Page 131 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Valentina straightens, dusting her hands as she looks at me more closely. "That something about him doesn't sit right," she says. "She didn't elaborate."
My thoughts reel, chasing images and instincts and memories down corridors I hadn't thought to explore before. What did she know? What did she see? And why Giovanni?
The name churns through me, pulling threads tight behind my ribs.
Giovanni.
With his immaculate timing, his smooth tongue, his way of turning every answer into a dead end. He moves through this house like it belongs to him, yet never leaves a trace of where he's been. My grip around Gabriel tightens slightly.
The boy leans into me, half-asleep now but trembling still.
I lower my head for a moment, burying my mouth in his curls. The scent of him—faint soap and warmth—grounds me for a second. A heartbeat. Then I rise.
"You're sure it was after sundown?" I ask, my voice rougher now, clipped around the edges.
Valentina nods without hesitation. "Yes. The sky was already red behind the cypress line. I remember thinking how the whole estate looked like it was holding its breath for the sun to set."
A sound leaves my throat—half exhale, half curse.
I have to find my son's mother.
And I think I know where to begin.
24
ARIA
Pain greets me first.
It swells behind my eyes, thick and pulsing, as if someone has taken a hammer to the back of my skull and left me to drown in the echo. I try to move, but my limbs don't obey.
My wrists are bound.
My ankles, too.
The chair beneath me is wooden, cold, and cruelly upright. For a moment, I cannot even tell where I am.
Then the scent of stone and mildew hits my nose, sharp and damp, like the forgotten corners of a cellar.
The room is dim. Not pitch-black, but lit by a single overhead bulb that swings gently from its chain, casting sickle-shaped shadows along the walls.
The air is stale.
There are no windows.
Only a thick door behind me and concrete walls that sweat with old secrets.
A muffledpattersounds in my ears, following which Giovanni enters with a bowl of soup, his shirtsleeves rolledneatly, his smile calm in the way of men who know they hold all the cards.
He walks toward me without speaking, sets the bowl on a rickety stool beside the chair, and crouches to my level like we are old friends catching up after a long absence.
"You must be starving," he says, the spoon clinking gently as he stirs. "I had the kitchen make something light. Easy on the stomach."
I spit.
The arc of it lands squarely on his cheek.
Giovanni stills.
