The Hitman She Couldn't Forget, page 1
part #2 of Power Couples Series
Betty Banks
The Hitman She Couldn’t Forget
Copyright © 2019 by Betty Banks
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First edition
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Contents
Before you dive in...
Arturo
Nova
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Arturo
Nova
Arturo
Nova
Arturo’s Epilogue
Nova’s Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Betty Banks
Before you dive in...
I want you to know that you can read this book as a standalone, but it will make much more sense if you read the first book in the Power Couples series:
The Devil Who Would Be King
Click HERE to grab your copy.
(Don’t worry, I’ll be right here when you get back.)
1
Arturo
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Stormy nights were always her favorite.
It would start with the raindrops tapping on her skylight window. Gentle at first, but when they came down thicker and faster, it was time to get into bed.
Because she always had to be tucked up ‘before the good part started’, as she’d always say. And when the first white bolt of lightning would illuminate her room, her grin would be just as bright. Then she’d nest herself deep in the crook of my arm, her silk scarf soft against my skin and her whispered breath warm against my chest. The countdown would begin - one Mississippi, two Mississippi - until the roaring thunder would rattle the windowpane.
“It’s close,” she’d say, “maybe as close as Brooklyn. Or Manhasset.”
“Maybe, baby,” I’d muse, playing with one of the braids that always managed to escape her scarf.
This is my first storm without her.
And I’m going out of my fucking mind.
Doctor Bronson answered his phone on my third attempt. His voice was hoarse from being woken up at 2am, and his tone was less than sympathetic. But he knows that when you’re on the Regazzi payroll, you’re on call twenty-four-seven. No excuses.
He lives in the New York suburbs, so even in the middle of the night, it’ll take him a good while longer than me to get to his office at the heart of the city.
And, unlike me, he’s probably sticking to the speed limit.
His office is everything you’d expect from a therapist with more degrees than I have fingers. All of his certificates hang on his wall like badges of honor, reassuring each patient that he’s more than qualified to do his job.
And I’m sure he is. Because whatever he’s done to her is working.
I sit on the end of the overstuffed couch, the one I’ve refused to lay horizontal on countless times. My restless legs won’t stay still though, so I jump up, pounding up and down the narrow room. My hand curl into fists when the next lightning bolt flashes through the bay window.
Her soft voice seeps into my brain, counting down.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi — the thunder rolls in, deep and violent, shaking the photo frames lining Bronson’s desk. They are full of pictures of his kids, the ones whose college tuition is probably paid for twice-over by this whole operation.
I wonder if it will ever fucking end.
Desperate for a distraction from her voice in my ear, I scan the office. My eyes land on the gray filing cabinet tucked away in the corner. I’ve been coming to Bronson every week since they took her from me. Every week for three months. My file must be fucking huge.
Patient confidentiality is something I couldn’t give two shits about. So I yank open the top drawer, my fingers brushing over the tabs until I find my name.
Arturo Regazzi.
I was right, my file is the size of a novel, weighed down with all the pain and anger this whole thing has caused. I wonder if it’d be anywhere near as big if I’d just accepted the therapy to begin with.
The first page is an overview, all my problems boiled down to a few hand-scrawled bullet points, like study notes to help Bronson remember why I’m so fucked up.
Arturo Regazzi
Will take over the family business from his father. Power struggle — is frustrated by his father’s unwillingness to modernize and expand the Regazzi empire.
The most dangerous of the Regazzi brothers. Ruthless but quiet. Not a man of many words. Reminds me of the calm before a storm.
Stubborn: will not accept treatment. Perhaps in denial?
The calm before the storm. I’ve been described as that many times. Chillingly cold, scarily quiet. But now the storm has come, I’ve lost all control, and there’s no way of reigning my emotions back in. Like a dormant volcano that has finally erupted. Finally given in to the pressure.
I run my finger over the third bullet point. Will not accept treatment.
When I think back to the first time Bronson offered it to me, I let out a bitter, manic laugh. It gets lost in the most recent roar of thunder.
It’ll help you forget, he said, the sympathy in his warm brown eyes genuine. It will take the edge off of the memories.
But I didn’t want to forget her. I wanted to cling onto every memory we ever made, no matter how small. I wanted to store them in a locked box in my subconscious, tucked away until I was strong enough to explore them again. I genuinely believed that I would be strong enough again.
The next flash of lightning illuminates the room for less than a second, before plunging me back into darkness.
I was naïve. I was optimistic. I was a fucking idiot for thinking I could ever have her.
Her face is everywhere. I see her on the streets of Manhattan. In the empty corners of the warehouse. Even when I close my fucking eyes, she’s there. It’s like I’m locked inside my own brain, with all of our memories taunting me, day in, day out, and the key to escape lies in the one thing I promised myself I would never do. Promised her memory I’d never do.
Frustration and rage have been boiling in my blood since the first rumble of thunder woke me. The hot, lethal lava finally bubbles over, and I find my fist connecting with the filing cabinet. It groans before crashing to the floor on its side, and all of my family’s secrets sprawl across the carpet.
“Arturo, what on earth are you doing?”
Bronson’s voice snaps me out of my trance. I didn’t even hear him come in. He takes in my heaving chest, the mess in his office and my bleeding hand with a look of alarm, before taking off his wet raincoat and pushing the dripping strands of his black hair away from his glasses.
“I want the therapy, doc,” I growl, “now.”
“What’s happened, Arturo? It’s 3.30 in the morning — it must be serious if you can’t wait until —”
“Get her out of my brain,” I realize my voice is starting to crack from the pressure of the last few months. “I need her out of my head.”
“But you said —”
“I don’t care what I said. Send me under.”
“If you just take a seat, we can discuss how you’re feeling tonight. We can work through this together,” he replies calmly, nodding towards the couch.
The click of my gun’s safety catch makes him tense. “I won’t ask you again, doc.” The silence only makes the pouring rain sound louder, every drop chipping away at my self control. Eventually, he lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You made me promise, Arturo, that no matter how bad it got, no matter how much you threatened me, I wouldn’t put you under. But now you have a gun in my face, I guess I have no choice.”
He nods towards the couch once more, this time motioning for me to lie down.
With my head on the pillow, I stare up at the ceiling while he rustles around in his cabinets. His footsteps get louder as he stands beside me.
“This isn’t reversible, you know that?”
“I know.”
“And one session won’t be enough. It can take months, i
Even though I know this, his words still prickle at my skin. I’ve failed her. I wasn’t strong enough.
“Just do it.”
“Very well,” he sighs, putting his hand on my clammy forehead.
My limbs sink into the couch as my subconscious takes over.
And I start my journey into forgetting the only woman I’ve ever loved.
2
Nova
PRESENT DAY
I’ve been suspicious that I’m not who they say I am for a while now.
“Annie?” The exasperated voice is closely followed by a hand on my shoulder. I instinctively turn around and grab their arm, before reaching down to catch the mug of tea that’s just about to hit the floor.
“Jesus, Annie,” my sister gasps, snatching her arm out of my grip. “It’s only me, calm down.”
My heart is thumping against my chest from the sudden spike of adrenaline, but I quickly regain my composure, putting the mask I’ve been wearing for the last few weeks back on. “Sorry, Alice. I was miles away.” I give her an apologetic smile, studying the concern clouding her eyes. She’s judging me, analyzing my defensive instincts and my lightning-quick reaction. I’m nervous as her eyes narrow.
“Are you feeling okay?” She asks, before peering out of the window I was staring at. There’s nothing out there but trees and fields.
For miles and miles.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” I manage another smile, one brighter than the last. “I was just enjoying the rain. It’s very calming.” When she doesn’t reply, I hold up the steaming mug. “Thanks for the tea. You really are too good to me.”
She nods, her eyes not leaving mine. “Anytime. Make sure you drink up.” And with that, she leaves the living room and heads back into the kitchen. As soon as I’m sure she’s out of sight, I pour the fruity-smelling concoction into the nearest plant pot.
I’ve been staying with my sister for almost six months now, ever since the car accident.
At least, she says she’s my sister.
She was at the hospital when I woke up. Her hand wrap around mine. “Oh thank god, Annie,” she’d cried, relief sagging her shoulders, “I was so worried you wouldn’t make it.”
The doctors told me I was run off the road somewhere in suburbs of Rochester, New York. My car was facing downwards in a ditch, and I wasn’t carrying any I.D.. I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit under the name Jane Doe, until my sister became worried that she hadn’t heard from me and called around every hospital in the area for any patients who matched my description.
But I didn’t recognize my sister.
I didn’t recognize myself, either.
It wasn’t just the angry scar running across my forehead, the broken jaw and the bruised eye-socket. I didn’t even know my own name, my date of birth, or where I was from. Post-traumatic amnesia, the doctors said. It’s rare, but it’s possible.
There was one thing I was always certain of though.
My name is not Annie.
“Is Annie short for anything?” I’d asked my sister the day I moved into her sprawling country house, hoping for anything that would spark my memory. “Annabel, Anastasia, Annalise?”
“No,” she said with a sad smile, “you’ve always been little Annie. You’re just Annie the Kindergarten teacher.”
I had no reason to doubt that she was my sister. I mean, why else would she turn up at the hospital and claim to be? And why would she let me move in with her and her husband, Tom? Waiting on me hand-and-foot? We have the same caramel-colored skin, the same tall and skinny frame. There’s a resemblance there, I guess. And pictures of us are all around the house. Us at her graduation, us with our parents when we were little. And besides, she seems to genuinely care about me.
The doctors told me that my memory will come back, eventually. It might take a few months, even up to a year, but with the help of my medication and daily therapy sessions, I should make a full recovery.
Taking three sets of tablets a day and drinking endless cups of tea became the norm. As did post-lunch naps and watching Friends on repeat. Because for the last half a year, that’s all I’ve been doing — bar one walk a day, always supervised by my sister or Tom.
My suspicions came to a head a few weeks back when I’d fallen asleep on the couch again, in the middle of that episode where Ross is constantly screaming at Rachel that ‘they were on a break’. The anger behind the hushed voices in the kitchen woke me up.
“Well, how much longer do we have to do this for?” My sister hissed, “because it was one month, then three, and now we’re approaching half a year.”
“I know, I know,” Tom soothed. The floorboards creaked and footsteps grew louder. When the living room door opened, I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to still be fast asleep. I relaxed a little when I heard it click shut again. “Doctor Bronson said it shouldn’t be too long now,” he continued. “Look on the bright side, it’s a real easy job.”
“I don’t know,” my sister sighs. “I miss my family. I want to go home.”
Home? Her words sent a chill through my body. I thought this was her home?
It was then I realized something wasn’t right.
That night was the first time I flushed my pills down the toilet.
“Annie?” My sister calls out to me again, before popping her head around the door. “Doctor Bronson will be here soon.”
“Sure,” I smile, handing her back the mug. “I’ll go get dressed.”
3
Nova
Doctor Bronson looks like the type of therapist you see in the old ‘90’s movies. His shirt and trousers come in varying shades of beige, and his tweed blazer has those elbow patches on it. He’s always friendly during sessions, making small talk and throwing in the occasional anecdote about his grandchildren. But I can tell this cheery demeanor doesn’t come naturally to him. It’s in the way his brown eyes shift to the left when he’s talking, and how he picks at the skin around his thumb. But he’s patient with me, even when I can’t remember something that I could the session before.
And besides, it’s nice to see someone else who isn’t Alice or Tom, even if it’s just for an hour a day.
I watch from my bedroom window as his car pulls onto the gravel drive. He drives exactly what you’d imagine him to — an old silver Ford with a dented bumper from when he had a small altercation at Walmart. I’ve heard my sister bitching on the phone that he charges $600 a session, so I know his pockets are deep.
I wonder what he does with all that money, if it’s not getting his car fixed.
“Phew,” Bronson says as I climb down the stairs to meet him in the entrance hall. “Awful weather we’re having.” He wipes his loafers on the mat and hangs his rain mac on the peg by the door.
“I’ve always loved this weather,” I muse, “it’s so calming.”
He raises an eyebrow as he wipes the raindrops from his forehead. “You’ve always loved it?”
“Yep.”
“So, you remember that you loved it since before the accident?”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Tom’s looming frame appear in the doorway; and now they are both staring at me expectantly. I swallow hard, trying to figure out whether or not I should have said that.
“I-I’m not sure,” I say, forcing a smile, “I just know that somewhere deep down I like the rain.”
Bronson and Tom exchange a tiny glance. I can’t read what it means, but it occurs to me that I wouldn’t have even spotted it if I was still taking that medication. Whatever drugs they give me make everything seem a little soft around the edges, a little hazy. I couldn’t enjoy the taste of coffee, the sounds of the birds in the morning. Couldn’t figure out what was funny when Joey from Friends told a joke, even with the canned laughter giving me my cue. Now, slowly but surely, my world seems to be getting sharper, day by day, inching all of the little secrets in the house out into the light.
And I’m becoming a hell of a lot more observant.
“Well,” Bronson eventually says, clapping his bony hands together. “Perhaps we’ll be making progress today! Shall we?” He points into the living room, and I push past Tom’s tense body to follow his directions.
