1. Diana

1

DIANA

T ension crackles through the D'Amato mansion like static electricity. It's been this way ever since Lazaro returned, his presence both a blessing and a curse depending on who you ask.

When I first started working here several months back, I'd catch snippets of hushed conversations among the staff about him. Lazaro D'Amato, the missing prodigal son, presumed dead. Many of the staff hinted at relief that he was gone. Others felt sad for his twin sister, Lana, inconsolable yet determined to find him.

When he walked into the house days ago, I didn’t see a volatile man ready to wreak havoc. No, he looked uncertain, lost. My heart went out to him. What would it be like to lose your memory? To be honest, I have some memories I wouldn’t mind forgetting. But it must be discombobulating to have your history erased. I mean, part of who we are is made up from our experiences, right? If you can’t remember your past, how do you know who you are?

I’m chopping vegetables as the kitchen staff move around like they’re on eggshells. Breakfast was already served and now I’m on to dinner prep.

"Did you see him this morning?" Maria, one of the housemaids, whispers to me as she grabs a tray of tea things for Mrs. D’Amato, Elio’s wife, who’s pregnant and switched from coffee to tea. "He always looks like he’s on edge of exploding.”

That’s not how I see it. He looks alert, but in a skittish animal sort of way. “I haven’t seen him this morning.”

“You’d think time away and memory loss would temper that boy’s behavior,” Anna, the head of the kitchen, says, though under her breath. She fears her boss, and I suppose for good reason. Although I’d heard rumors about the D’Amato family when I moved to Chicago, I wasn’t aware of the nature of their “business”. Even now, if I were interrogated, I wouldn’t be able to tell the cops about anything. They’re discreet.

I suppose their Mafia connection should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’ve blown around this world enough in my twenty years to know there really isn’t a line between good and bad. There’s just a lot of gray. For example, the foster family I had when I was ten, opening their home to care for kids like me who didn’t have families. Good people, right? Except when my foster father would get drunk and use me as his personal ashtray to put out his cigarettes or beat me when the mood struck him. That was bad.

“He seems less crazy than before,” Janey, the other housemaid, says.

“Yeah, well it’s just a matter of time,” Anna says, grabbing the saltshaker and jerking salt over her left shoulder as if her words might jinx things and she’s warding off the evil spirit of Lazaro D’Amato.

“His sister is happy to have him home,” I say, wanting to put a positive spin on the situation. What’s the point of focusing on the glass half empty if you have half a glass of something?

“Maybe she’ll get rid of that cop-boyfriend of hers now that Laz is back and clearly needs help,” Janey says.

I don’t know. Lana seems pretty smitten with the guy, much to her older brother’s consternation. It is odd that she’d fall for a law-and-order guy considering the family business, but looking at Henry, he seems equally enthralled with Lana.

“He’s a P.I. now,” Maria says.

“I give it six months, tops,” Janey adds.

“Before what?” Anna looks at her with narrowed brows.

Janey shrugs. “Lana sends him packing… or Elio makes him disappear.”

Anna shakes her head, tossing more salt over her shoulder. “Get to work.”

Janey takes the tray Maria was preparing and exits the kitchen. I focus on my work, prepping veggies for tonight’s dinner. My mind wonders to the first time I saw Lazaro. He followed an excited Lana into the house. She was beaming with happiness at having found him.

Lazaro didn’t have the same enthusiasm. He was gracious being introduced to his older brother and his family, but he looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to turn around and run back to the life he’d built over the last three years.

Lana had asked me to bring him some food, and I was eager to get an upfront and personal look at the fearsome Lazaro D’Amato. I took him a BLT and milk as I was told it was his favorite. Yes, he was fearsome. He was built like a freight train, large and hard, with a simmering energy. A scar ran down the side of his face that added to the fierce image of him but didn’t take away from his handsomeness.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know if I should be remembering you,” he’d said when I brought him his sandwich. The vulnerability in his voice made my heart ache. This wasn't the volatile man the staff whispered about. This was someone adrift, struggling to find his way back to shore.

Our exchange was short, although I would have liked to have stayed and talked with him. To help him settle in. But I work for the family. I have to remember my place.

"You can't keep hiding away like this, Lazaro," Lana’s voice carries into the kitchen. Immediately, we all quiet down, focusing on our work.

"I'm not hiding," Lazaro growls back. "I just don't know how to be who you all want me to be."

“Dr. Hernandez says these exercises might help trigger something."

“Maybe I don’t want to be triggered, have you thought about that?”

They seem to be lingering outside the kitchen as if they don’t want us to hear them squabble.

“You can’t mean that. We have so many great memories.”

I feel bad for Lana, who clearly needs Lazaro to remember their lives together.

“Right. If they’re so great, I would have remembered, don’t you think?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“And you’re being a bitch.”

I glance over at Anna, her head down, eyes focused on kneading bread. Maria is cleaning dishes.

"You can't give up," Lana pleads. "Remember when we were kids? You never backed down from a challenge."

A heavy sigh follows. "That's just it, Lana. I don't remember being that person. I don't remember any of it."

Poor guy is beyond frustrated. I’ve seen this part of him more often than not since his return. The way his brow furrows when someone mentions a shared memory, the flash of anger in his eyes when he can’t recall a simple family tradition.

"Maybe if we try looking at old photos again?—”

"No!" Lazaro's shout makes me jump, nearly cutting myself with the long knife.

“I’m sick of staring at pictures of a life I don't recognize. I'm tired of disappointing you, of not being the brother you want me to be."

The silence that follows is deafening. I hold my breath, feeling like an intruder on their private pain.

"Lazaro, you could never disappoint me. I'm just happy you're alive, that you're here."

"Am I? Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better if I'd stayed dead."

“Lazaro!”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Lana.”

“Fine. Be a whiny dick.”

Silence fills the air again. In the kitchen, our breaths hold, wondering what’s going to happen next.

The door bursts open, swinging and slamming against the wall behind it.

We all jump.

Lazaro storms in. Glancing around, he sees a mug on the table. He grabs it and throws it hard against the wall, well away from any of us. It doesn’t matter that the shattered pieces don’t come near us. Anna and Maria let out a shriek and bolt out of the kitchen.

I don’t move. Instead, I watch, unable to take my eyes off Lazaro as he paces the kitchen like a caged animal.

"Why can't they just fucking leave me alone?" he growls, sweeping his arm across the center table, sending utensils clattering to the floor.

I continue to watch him, but not in fear. Instead, I’m saddened by the raw pain in his eyes. I wipe my hands on my apron and reach for a plate of cookies I made earlier this morning.

"Mr. D'Amato," I say softly, approaching him with a bright smile. "Would you like a cookie? I made them fresh this morning."

Lazaro whirls to face me, his hazel eyes wild. For a moment, I think he might lash out, but then something in his expression shifts. The anger drains away, replaced by confusion and a hint of shame.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I hold out the plate, my smile unwavering. "Offering you a cookie. You look like you could use one."

He studies me like I’m some sort of enigma. “You think I’m childish too?”

I arch a brow. “Not sure why you’d think that?”

“Cookies. Isn’t that what you give kids when they’re acting out?”

I hold back my snort. “I could offer you a carrot if you prefer.” I nod over to my pile of cut vegetables.

His brow furrows again like he can’t figure me out. He takes a cookie and bites into it. His eyes widen slightly as he chews, savoring the taste. “This is good.”

“See, even adults can enjoy a cookie.” I turn to the refrigerator to get him a glass of milk.

"You're not afraid of me.” It’s more a statement than a question.

“Should I be?”

“Everyone else is.”

I shrug as I hand him the glass. “You don’t seem so scary now.” I grab a dustpan and a small handheld broom to clean up the broken mug.

“I’m sorry about that.” He sets his cookie and milk down and helps me clean up the mess he made.

“Nothing like a good cookie to defuse anger, eh?”

A ghost of a smile touches Lazaro's lips. It makes me wonder who he really is underneath the frustration and anger.

He looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and something I can’t quite place. Gratitude, maybe? Or perhaps just relief at finding someone who doesn’t treat him like a ticking time bomb.

"How long have you been working for my family?" he asks.

The way he says "my family" catches my attention. There was a hesitation there, as if he isn’t quite sure he belongs.

I dump the broken mug pieces into the trash. "About two months now. I started just after Mr. and Mrs. D’Amato married."

“No wonder you’re not afraid. You didn’t know me before.”

I arch a brow. “I’m not sure I’d be afraid of you if I did.”

He laughs, and it catches me off guard. The lightness of it. The free and pure way it emerges from him. Then it ends, almost like it caught him off guard too. I have a sense he doesn’t laugh much.

"You know, I get it. Feeling like you don't belong somewhere."

Lazaro's gaze sharpens with interest. "How could you possibly understand?"

I start cleaning up the strewn utensils on the floor. “I grew up in the foster system. Bounced from home to home, never staying in one place long enough to put down roots."

His expression softens slightly. "That must have been tough."

I shrug, offering a small smile. "Sometimes.” But I don’t dwell on the negative. What’s the point except to keep feeling bad? “It wasn’t all bad. It taught me to be adaptable, to find adventure in every new situation. And it gave me an appreciation for the little things, like a warm bed or a home-cooked meal."

“Or a cookie?” He picks up his cookie, popping the last piece of it into his mouth.

“Or a cookie,” I agree.

Lazaro was quiet for a moment. "Is that how you ended up here? Looking for adventure?"

"Something like that. I've always followed my gut, let the wind take me where it will. This time, it brought me to the D'Amatos."

"And you're not… scared?" Lazaro seems genuinely interested. "Of the family, of me?"

I meet his gaze steadily. “Why should I be?”

He bites his lower lip, and he’s probably thinking I’m na?ve and don’t know about his family.

“I figure a family like yours is the safest place to be.”

He grabs another cookie and the milk. “Or the most dangerous.”

I shrug. “Nowhere is free from danger. I could fall in the tub or be hit by a drunk driver crossing the street. But you can’t dwell on it. Otherwise, you miss all the fun of life.” I return to my vegetables.

“What fun have you had?” He leans against the counter next to me.

I share a few stories of my travels, recounting the colorful characters I'd met and the odd jobs I'd taken along the way. To my surprise, Lazaro listens attentively.

"There was this one time in New Orleans, I ended up working at a voodoo shop. The owner insisted I had 'the gift'. Turns out, I just had a knack for reading people."

He arches a brow. “Can you read me?”

I give him a glance and smirked, deciding not to answer that. "Then there was the summer I spent as a rodeo clown in Texas. Talk about an adrenaline rush! Nothing quite like distracting an angry bull while wearing oversized pants and a red nose."

Lazaro's mouth twitches. I wish I could make him laugh again because I’m sure it’s a rarity. So, I keep on, launching into more tales. My brief stint as a dog walker for New York's elite or the month I spent picking grapes in a Napa vineyard. Most of my jobs, though, involved cooking. Short order cook. Baker in a café. Lunch lady in an elementary school.

As I talk, Lazaro's posture slowly relaxes. The furrow between his brows eases. “Is this all true?”

I look at him with feigned offense. “Of course. You’ve gotta grab life, Lazaro.”

He studies me like he’s not sure. He sets his glass in the sink. "Thank you for the cookie.”

Oh. He’s leaving? Of course he is. I’m just the help . “Of course.”

He strides out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Had I said too much? Acted to familiar? Pushed too far?

I return to my chopping, reflecting on what just happened. Lazaro’s abrupt exit left me feeling unsettled, like I'd glimpsed something raw and vulnerable beneath his gruff exterior. Something he may not have wanted me to see. Or maybe it’s frustration that I can see something he has no clue about.

What must it be like to wake up one day and not recognize your own life? To have everyone around you expecting you to be someone you can't remember being?

As much as everyone is afraid of him, I feel drawn in by him. Maybe it’s the lost look in his eyes or the way he fights against himself. Whatever it is, I want to know more about him. The real him, not the one everyone around him wants or expects him to be.