Page 114 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He addresses me one last time.
"She will stay in the south house. No staff. No favors. If she is to carry your name, she will do so with blood in her teeth and dirt under her nails, not perfume on her wrists. And if she fails, it will be as if she never came back."
"I understand," I say.
Marco's silence sharpens. Sofia shifts slightly in her seat but does not speak.
From the corner, Giovanni steps into view with his usual unbothered elegance, but even his smile is thinner than usual.
Luca rises. That is the end of it. When he walks out, Marco follows. Sofia leaves without a glance.
Valentina lingers.
She looks at Aria. "You saved me once before, by giving me a choice and helping me realize which world I belonged to," she says. "Now save yourself."
Then she, too, is gone. The room quiets, the kind of quiet that follows a storm but doesn't promise calm.
I move to Aria, my hand brushing her shoulder. She looks up at me with eyes I have dreamed of every night since the last time they looked at me without fear.
Gabriel's hand is still tight in hers.
"What now?" she asks.
"Now," I murmur, "we show them what you're made of."
The wind coils through the olive trees outside, and somewhere in the garden, the fountain continues to spill water over stone, unbothered by the bloody history that sleeps just beneath its roots.
We walk to Aria's designated quarters in silence.
Every step we take along the gravel path is heard by the wind, by the ghosts that cling to these walls, by the trees that have watched men rise and fall under the Salvatore name.
I feel them all watching as Aria walks beside me with Gabriel's hand in hers, chin lifted, shoulders squared, a queen without a throne, a survivor with nothing to prove except that she still knows how to breathe fire when the time calls for it.
The south house sits at the edge of the estate grounds, a clean-cut silhouette of stone and shadow, framed by olive trees and the last of the evening sun.
It is older than the rest of the buildings, less polished, its stone faded from years of wind and heat, but it holds the kind of strength that was built to last.
The lights are already on when we reach the door, and I know someone in Luca's inner circle made the call ahead of us.
He would not allow her to enter a place unprepared, no matter how stripped of favor she may be.
I unlock the front door with the key Guiseppe pressed into my palm on our way out.
The house is clean.
Spacious.
The kind of place made for solitude and quiet rebuilding.
White walls, pale wood floors, windows that open onto the garden at the back where lemon trees grow in a crooked line and the stone path winds toward a small shed.
The furniture is simple. A low couch in muted grey. A kitchen lined with bare shelving, stocked but not indulgent. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A hallway long enough to pace when the night feels too full.
Aria walks through slowly, her fingers trailing along the back of a chair, over the edge of the counter.
She does not speak, but I see her eyes cataloging everything.
The absence of cameras.
