Page 116 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"There is no version of this world where I do not love you."
She breathes in once, slow and long, and I see the tension in her spine ease just a little. Not all the way. Just enough to let the walls shift.
I glance toward the front door. "I need to return before questions grow teeth."
She nods. Walks with me to the threshold. Outside, the night has cooled. The air smells like wet stone and lemon leaves. I step onto the gravel and pause.
"You do not have to win them over," I say without turning back. "You only have to survive long enough to outlive their doubt."
Her voice comes from behind me, low and clear. "I've done harder things."
I believe her.
As I walk back to the main house, the wind picks up again, rustling through the trees, brushing against the stone like breath.
Somewhere behind me, the lights in the south house flicker off one by one.
And I know that within those walls, Aria is standing at the window, watching the same shadows that once chased her into exile.
21
ARIA
The next morning rises slowly over Nuova Speranza, with streaks of pale light brushing through linen curtains like it knows better than to be too bold in a house like this.
I stir beneath the cotton sheet, momentarily caught between the rhythm of Gabriel's breathing and the memories that never stop chasing me.
For a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I remember the silence.
The south house.
The choice that wasn't really a choice.
Gabriel sleeps on, curled in the smaller bed beside mine, his stuffed lion tucked against his chest, its mane matted from years of being held too tightly.
I leave him be, slipping quietly into the bathroom and washing the night from my skin with the care of someone who no longer trusts the luxury of warm water.
The mirror above the sink reflects a woman I am still learning to forgive.
When I dress and make my way through the house, it is quiet. The rooms are as they were last night: clean, sparse, functional.
No carvings in the moldings, no velvet curtains, no scent of roses in the air.
Just wood and stone and silence.
Luca has made his message clear. This is not a place of comfort. It is a crucible. But Gabriel and I have lived in worse. We have survived on less.
I drift past the kitchen, pausing to pour a glass of water.
The glass clinks too loudly in the stillness, a brittle reminder that I do not belong here, not yet.
I glance out the window.
The olive trees in the garden stretch into the horizon, their limbs silvered by dew and memory.
Somewhere beyond them lies the road to the city. And further still, the road to the dead.
