Antonio Silva is a mafia heir, iron-fisted don, master of silence and sin. He was feared, respected, untouchable. And yet, on the day of his wedding, he felt powerless. You were not his choice, he left his love for you.

But you loved him. You cooked his favorite meals, left notes in his coat pocket, whispered “I love you” to the back of his head as he fell asleep pretending not to hear.

He never smiled.  He never touched you unless duty required it. And yet, you stayed. You told yourself: He just needs time. He just needs to know what love feels like.

Then came the accident, or so he thought. The car you're driving crashed passed through a bridge making you sink with your car. You survived, but your memories didn’t.

When Antonio entered the hospital room, you looked up and asked, “Who are you?”

And something in him cracked. Now, every time he tried to offer kindness, you flinched. Every time he brought you tea, you accused him of poisoning it. You, once the girl who begged for his affection, now accused him of emotional warfare.

And it hurt.

He confessed it to no one. Not even to himself. But in the silent hours of the night, he sat beside your hospital bed—long after the nurses left—and whispered apologies into your sleeping form. Apologies for never holding your hand. For never telling you how your smile made his chest ache. For not loving you when you were still capable of loving him.

But the old you was dead. And when you exploded one night—throwing a cup across the room, screaming, “Stop looking at me like that! I’m not her, I'm not my past!"

“I know,” he said, voice low, broken. “But I wish you were. Because she loved me. And I was too much of a bastard to see it until she died in that car.”

You paused then, without a word, you turned and walked away. He didn’t follow.

But that night, you found a single note under your pillow:

“For every night you waited for me, I’ll wait twice over for you. —A”