Shot and Bleeding, She Collapsed Into the Mafia Boss’s Arms—“Give Me a Name,” He Growled

The storm died down just before dawn, leaving the estate wrapped in a thick, eerie blanket of morning fog. Sunlight struggled to breach the heavy velvet curtains of the guest suite, casting long, pale beams across the hardwood floor.

Vincent sat in a leather armchair beside the bed, his suit jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark, intricate ink etched into his skin. He hadn't slept. For six hours, he had sat in the quiet room, alternating between reading his father’s hidden journal and watching the slow rise and fall of the girl’s chest.

A soft whimper broke the silence.

Vincent shifted instantly, his eyes locking onto her face.

The girl’s head turned restlessly against the pillow. Her pale eyelids fluttered, her brows knitting together as if fighting through a dense, suffocating marsh of nightmares. Her fingers clawed at the bedsheets, searching wildly.

"No... no, please..." she whispered, her voice raspy and dry. "Don't lock the door... Victor, please..."

"You're safe," Vincent said. His voice was unusually gentle, stripping away the harsh authority he used with his enforcers.

At the sound of his voice, her eyes snapped open.

They were a striking, brilliant hazel—wide with instant, unadulterated terror. She sat up abruptly, gasping for air, clutching the thin hospital gown to her throat as her eyes frantically scanned the unfamiliar room. She saw the stone fireplace, the heavy drapes, the medical monitors, and finally, the towering man sitting in the leather chair beside her.

She scrambled backward until her spine hit the carved wooden headboard, pulling the duvet up to her chin like a shield.

"Who are you?" she breathed, her voice trembling so hard her teeth clicked. "Where am I? Did... did he catch me?"

"No one caught you," Vincent said quietly. He stayed seated, keeping his hands visible on the armrests of his chair so as not to startle her. "You are at my estate outside the city. My doctor treated you. You've been asleep for seven hours."

She stared at him, her chest heaving as she swallowed hard, trying to process his words. Her gaze drifted over his broad shoulders, his sharp jawline, and the dark tattoos visible on his forearms.

"I... I don't know you," she whispered, her eyes brimming with sudden, terrified tears. "Why did you bring me here?"

"You stumbled in front of my car near the warehouse district," Vincent explained calmly. "You collapsed in my arms."

Her hand moved reflexively to her neck, feeling the bare skin where her leather cord used to rest. Panic flared in her eyes instantly. "My pendant! Where is it? Did you take it?!"

Vincent reached into his vest pocket, pulled out the tarnished silver pendant, and held it out on his flat palm. He did not step closer; he simply offered it to her.

"It’s right here," he said. "You forced it into my hand before you lost consciousness."

She snatched the pendant from his palm with desperate speed, clutching the cold metal against her heart as if it were her only anchor to reality. She closed her eyes, letting out a ragged breath, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.

Vincent watched her quietly before asking the question that had been burning in his mind all night.

"Do you know who you are?"

The girl froze. Her eyes opened, staring blankly at the far wall. The silence stretched between them, long and agonizing.

"I..." She swallowed, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "I remember rain. I remember running through a long, dark hallway with iron doors. I remember a man with a ring... shouting at me to give him a key."

She looked at Vincent, her hazel eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow grief.

"I don't know my name," she sobbed softly, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know where I live. I don't know why people were chasing me. Every time I try to remember... it feels like staring into a dark room full of smoke."

Vincent felt a strange, unfamiliar tightening in his chest. He was a man who dealt in brutal realities, a leader who controlled men through power and fear. But looking at this shattered girl, he felt an overwhelming, fierce instinct to protect her from whatever horrors had driven her into his path.

He stood up slowly. She flinched slightly, but she didn't shrink away as he stepped toward the bedside table.

He picked up the small, round silver vanity mirror resting on the tray and handed it to her gently.

"Look," he said.

She hesitated, her hands shaking as she took the mirror and lifted it to her face. She stared into the glass, her breath catching as she looked at her own reflection—the dark, damp curls framing a heart-shaped face, the pale skin, the hazel eyes filled with confusion.

"Do you recognize her?" Vincent asked softly.

"She looks... like a stranger," the girl whispered, a tear dropping onto the glass mirror. "Like someone I used to know a long time ago."

Vincent took the mirror from her hands and set it down. He leaned over slightly, looking directly into her eyes with an unshakeable, rock-solid intensity.

"Listen to me carefully," Vincent said. "A man named Victor Sterling came to my gates last night. He had twelve armed men with him. He wore a blue sapphire ring on his right hand."

She gasped, her face draining of what little color it had regained. Her grip on the pendant tightened so hard her knuckles turned white. "The blue ring... he... he was the one in the hallway! He kept calling me... calling me..."

"He called you Claire," Vincent supplied. "Claire Bennett."

The name seemed to strike her like a physical blow. She blinked, repeating the words under her breath. "Claire... Bennett... Claire..." She shook her head frantically. "I don't know... it sounds familiar, but... it feels like a dress that doesn't fit me!"

"Sterling claims you belong to a corporation called Apex Holdings," Vincent continued. "He claims you escaped from a medical facility in Switzerland and that you possess documents belonging to him. He demanded I hand you over."

"No!" she cried out, grabbing Vincent’s sleeve with sudden, desperate strength. Her fingers dug into his shirt, her hazel eyes wild with terror. "Don't let him take me! Please! If he takes me back to that place, I’ll never wake up again! I know it! Please... don't give me to the man with the ring!"

Vincent looked down at her small hand gripping his arm, then up into her terrified face.

"I didn't hand you over," Vincent said, his voice ringing with cold, absolute certainty. "I told him that if he stayed on my land for another two minutes, I would burn his cars with him inside them."

She blinked, stunned by his words. "Why? You don't even know me."

Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the yellowed 1998 photograph he had taken from his father’s safe. He placed it gently on the bedsheet beside her hand.

"Because twenty-eight years ago," Vincent said, "my father took this photograph on the front lawn of this house. The baby in that picture is wearing the exact same pendant you are holding in your hand right now."

She looked down at the photograph, her eyes widening as she stared at the infant wrapped in the pink blanket, held by a mother whose face was identical to the one she had just seen in the vanity mirror.

"Your father..." she whispered. "Who was your father?"

"His name was Dominick Moretti," Vincent answered. "And before he died, he left a journal in my safe. Last night, I read the last entry he ever wrote."

Vincent leaned in close, his voice dropping into a solemn, heavy whisper.

"My father wrote that if a girl with hazel eyes and a silver coordinates pendant ever arrived at this house... I was to protect her with the entire force of the Moretti family empire. Because her real name isn't Claire Bennett."