Page 15 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Every inch of its architecture speaks to a legacy carved from ambition and ruthlessness, a testament to men who understood that wealth alone is not enough.
Power must be displayed, woven into the very walls so that those who step inside do not simply see it, but feel it.
The marble floors gleam under the golden glow of chandeliers, each stone quarried from Carrara and polished to perfection, their smooth surfaces whispering of extravagance and permanence.
The ceilings stretch high above, covered in hand-painted frescoes that depict not just scenes of gods and kings, but of conquest, of dominion, of stories that mirror our own.
Every brushstroke serves as a reminder that we are not just businessmen or criminals.
We are the architects of a dynasty that was never meant to fall.
Beyond the grand entrance, the courtyard unfurls like something lifted from the pages of history, lined with statues of our ancestors, their cold marble faces fixed in expressions of quiet authority.
These are the men who shaped our empire, who stood at the helm of Nuova Speranza long before the Salvatores ever dreamed of power.
They are not forgotten.
Their presence lingers, casting shadows over every deal made, every whispered conversation held within these walls.
The gardens, tended with meticulous care, are filled with imported olive trees and Sicilian roses, their perfume thick in the evening air.
Pathways wind through the estate, past fountains whose waters trickle in soft contrast to the weight of the conversations that unfold in the shaded alcoves.
Here, alliances are made and broken.
Here, enemies become business partners, and business partners become enemies.
At the farthest edge of the property, past the gardens and the courtyard, lies the vineyard, a piece of Italy transplanted into the heart of our city.
To outsiders, it is a symbol of culture and refinement, a nod to our heritage and our love of tradition.
To those who know better, it is something else entirely.
I take my place at the long mahogany table in the dining hall, my hands folded in my lap.
The evening tea is a mere formality.
This is not a family gathering but a war council in disguise.
Vittorio Lombardi sits at the head, the patriarch of a dynasty that is slipping through his fingers.
His silver hair is combed back, his suit impeccable, his rings flashing in the candlelight.
He is a man who wears charm like a weapon, whose smiles have always carried an undercurrent of menace.
Tonight, there is something in his demeanor that sets my nerves on edge.
"I've made a decision," he announces, swirling his wine. The candlelight catches on his wedding band, the same one passed down from my grandpapa.
"Things have been…unbalanced," he continues smoothly. "The Salvatores believe they own this city. That their grip on Nuova Speranza is unshakable. But power is never unshakable. It only waits for the right hands to tip the scales."
A slow, approving murmur moves through the table.
Vittorio leans back in his chair and looks at me. "Which brings me to you,figlia mia."
A cold weight settles in my chest.
"You will do your part," he says simply, as if this has already been decided. "We will secure new alliances, new partnerships, and you will be at the center of it."
