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.