Page 14 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
The fabric is delicate, handcrafted in Milan, but I feel like I'm being trussed up for slaughter.
I've always been a pawn in Papa's empire, raised not as a daughter, but as an asset.
The perfect Lombardi woman—poised, educated, untouched by the filth of our business yet steeped in it just enough to understand my place.
They've sheltered me my entire life, kept me hidden behind security details and high walls, all so I could be used when the time was right.
And tonight, it seems, the time has come.
"Aria."
I glance up as my mother steps into the room, tall and elegant in her emerald silk gown.
She is the perfect picture of refinement, the kind of woman men fear because they cannot read her.
She inspects me the way she always does, as if I am an offering for the altar of power.
"You look beautiful,cara mia," my mother murmurs, her voice gentle in a way that almost feels real.
The words wrap around me in how warm they sound, because warmth from her is what I have craved for so long that my throat tightens against the threat of tears.
I want to hold onto them, to believe that for once, she is speaking to me and not just to the image she needs me to project.
I want to think that maybe, just maybe, she is proud of me, not because I am useful, not because I serve a purpose, but simply because I am hers.
That foolish hope lasts all of three seconds.
Then, with all the carelessness of a man stepping on an ant with his boot, she snuffs it out. "Your training will serve the family well."
My breath leaves me in a quiet exhale.
Of course. It was never about me.
It never is.
Mother does not give compliments freely.
She does not waste affection where it does not serve a purpose.
When she praises me, it is not love, it is calculation.
I swallow the bitter taste rising in my throat, offering a tight smile that barely stretches my lips.
"I suppose that depends on what I'm being prepared for."
She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me with the kind of assessment one gives a painting they did not create but must display regardless.
There is a beauty to her, something commanding and elegant, but she has worn this expression for so long—half amusement, half cold detachment—that I don't think she remembers how to look any other way.
"You'll find out soon enough."
The words should not unsettle me as much as they do.
They are spoken lightly, as if they hold no weight, but the knowing gleam in her eyes says otherwise.
I force my spine straighter, willing the unease pressing at my ribs to quiet as I stand and follow my mother out of my room.
The Lombardi estate stands as a monument to a time when our family's power was absolute, when no one dared to question our dominion over Nuova Speranza.
