Page 143 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"He didn't wake once," Valentina says from behind me, her voice low. "Not even when mine kicked in his sleep."
I glance at her. "He has not slept like this in weeks."
"He will, now."
Her son stirs slightly, but does not wake. I look at him more closely—he must be fifteen or so, tall for his age, features just beginning to sharpen into the bones of the man he will become. There is a calm about him. The kind boys lose too soon in places like this.
"He's good to him?" I ask.
Valentina nods. "Gentle. Watches over him like an older brother should. He knows what fear tastes like. He also knows how to guard against it."
I rise slowly, tucking the blankets tighter around Gabriel's frame. My hand lingers there a second longer than it should.
Valentina walks to the window, the glow from the moon gilding the edge of her profile in silver. "You should think about enrolling him soon. The longer you wait, the harder it will be. Let him build something normal. A rhythm. A place where he is just a boy, not the son of ghosts and whispers."
"I know," I say.
"For now, let him sleep here tonight— if that's all right?"
It is more than all right. I thank her with a hand on her shoulder, then turn and leave without another word.
The walk back to the south house is a blur of flickering sconces and the hum of my thoughts. I pass a guard. He doesn'tmeet my eyes. I don't ask if he's seen Enzo. I don't ask anything. The night feels too delicate to touch.
The rooms are colder than I left them. The fire has gone out, the ash pale and sleeping in the grate. I shrug off my coat and toss it onto the armchair. Something inside me is still pacing. Still wound too tight to breathe.
I turn the lights on, then get a fire going in the hearth. The room begins to glow with a soft, warm light. I press my fingers to my temple and close my eyes. The question is still there, unspoken, rising in my throat like salt from a tide I haven't dared wade into. What now?
The knock comes just as I reach for the curtain. I open the door without thinking, and there he is.
His shirt is wrinkled. His hands are braced against the frame. His eyes find mine with a force that silences everything.
He does not speak. Neither do I.
He steps inside. I don't step back. His arms go around me like a storm rolling in, and then his mouth is on mine.
It is the kind of kiss that ruins every kiss before it. Heat breaks open across my chest, down my spine, every nerve alight with something raw and vast and merciless.
His hands slide up my back, anchoring me as if I might vanish again if he lets go. I press into him, lips parting, catching the taste of fury and longing and everything we never said.
He lifts me.
My back hits the wall with a thud that rattles the sconces. I gasp into his mouth. His lips move to my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. My legs wrap around him without thought.
"I thought you were gone," he says into my skin, breath wild, voice breaking like the tide. "I thought I'd lost you again."
His hands move over my body with a need I remember too well, but they aren't rough.
They're searching. Savoring.
He drags his fingers along the curve of my back, down to the dip of my hips, as if trying to memorize the shape of me now, not just from memory but from truth. His jaw grazes my neck, and I gasp at the feel of his breath there, hot and raw.
"You were gone," he repeats between kisses, his voice tight with emotion. "I tore this house apart, Aria."
"I know," I whisper. "I heard you."
My dress slips from my shoulders, and he catches it with one hand, guiding it down my body like it's made of silk instead of nerves. When I stand bare before him, the heat in his eyes makes my knees weaken. He drops to his knees, presses his lips to my stomach, and wraps his arms around my thighs.
"You are real," he says, more to himself than to me. "You're really here."
