Page 78 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I don't need to look to know it is Giovanni.
His scent always gives him away—bergamot and oud and just enough arrogance to make you believe he bathes in both.
He is with Alessandra, as always, her heels a counterpoint to his stride, both of them tailored and burnished like they just stepped out of a high-society execution.
When they approach, Giovanni offers a smile that has never once reached his eyes.
"I don't often find you lingering in empty corridors, Enzo," he says, tilting his head, as if the remark is casual and not half a probe.
Alessandra says nothing, only watches with that soft contempt she hides behind grace.
She has never liked me, and I share the sentiment.
I remind her of the things her marriage was designed to erase.
I meet Giovanni's gaze and shrug once, slowly, the way men do when they want to offer no explanation at all.
"Sometimes quiet is the only place you can hear what matters."
Giovanni's smile stretches, but it stays measured.
"Luca has summoned the crew. Dining hall. I believe he has news that warrants a toast."
I nod once and fall into step beside them, ignoring the looks that pass between brother and sister.
Giovanni likes to think he is subtle, but I have seen the way his eyes move when he is interested, the way his words coil around truths without ever settling.
He is the kind of man who gets close enough to kiss and kill in the same breath, and I respect him for that.
He understands the necessity of the game.
He is also the only one who sees me clearly.
Where Aria flinched from blood and called it a curse, Giovanni studies it.
He speaks of loyalty with a grin and sin with a shrug, and somewhere in the middle of all that charm is a mind built for destruction.
Alessandra brought him into our world, but I suspect Giovanni was waiting for it.
And since he arrived, nothing has been simple.
He doesn't wear the Salvatore crest, but he moves through our halls like a man who has already claimed a place on the chessboard.
We reach the main doors to the dining room, where the scent of roasted meat and sharp wine lingers in the air like a ritual.
The guards nod, and Giovanni pauses just long enough to adjust his cufflinks before glancing at me with something too close to amusement.
"You look like a man who has heard a banshee scream," he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I ignore him, but mostly because my thoughts are mine alone.
He respects my silence, and even though I initially detested him, he is, surprisingly, beginning to grow on me.
The corridor turns.
The marble underfoot gleams too bright for a house built on violence.
Sconces flicker along the wall, golden and glass-veiled, casting shadows that stretch long and silent across the carved moldings.
