Page 123 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Not an old keyhole, but a newer make, the kind that would laugh at most amateurs.
But Giovanni, for all his charm, had not counted on someone like me. I learned to pick locks in the space between survival and desperation, years ago in a city that swallowed names like mine.
From the pocket of my cardigan, I slide out the hairpin. Twist it once. Flatten the curve. Insert. Twist again.
The door opens with a sigh.
Giovanni's room is not what I expected.
Not decadent.
Not showy.
The bed is large, but the sheets are crisp and undisturbed. The walls are bare save for a single framed map, an old sea chart rendered in curling black ink.
A desk near the far window glows faintly from the light of the moon, and that is where I go first.
I start at the desk.
Not because I expect the answers to be sitting there waiting for me, but because that is where men like Giovanni always begin.
The top drawer contains nothing more than crisp stationary, two pens, and a slim file of blank documents embossed with the Salvatore crest.
But the drawer beneath it is where the mask begins to slip.
At first, there's nothing unusual.
Papers.
A few folders.
A list of shipments for olive oil, textiles, wines, all marked with familiar coastal ports.
But there's a problem.
One of the shipping lanes runs through Varo, a port that was closed two years ago after a chemical fire.
And another uses a route I know was redirected by the local government last winter.
These are not live records.
They are fabrications.
Designed to look real, down to the stamps.
I skim through the folder, and that's when I find it.
Tucked between the sheets is a folded newspaper clipping.
The ink has yellowed slightly, the corners curling with age, but I recognize the masthead.
It's not local.
It's foreign.
From across the sea.
A headline runs across the top in French."Local Politician Survives Assassination Attempt. Gotti Name Resurfaces in Aftermath."
