Rising From Ashes: The Architect's Comeback

I woke up in a sterile hospital room with no memory of the lethal-looking man pacing outside the glass. My friend told me he was Dante Moretti, the Underboss of Chicago, and the fiancé I had supposedly worshipped for seven years. But the truth shattered me faster than the crash did. When our convoy was ambushed and the car caught fire, Dante didn't pull me out. He chose to save Valeria—the widow of a soldier he felt guilty about—leaving me to burn in the backseat. He called it a "tactical decision." I called it a death sentence. I thought losing my memory was a curse, but it was a gift. It stripped away the delusion of love. I saw a man who treated me like a useful piece of furniture. I saw a rival in Valeria who smirked while taking my job and my place. When she set a room on fire to frame me, Dante saved her again, leaving me to choke on the smoke. He even branded me a thief in front of the entire Commission to protect her lies. He thought I would always be there, the obedient statue waiting for his scraps. He was wrong. I fled to New York and walked straight into the arms of his sworn enemy, Enzo Falcone. A man who didn't just promise to protect me, but walked through fire to do it. Months later, when Dante finally realized the truth and crawled back to me in the rain, begging for a second chance, I looked him dead in the eye. "Forgetting you was the only peace I ever knew." I took Enzo’s hand, letting Dante see exactly what he had lost. "Remembering you just confirmed that you are a mistake I will never make again."

Chapters

Chapter 2

Sienna Vitiello POV

The pain in my ribs was a dull roar, a constant, throbbing reminder of the crash, but the doctor had insisted that walking would help prevent blood clots.

I shuffled down the pristine white corridor of the VIP wing, clutching the IV pole like a lifeline.

I needed air.

I needed to escape the stinging smell of antiseptic and the suffocating weight of my own history.

I turned the corner and nearly collided with a wall of muscle.

I looked up.

It was him.

Dante Moretti.

Up close, he was even more intimidating than the blurry memories suggested.

He smelled of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and stale smoke—a volatile mix.

He looked down at me, his jaw tight.

"You’re out of bed," he stated.

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"I need to walk," I said, my voice flat.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning my face for the usual adoration I apparently used to drown him in.

He seemed unsettled when he didn't find it.

"You shouldn't be wandering," he said, stepping around me. "You’re prone to dizziness."

"How would you know?" I asked. "You weren't in the ambulance."

He stopped.

His back stiffened.

He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Are we doing this, Sienna? I made a tactical decision. Valeria was in the front seat. She was trapped."

I looked at him, really looked at him.

He was handsome in a cruel, sharp way.

But all I saw was the man who calculated my life was worth less than his guilt over a dead soldier.

"I’m not doing anything, Dante," I said. "I’m just stating facts."

A door down the hall clicked open.

Valeria Rossi stepped out.

She was wearing a silk robe that looked soft enough to sleep on, her dark hair perfectly cascaded over one shoulder.

She had a small bandage on her forehead. A scratch.

Dante’s entire demeanor shifted.

The ice melted instantly.

He walked past me as if I were a piece of furniture and went to her.

"Val," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming tender. "You should be resting. The doctor said you have mild shock."

"I’m okay, Dante," she said, her voice breathy and fragile. "I was just looking for you."

She looked over his shoulder and saw me.

Her eyes widened, but there was a glint of triumph in them.

"Oh, Sienna. You’re awake."

Dante put a protective hand on her lower back.

"Sienna was just going for a walk," he said dismissively.

He didn't introduce me as his fiancée.

He didn't ask about my concussion.

He introduced me like I was an inconvenience he hadn't figured out how to schedule yet.

"This is Giulia’s friend," he said to a nurse passing by. "Make sure she gets back to her room."

Giulia’s friend.

I felt a laugh bubble up in my chest, but I swallowed it down.

It tasted like ash.

I looked at the two of them.

The King and his fragile favorite.

I realized then that my amnesia was the greatest gift God could have given me.

It stripped away the delusion.

I didn't say a word.

I didn't beg for his attention.

I didn't ask him why he was holding her like she was made of glass while I was holding myself together with stitches.

I just turned around and continued my walk.

I heard his footsteps pause.

He was watching me leave.

He was waiting for me to turn back, to look at him with those puppy-dog eyes Giulia told me about.

I kept walking.

I didn't look back once.

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