Page 4 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I brace my hands on the carved stone railing, tilting my face to the sky.
The stars look foreign tonight.
Distant, even removed, although I have always felt close to them.
Or maybe it's just me, unmoored in a world built for men with power and daughters dressed in silk to sweeten their political value.
A voice cuts through the quiet behind me.
"You always were good at vanishing when things got dull."
I don't turn right away.
I recognize that voice's owner to be Cesare Bellanti.
At this point, I remember he's one of Papa's handpicked "potential options," a phrase that, in our world, means rich enough to matter and bland enough to control.
Unfortunately, he looks like he was basted in cologne and slid straight off a dinner roll, and I've never been one for greasy textures, conversational or otherwise.
When I finally look over my shoulder, he's grinning, glass in hand, suit pressed within an inch of its life. "I was enjoying the quiet." My voice is calm, if only just.
He steps closer, his smile turning smug as he lets his gaze travel lower than it should.
"That's a shame. You shouldn't be alone out here, not looking like that. Men get ideas."
He says it like a compliment, like I should thank him for the implied threat.
I straighten, turning fully toward him now, spine tall and fingers curled loosely at my sides. "Then those men should learn not to mistake appearance for invitation."
His smile tightens, his charm thinning.
"You think too highly of your position, Aria. You're not untouchable. Not anymore."
I don't flinch. But I don't reply, either.
He steps forward again, just a fraction too close, and the scent of his cologne hits me like something slick and expensive, trying too hard to impress.
His hand lifts, slow and casual, like he's reaching for a stray curl, and I already feel my body coiling, calculating how hard I'd need to slap him to make it hurt without drawing blood.
A voice, smooth and steel-edged, drifts into the space between us before Cesare's fingers can reach their mark.
"I wouldn't."
We both turn.
Enzo Moretti stands at the edge of the terrace, his posture relaxed, his hands loosely in his pockets, but his eyes are cold enough to freeze the blood in any man's veins.
He walks forward slowly, each step unhurried, as though he's already assessed the danger and found it pitifully beneath him.
Cesare stiffens. "I don't believe we were interrupted."
"No," Enzo says, his tone thoughtful, almost polite. "That would require something worth interrupting."
He stops just beside me, not touching, not even glancing my way, but his presence wraps around me like silk pulled tight across a blade.
"Walk away, Cesare," he says, almost gently, like the suggestion is for Cesare's benefit, not mine. "And if you ever touch her without her permission, I'll break the hand you used. Slowly."
The smile drops from Cesare's face. "You forget who she's promised to," he mutters.
