, a white-hot sear that knocked him off his feet. He hit the floor hard, blood pooling beneath his head, warm and sticky. The world tilted, sounds warping—Clara’s scream, Paulie’s shout, the staccato of gunfire fading into a dull roar. He tried to move, to reach for her, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision, and the last thing he saw was Clara’s face above him, her hands pressing against his wound, her voice breaking as she whispered, “Stay with me, Vinnie. Please, stay with me.”
Then nothing.
***
When Vinnie came to, it wasn’t to the chaos of the ballroom but to a sterile white room, the beep of a machine drilling into his skull. His head throbbed, wrapped in bandages, and his mouth tasted of copper. Where was he? Who was he? The questions floated, unmoored, in a mind that felt like a shattered mirror. A man in a gray suit stood by the bed—Paulie, he’d learn later—muttering something about taking charge. But it was the woman who slipped in after hours, her hazel eyes wide with determination, who would change everything. Clara. His wife, she’d say. His anchor, she’d prove. But for now, as the morphine pulled him back under, Vinnie Moretti was a stranger to himself, a king without a crown, and the war for his soul had only just begun.
Chapter 2: The Blank Slate
THE FIRST THING VINNIE NOTICED WAS the beep. Steady, insistent, like a metronome ticking out the seconds of a song he couldn’t place. It drilled into his skull, each pulse syncing with a dull ache that radiated from his temples. His eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus—a ceiling of cracked plaster, a single bulb flickering overhead, and walls painted a sickly green. A hospital room, he guessed, though the why of it eluded him. He tried to sit up, but a sharp tug at his arm stopped him—a needle taped to his skin, dripping something clear into his veins. His head throbbed harder, wrapped in bandages that smelled faintly of antiseptic and blood.
He didn’t know where he was. Worse, he didn’t know who he was.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped in—fifties, broad-shouldered, with graying hair slicked back and a suit that looked too expensive for the peeling paint around him. His eyes, dark and calculating, locked onto Vinnie’s, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re awake,” he said, voice rough like gravel under boots. “Thought we’d lost you for good, boss.”
Boss? The word hung there, heavy and unfamiliar. Vinnie’s mouth felt dry, his tongue clumsy as he rasped, “Who… who are you?”
The man’s smile faltered, just for a second, before he recovered. “Paulie Greco. Your right hand, Vinnie. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already.” He pulled a chair close, the scrape of its legs loud against the linoleum floor. “Docs say you took a slug to the head. Grazed you, mostly—lucky bastard—but it’s scrambled things up in there. Amnesia, they’re calling it.”
Vinnie stared at him, searching for a spark of recognition. Nothing. Just a void where memories should’ve been, a black curtain drawn tight across his mind. “Vinnie,” he echoed, testing the name. It fit, somehow, like a key sliding into a lock, but it didn’t turn. “That’s me?”
“Yeah, Vincent Moretti. The Don himself.” Paulie leaned in, lowering his voice. “You run this city—or you did, till last night. Wedding got hit. Santoros crashed the party, turned it into a goddamn slaughterhouse. You don’t remember?”
Vinnie shook his head, wincing as the motion sent a spike of pain through his skull. “Wedding?” he muttered. “I was… married?”
“To Clara Rossi,” Paulie said, a flicker of something—annoyance?—crossing his face. “Pretty thing, tough as nails. She’s why you’re still breathing. Kept pressure on that hole in your head till the ambulance got there.”
Clara. The name stirred something—a flash of hazel eyes, a voice whispering his name—but it slipped away before he could grab it. He clutched the thin hospital sheet, knuckles whitening. “Where is she?”
Paulie hesitated, then shrugged. “Around, probably. Docs won’t let anyone in yet—not till they’re sure you’re stable. But don’t worry, I’ve got things under control. The boys are rattled, sure, but I’ll hold the fort till you’re back on your feet.”
There was a weight to Paulie’s words, a confidence that didn’t quite match the concern in his eyes. Vinnie didn’t know why, but it set his teeth on edge. “Back on my feet. Doing what?”
Paulie chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Running the family, Vinnie. You’re the boss—Moretti crew’s got half of Manhattan in its pocket. Booze, rackets, the works. You’ll remember it all soon enough.”
The door swung open again, cutting off Vinnie’s reply. A doctor shuffled in, balding and bespectacled, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Moretti,” he said, glancing at Paulie with a nervous nod. “Good to see you awake. I’m Dr. Kessler. How’s the head?”
“Empty,” Vinnie said, and the doctor gave a small, awkward laugh, assuming it was a joke.
“Well, that’s not surprising. Retrograde amnesia—nasty business. Bullet grazed your temporal lobe, shook things loose. Could be days, weeks, even months before it comes back. If it does.” Kessler adjusted his glasses, peering at the chart. “Physically, you’re a miracle. No infection, no permanent damage we can see. Rest, time—that’s the prescription.”
Paulie stood, clapping a hand on Vinnie’s shoulder—a little too hard. “Hear that, boss? You’re a miracle. Rest up. I’ll check in tomorrow.” He tipped his head to Kessler and strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Vinnie lay back, staring at the ceiling. A don. A family. A wife he couldn’t picture. It was a story someone else had lived, not him—not this hollow shell with a pounding head and a name that felt borrowed. He closed his eyes, willing the fog to lift, but all he got was the beep of the machine and the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
***
Hours later, the room was dark, the bulb dimmed to a faint glow. Vinnie drifted in and out of sleep, the morphine dulling the ache but not the unease. A soft clatter jolted him awake—the sound of a tray hitting the floor outside. Then the door eased open, and a figure slipped in, shadow-silent. He tensed, hand fumbling for something, anything, to defend himself, but it was a woman who stepped into the light.
She was striking—chestnut hair pinned messily, a nurse’s coat draped over a torn cream dress that shimmered faintly, like it’d seen better days. Her hazel eyes met his, wide and fierce, and his breath caught. “Clara?” he whispered, the name slipping out unbidden.
She froze, then nodded, a flicker of relief softening her face. “You remember me?”
“I… don’t know,” he admitted, sitting up despite the protest in his skull. “They said you’re my wife.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced back at the door. “We don’t have time for that now. Paulie’s got men outside—his men, not yours. They’re watching you like hawks, and I don’t trust it. We need to get you out of here.”
“Out?” Vinnie’s mind spun. “I can barely stand.”
“You’ll stand,” she said, voice sharp but not unkind. She crossed to the bed, unhooking the IV with practiced hands. “Or you’ll die here. Paulie’s already talking to the capos, saying you might not recover. He’s circling like a vulture, Vinnie, and I’m not letting him pick you clean.”
He stared at her, this woman who claimed him—fierce, determined, her hands trembling just enough to betray her fear. “Why?” he asked. “Why risk it?”
She paused, her gaze locking with his. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t give up what’s mine.”
Before he could process that, she yanked a wheelchair from the corner and hauled him into it, ignoring his grunt of pain. “There’s a nurse out there who owes me a favor,” she muttered, draping a blanket over him. “She’s staging a distraction. When I say move, you move—got it?”
He nodded, dazed, as she wheeled him to the door. A crash echoed down the hall—shattering glass, a woman’s yelp—and Clara hissed, “Now.” She shoved the chair forward, darting through the chaos of a spilled tray and a flustered orderly. Two men in dark coats lounged near the exit, but their heads were turned toward the noise, giving Clara the split second she needed. She pushed Vinnie past them, out a side door, and into the cool night air.
A battered Ford waited in the alley, engine idling. Clara tipped the chair, practically dumping Vinnie into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel. “Hold on,” she said, and the car lurched forward, tires squealing as it tore away from the hospital. Vinnie gripped the dash, head swimming, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and shadow.
“Where are we going?” he managed, voice hoarse.
“Somewhere safe,” she said, eyes fixed on the road. “Upstate. A cabin my brother used to hunt in. No one knows it but me—and now you.”
He studied her profile, the set of her jaw, the way her hands gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline. “Who am I to you, Clara?” he asked again, softer this time.
She didn’t look at him, but her voice trembled, just for a moment. “Everything. You were everything.”
The car sped into the fog, the hospital shrinking in the rearview, and Vinnie leaned back, a stranger in his own life, tethered only by the woman beside him. Paulie’s words echoed—boss, family, Don—but they meant nothing yet. All he had was Clara, and the road ahead, vanishing into the night.
