Page 147 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"And the men?"
Marcello hesitates.
"How many?"
"Seven or eight posted full-time. At least two snipers. Two more roam. No women. No children. He likes quiet. Spends most of his time in the gardens or reading near the southernwindows, and smokes a cigar on the southern wall every evening, precisely at sunset. He doesn't drive. Has a man for that. Goes down to the marina once a week, private boat."
I absorb it all without blinking. The shape of the place begins to form in my mind. High windows. Long sightlines. No innocent lives in the crossfire. Cesare Gotti is not hiding in a slum or a fortress. He is cloaking himself in luxury. That means he's confident, which is good for me. Confident men make far more mistakes than careful ones.
Marcello shifts again. I rise, brushing the folds of my coat straight with one practiced motion. "That will be all."
He reaches for his coffee, but his hand is shaking too much to grip the handle. I walk out of the café into the bright Corsican morning, the sky stretched wide and gold over the bay, the gulls crying in the distance like something from a painting. I head back to my hotel.
28
ENZO
Back at the hotel, I peel off my jacket and lay it across the chair, not because I plan to stay long, but because routine calms the blood.
I leave the lights off. The Corsican dusk glows faint through the sheer curtain, and I let it illuminate the map I've spread across the bed. The room smells like stone and saltwater, and I welcome the scent. It grounds me better than silence ever could.
Capo di Muro lies to the southwest. The roads that wind to it are narrow, marked only by kilometer stones and fading chalk signs that tourists photograph without understanding.
The villa itself remains untouchable for now.
Too many eyes.
Too many walls.
Too many questions if a stranger so much as blinks the wrong way near the gates.
I could force my way in, sure, but that would make it a war. And I am not here for war. I am here to end the source of it.
The marina is different.
Every Thursday, Cesare leaves the estate and takes his boat out alone.
No guards.
No entourage.
Just the captain and him.
A forty-minute window while they stock supplies, check fuel, and ready the vessel. My contact confirmed the schedule again today. Same time. Same rhythm. Cesare trusts patterns. That is where I will break him.
I study the satellite printouts on the map, each line and legend burned into memory already. The dock is older than it looks. There's a blind spot behind the fuel tower, and a service ladder near the southeast mooring line that hasn't been used in months. That's my entry. That's how I get close enough without becoming a shadow too early.
On the bedside table sits my watch, the same one I wore the night I buried my first mark in Palermo. I wind it slowly. I let the tick steady me.
My bag is already packed, contents stripped to the essentials. Clothes chosen not for comfort but for camouflage. The weapon is silenced and oiled, wrapped tight in the lining of a fisherman's satchel I bought at the corner market this morning.
The vendor didn't speak, just counted the money and passed me the bag. That's the thing about places like this. They understand discretion the way others understand currency.
I sit on the edge of the bed and light a cigarette. I don't smoke often. Not anymore. But tonight, the burn is needed. It settles in the chest, slow and familiar, like an old sin you learn to carry rather than shed.
I think of Aria. Of her hair spilled across my chest the morning I left. The way her breath warmed my skin without a word. I think of Gabriel, curled beside Valentina's older son like he was born to be protected. I tell myself that this—what I am about to do—is not just for Luca. Not just for loyalty. It is for them.
The phone remains untouched. I do not need to check it. No updates are expected. No warnings will come. The path ahead is mine alone now, and that solitude is something I wear like a second skin.
