Page 3 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
My mother takes her usual post at his left.
She would look beautiful were it not for the slight sneer that seems to be permanently etched on her mouth.
I'm seated farther down, opposite Marco Salvatore.
Cesare Bellanti is seated between me and one of the Russian arms intermediaries.
His family's role in the truce is pivotal, given their sway over the southern routes, their storage terminals, their influence in cross-border politics.
They are the neutral ground, the oil that keeps the machine from grinding to a halt.
And lately, it's no secret they've been leaning closer to Luca.
The seating arrangement says it clearly enough: Cesare is nowin betweenboth families.
Physically. Politically. Financially.
I watch Papa as he lifts his glass in the first toast of the evening.
"To old names, kept alive in newer times."
Polite applause.
A few murmuredsalutes.
But Luca doesn't touch his wine.
He watches Papa for a heartbeat too long, then finally lifts the glass, smiling with that effortless cool that makes Papa's grip on his stemware turn white-knuckled.
When the antipasti are served—roasted artichokes, shaved bottarga, thin slices of veal tonnato—Papa leans in slightly.
"I must say, it's a rare pleasure to see the Salvatores so interested in diplomacy. Usually, your men prefer...fire."
Luca's expression never shifts. "And yet here we are, sharing a meal instead of territory. Isn't progress beautiful?"
Papa manages a smile, but it looks like he's in pain.
"Progress can be dangerous when it forgets its roots."
Beside him, my mother lifts her wine without comment, though her eyes slide to Luca.
Cesare, ever the politician, breaks the tension smoothly. "My father always said the best deals are made over food, not funerals. Shall we let the lamb do the talking tonight?"
Papa laughs, but this time, it sounds like gravel. "Let's hope the Salvatores listen better than they used to."
While Papa is playing his part well, I can see the lines of worry and resentment on his face.
His smile is pulled too tight, and he flinches when Luca pats him on the arm.
Dinner proceeds for what feels like an eternity, with each dish richer and more ridiculous than the last.
When the last course ends and the plates are cleared away, everyone moves to the study for wine and cheese.
I have had enough at this point, so I slip through the doors leading out to the terrace, my lungs aching for something the interior of the estate cannot offer.
The wind outside is cooler, touched with the faint salt of the sea, laced with the sweet burn of distant citrus and the sharper sting of memory.
Out here, the marble glows under the moonlight, and the vineyard spreads like a dark sea toward the horizon, breathing in silence.
