Page 127 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
ENZO
Istep off the boat at the Marvento Docks before the lines are tied, boots striking the warped planks of the old wharf.
The air is salt-drenched, heavy with the greasy smell of fishermen's nets and the slow rot of abandoned crates.
Seagulls scream above, but they keep their distance.
Even the animals know not to linger when Salvatore men arrive unannounced.
Luca sent me here with a single instruction. No letter. No escort. Just a name. Vasco. A man once trusted with minor port oversight, now suspected of moving something through the water that does not belong to us. I do not ask why Luca waited until now to tighten the leash. I know better than to question the quiet timing of my king.
It has taken half the day to track him.
He isn't in the shipping yards. Not in the market stalls near the harbor. I find him finally in a backroom above an old cantina that caters to men who remember what it was to be dangerous. The place reeks of sweat and old liquor. The windows are painted shut. He's counting bills when I arrive, shouldershunched in a way that tells me he knows exactly who I am before I speak.
"Vasco," I say. The door clicks shut behind me. The room seems smaller with me inside it.
He turns slowly. No sudden movements. His eyes move over me like a man already calculating his odds, already reaching for some angle to survive.
"Signor Moretti." His voice is low, too calm. "I didn't expect?—"
"No," I interrupt. "You didn't."
I step forward. He stumbles back, bumping into the desk behind him. The cash flutters to the floor, forgotten. I watch him reach, subtly, toward the drawer on his right. My boot meets the edge of the desk before his fingers do.
"I would think very carefully about what you reach for," I murmur.
His hand stills.
"What are you moving through this port, Vasco?"
"Only what's authorized. Produce. Wine. Some low-level arms. All on Luca's ledgers."
I smile, slow and humorless.
"That's the report you give the clerks. I asked what you're moving through this port."
There's a beat of silence. Then another. I reach into my coat and draw the blade I use when I want men to speak without their tongues splitting lies. Vasco's eyes dart to it. His composure begins to crack.
"We were told—" he begins.
"Told by who?"
"I don't know his name."
"Try again."
"I swear, I don't. He doesn't use one. He deals through emissaries. I never saw his face. But the money, the shipments,they're real. The crates are marked with Salvatore tags, but the contents?—"
"Are not ours."
He nods. The sweat breaks across his brow now, beading near the temple.
I step closer, blade still loose in my grip. "You're not stupid, Vasco. So, I want to know what made you take this risk."
He hesitates. Then, in a voice barely more than a breath, he says, "They said Luca was slipping."
I go still.
