The Don’s Soulmate

6. Ettore

Chapter 6

Ettore

There’s a beautiful ballroom, and all around us, the ton swears by the exceptional entertainment provided by the host. The Marquess of Marlowe has outdone himself once again.

But it is not the butterflies floating in the room, nor the sculptures which hold my delight. My eyes are for her and her alone, the princess from a foreign land, her striking mediterranean beauty causing commotion wherever she goes.

I’m prepared to walk over to her, to let her know no one holds a candle to her, when an arrow hits her neck. I gasp, running towards her as she falls, the lifeblood seeping out of her.

A second later, I’m running through a dark hallway, three men at my heels. I turn a corner, readying myself and take down the first. Not waiting for the other two, I duck into an alcove, begging the gods that they will keep her safe this time, that my red-haired maiden has found a hiding place from those who’ve taken the castle, but I never find out for a sword finds me first.

And then, we’re at an Izakaya. Her pale pink kimono complementing her black, almond-shaped eyes. I sip my tea and she bites an oyster. I watch helplessly as the poison ravages her body, causing her to wither and die within the same night..

By now, tears are streaming down my face. First one woman, then another, then another. Sometimes she dies, other times it’s me. A cycle of death we can never escape.

The ballroom doors swing open once more, releasing a wave of heat and laughter that floods the foyer. A different time and place, but the same outcome. Suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness. Panic surges as confusion ripples through the crowd. It takes only moments before the screams begin. The princess gasps. I stare at my chest, warmth blooming from where the dagger was plunged into my heart.

I jolt awake, my heart pounding against my ribs. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead as vivid images from the dream fade, replaced by the familiar surroundings of my bedroom. But the deaths still haunt me.

I throw off the sheets, tired from battling windmills. Something needs to change. I shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to banish the residual nightmare and inject some energy into my body. I comb my hair and shrug on my usual black suit, forgoing my typical meticulous grooming routine. "Dammit," I mutter as I fumble with my tie, finally securing it around my neck and turning to leave the room.

My mind races as I stride downstairs, driven by the need to get a grip on these visions that plague my sleep. I'm a man accustomed to control, but this situation has left me feeling powerless, and it's infuriating. There’s only one person I can call on for help.

Once outside, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The air is cool against my skin, yet I can't shake off the chilling memories of those women's eyes just before they died. How can I stop them from haunting me? How can I prevent seeing death once again, in this life?

I speed through the empty streets of Rome, taking every turn with a dangerous edge, pushing the limits of the machine beneath me.

It doesn’t help.

As the engine of my Ferrari roars, glimpses of my dream resurface—a woman's anguished cry, the glint of a knife in candlelight. "Dammit, why can't I shake these images?" I growl to myself.

I’m done being tossed about like a ship in a storm. It’s time to confront this thing head-on, just like I’ve done every other challenge.

The sun is just about to rise as I reach my destination: a small, quaint cottage nestled within the heart of Rome. I park my car and step out. A rooster is crowing somewhere. This time, the cozy atmosphere of Elma's home is doing little for my troubled state of mind. The warm lighting spilling out from her windows seems to beckon me inside, telling me it’s not too early.

I walk up the cobblestone path to the carved wooden door and knock. The door to the small cottage creaks open, revealing Elma standing in the doorway. She's a vision of warmth and comfort, her silver hair pulled back into a loose bun.

"Come in, Ettore dear," she says softly, opening the door wider and gesturing for me to enter.

I follow her into the cozy living area, adorned with embroidered pillows and fresh flowers.

"Have a seat, I just put on some tea."

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” I tell her.

She gently takes my hand, patting it as she guides me to sit. “Something told me I would be needed in the early hours,” she says, before turning away.

I sink into an overstuffed armchair as Elma busies herself preparing two cups. The familiar ritual soothes my frayed nerves. She hands me a steaming cup and sits across from me.

"Now tell me, what's troubling you?" she asks, her wise gaze searching mine. I grip the cup tightly. Elma is perhaps the only person I fully trust. If anyone can guide me to the truth, it is her.

I look down into the swirling liquid, gathering my thoughts before answering. "I've discovered something...unusual about myself recently. I seem to have an innate talent for diplomacy, and I've even understood Russian without ever studying it."

Elma nods thoughtfully, not at all surprised by my revelation. "These are important abilities, Ettore. But just one amongst the many you hold.”

“That is true,” I tell her, unable to form the words for the true reason I find myself here. She sits there, quietly, and I sit the same. She’s waiting for me to speak, but when I don’t, she helps me remember the bond we share. This has always been Elma’s way to get me to open up.

"Ettore, do you remember some of our first sessions when you were just a child? Your mother brought you to me, desperate for help."

A heavy sigh escapes my lips at the memories of those difficult times. I was so young, confused by the strange skills and inexplicable knowledge that seemed to manifest from nowhere. I used to scream and cry, pleading with my mother to understand that my dreams were real, and not simply the fruit of an over-active imagination.

For a while, she was skeptical. But when my teachers stood amazed at my ability to solve college-level physics theories, when I assisted a tourist in fluent Mandarin, or when I told my father that his gun might backfire, she got scared. No longer able to deny that this was not normal for a boy of eight, my mother started seeking answers for the peculiar abilities her oldest son displayed.

Of course, my father was hugely disappointed in a son who refused to learn how to fight. Unable to reveal that I was not only skilled in various combat arts but also knew how to kill, I withdrew.

When we had company over, I would be told to stay in my room. An attempt to curb the rumors of an idiot son in the Mancini family.

"I remember," I admit, my voice laced with a mixture of sadness and frustration. "My mother was terrified, but she believed in me. She took me from therapist to therapist, until someone told her about you and your powers with hypnotherapy. She was so desperate to help me, that she had no option but to believe you could help us make sense of it all. You and my mother were the only ones who didn't think I was crazy or possessed."

I shake my head, emotions swirling inside me. "The kids at school thought I was a freak. Some would pretend to be my friends, thinking that I could predict their future, or tell them the winning lotto numbers for the next week. They didn't understand the terror I felt, knowing things I shouldn’t have known.”

Elma gives me a sympathetic look. "You had a gift even then. I recognized your visions for what they were - glimpses into past lives."

She refills our tea cups, the fragrant steam rising between us. "Your mother wanted what was best for you. She knew you needed guidance to understand and harness your talent."

I let out a heavy sigh. "I was angry back then. Angry at being different, at the burden of these memories. But you helped me find peace with my gift." I meet Elma's eyes, my voice thick with gratitude. "You taught me not to fear the past, but to learn from it. We never properly thanked you for that."

“And you taught me to be shrewd, choosing carefully whom I tell about the things I see.” I smile wryly.

"Your unique abilities left a profound impact on both your mother and yourself," Elma says gently, her words like soothing balm on old wounds. "But it also set you on the path to discovering who you really are, Ettore. Unless we speak openly, sitting here won’t serve you one bit."

I nod, acknowledging the truth in her words.

"Elma," I begin hesitantly, gripping my teacup tighter. Under your guidance, I learned how to navigate my visions. To seek solitude when I felt an onset and how to transition from what I saw in my mind’s eye back to the reality around me. Over the years, I have managed my curiosity well by implementing these techniques. For the most part.”

“In recent years however, things have changed, the visions have become darker, clouding my mind long after I’ve seen them.”

“Tell me which way they have changed,” Elma speaks with a calm voice, not out of curiosity but to guide me into understanding. "It always starts the same - I'm seeing someone that I know I am passionately devoted to. The love between us is like an invisible chord. But then I'm forced to watch as my lover is murdered. And the pain from that memory is – it sometimes is a physical pain that remains within me."

My hands tremble at the chilling memories. "Sometimes they are shot. Other times, they stabbed or strangled. But the ending is always savage and bloody. I see my past lovers dying in terrible ways. It's as if I'm reliving their final moments over and over again." There is pain and anguish in my voice, laying bare my vulnerability.

“Past lovers?” Elma asks.

“Different ones each time.”

“Is it just them who die?”

“Sometimes it is them,” I tell her, a coldness seeping through me. “At other times it feels as though I die too. It’s like I’ve never lived out a life with someone I love.”

Elma listens attentively, and her expression is one of empathy and understanding. As if sensing my need for reassurance, she reaches over and lays a comforting hand on my arm.

Elma gives my arm an encouraging squeeze. "You have been gifted with a rare perspective into your past lives. Now your soul is trying to speak to you, to push you towards your true destiny."

“But what of it? Destiny?”

“I can’t say,” she clucks her tongue. “Death is a part of life, and considering how many you’ve lived, it must be something you’re terribly afraid of. For now, I tell you to live in these nightmares, to brave them, for they might be a way to let you in on a secret you don’t yet fully comprehend.”

“So…” I try to ask. “You’re telling me to stop trying to control them? To stop wanting to force a positive outcome?”

“Exactly,” she says. “Only if you know what you’re fighting against, will you understand what’s coming your way this time around.”

As she speaks, the room seems to grow darker, the shadows lengthening around us. My heart pounds in my chest, anticipation mingling with fear. What secrets are locked away in my tortured memories? What might be coming my way?

"Stay in touch, Ettore," Elma continues, her eyes never leaving mine. "Keep exploring the connections you share with those you've loved. Together, we'll find the answers you seek."

"I will, Elma.” I tell her, and bid goodbye. What I don’t say is how thankful I am that in this life, I don’t have a woman to love. At least in this lifetime, there is no fair maiden that will be murdered right in front of my wretched eyes.