Rising From Ashes: The Architect's Comeback

I woke up in a sterile hospital room with no memory of the lethal-looking man pacing outside the glass. My friend told me he was Dante Moretti, the Underboss of Chicago, and the fiancé I had supposedly worshipped for seven years.

But the truth shattered me faster than the crash did.

When our convoy was ambushed and the car caught fire, Dante didn't pull me out. He chose to save Valeria—the widow of a soldier he felt guilty about—leaving me to burn in the backseat. He called it a "tactical decision." I called it a death sentence.

I thought losing my memory was a curse, but it was a gift. It stripped away the delusion of love.

I saw a man who treated me like a useful piece of furniture. I saw a rival in Valeria who smirked while taking my job and my place. When she set a room on fire to frame me, Dante saved her again, leaving me to choke on the smoke. He even branded me a thief in front of the entire Commission to protect her lies.

He thought I would always be there, the obedient statue waiting for his scraps.

He was wrong.

I fled to New York and walked straight into the arms of his sworn enemy, Enzo Falcone. A man who didn't just promise to protect me, but walked through fire to do it.

Months later, when Dante finally realized the truth and crawled back to me in the rain, begging for a second chance, I looked him dead in the eye.

"Forgetting you was the only peace I ever knew."

I took Enzo’s hand, letting Dante see exactly what he had lost.

"Remembering you just confirmed that you are a mistake I will never make again."

Chapter 1

Sienna Vitiello POV

The doctor asked me to name the President, the current year, and my fiancé.

But when he pointed to the lethal-looking man pacing outside the glass like a caged tiger, I felt nothing but a hollow silence where a name should be.

My head throbbed with a violent rhythm, syncing perfectly with the shrill beeping of the monitor beside my bed.

I looked at the man again.

He was terrifyingly beautiful, radiating the kind of dark, suppressed power that usually came with a loaded gun and a death wish.

He wore a charcoal suit that likely cost more than a surgeon’s annual salary, but it was ruined—disheveled, stained with dust and dried blood.

I should know him.

My heart should be racing with love, or fear, or adrenaline. Anything other than this cold, clinical detachment.

"I don't know him," I whispered, my throat feeling raw, as if I had swallowed broken glass.

The doctor scribbled something on his clipboard, his expression grim.

"Retrograde amnesia, localized to specific emotional connections," he muttered, mostly to himself.

The door burst open before he could explain further.

A young woman with a riot of wild curls and tear-stained cheeks rushed in.

"Sienna! Oh my