Page 1 of Soulmarked
PROLOGUE
The Italian restaurant bustled with warmth and laughter, the kind of place where memories were made. I sat between my parents at our usual corner table, my legs swinging beneath my chair because they couldn't quite reach the floor yet. Looking back, I can still picture every detail of that night.
The restaurant, Bella Notte, had been our special place since before I could remember. Red and white checkered tablecloths, bottles wrapped in wicker baskets that created shadows like spider webs on the walls, and the constant melody of clinking glasses and happy chatter. The owner, Marco, always saved us this specific table, tucked away in a cozy corner where the overhead chandelier cast everything in a warm, golden glow.
My mother reached across the table to wipe a smudge of sauce from my chin. “Cade, honey, you're wearing more of your spaghetti than you're eating.” Her dark hair caught the light when she moved, and I remembered thinking she looked like a princess from my storybooks. She smelled like vanilla and something flowery, a scent that would haunt me in dreams for years to come, the ghost of comfort I could never recapture.
“Let the boy enjoy his birthday dinner,” Dad said, his deep laugh rumbling through his chest. He was still wearing his work suit, but he'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. A sign that he was relaxed, truly present. Not the stern businessman who spent hours in his home office on conference calls. “Eight's a big year, kiddo. Feels like just yesterday you were running around in diapers.”
I rolled my eyes, fighting back a grin. “Dad, that's embarrassing.” But I didn't really mind. Their teasing always felt like love, wrapped in jokes and silly stories. If I had known these words would be among our last, would I have said something different? Something deeper, something worth remembering?
Marco appeared at our table, his round face beaming as he carried my birthday dessert. The tiramisu had a single candle stuck in its center, the flame dancing as he set it down. “For the birthday boy,” he announced in his thick Italian accent. “Extra cocoa, just how you like it.”
The other diners turned to look, some smiling at the scene. A happy family celebrating their son's birthday. If any of them were still alive today, I wonder if they remembered us. The last happy moment before everything changed.
“Make a wish, sweetheart,” Mom said, adjusting the candle so it stood perfectly straight. It was such a mom thing to do, making sure everything was just right. Even now, I can see her delicate fingers moving the candle, the light catching on her wedding ring, the gentle smile that I would never see again.
I stared at the flame, wondering what to wish for. What do you wish for when your life already feels perfect? I had parents who loved me, a nice house, good friends at school. I was that kid, the one others might have envied, though I didn't know it then. Instead of making a real wish, I just thought about how happy I was, right there in that moment. How completely I took it all for granted.
I blew out the candle. My parents clapped, and Mom pulled out her camera to take a picture. “Smile, baby.” The flash went off, capturing our last family photo. Sometimes I think about that picture, wonder where it ended up. Lost in the wreckage, probably, like everything else from that night. Lost like their voices, their warmth, their presence in my life.
The tiramisu was perfect, with just the right amount of coffee flavor that made me feel grown-up. Dad let me have a tiny sip of his espresso, and Mom pretended not to notice. It was our little secret, one of many small moments that made me feel special, loved. One of the countless little memories that would soon become all I had left of them.
When we finally got up to leave, Mom helped me into my winter coat, fussing with the zipper like she always did. “It's getting cold out there,” she said, wrapping my scarf around my neck. “Winter's coming early this year.”
If I'd known it was the last time she'd help me with my coat, would I have paid more attention? Memorized the feeling of her hands smoothing down the fabric, the way she always double-checked that I was warm enough? Would I have held onto her a little longer, trying to store up enough love to last a lifetime?
The night air hit us as we stepped outside, crisp and sharp with the promise of snow. The street was quiet, most of the dinner crowd gone home. A few taxis drove past, their yellow bodies bright against the darkness. I held Mom's hand as we walked to the car, her fingers warm and secure around mine. The last time I would ever feel their comfort.
Dad had parked the Mercedes under a streetlamp, the black paint gleaming like liquid shadow. He was always proud of that car, kept it spotless. I remember thinking it looked like something out of a spy movie, sleek and powerful.
That's when I noticed something was off. Dad paused as he reached for the door, keys in hand. His body went still, the wayit did when he was listening for something in the house late at night. His eyes scanned the empty street, focusing on the shadows between the buildings.
“Richard?” Mom's voice was casual, but her grip on my hand tightened just enough for me to notice. “Something wrong?”
Dad turned back to us, his face relaxing into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just thought I saw something. Let's get home.” He unlocked the car, the lights flashing briefly.
I climbed into the backseat, buckling myself in like the big kid I was trying to be. Mom turned around to check anyway, making sure the belt was secure. “All set back there, birthday boy?”
“Mom, I know how to do my seatbelt,” I protested, but secretly, I liked that she cared enough to check. If I had known this small kindness would be one of her last acts of love, would I have cherished it more? Would I have told her how safe she made me feel?
The car's engine purred to life, the familiar leather seats cradling me as we pulled away from the curb. Dad turned on the radio, keeping it low, classical music, something with violins that Mom loved. The heater hummed softly, and I leaned against the window, watching the city scroll past.
Snow began to fall, fat flakes swirling in the headlights like tiny dancers. The streets were emptying out, most people already home for the night. Store windows glowed softly, their displays promising warmth and comfort. Everything felt peaceful, wrapped in winter's quiet embrace.
I was getting sleepy, the combination of good food and the car's gentle motion making my eyelids heavy. The streetlights created a rhythm as we passed under them: light, dark, light, dark. Like a lullaby made of golden circles on the ceiling of the car.
Then the rhythm broke.
One streetlight flickered and went out. Then another. And another.
The darkness spread like spilled ink, following our car down the street. Dad sat up straighter, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Mom's hand moved to her purse.
“Elizabeth, call...” Dad's words cut off as something slammed into the side of our car.
The impact was like nothing I'd ever felt before. One moment we were driving, the next we were flying. The world spun, metal screaming as the Mercedes flipped. I heard myself cry out, the sound strange and distant over the chaos.
Glass exploded inward, a shower of diamonds in the darkness. Snow rushed through the broken windows, cold and sharp on my face. The seatbelt dug into my chest as we rolled, once, twice, three times before coming to rest on the roof.
