Page 81 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Marco lingers near the end of the table, still thumbing through satellite feeds like the next war might be hiding in the clouds.
His silence isn't unusual, but it grates on my nerves today, because everyone's moving, and I'm standing still.
I rise, pushing the chair back slowly.
Giovanni moves in at my side, steps matching mine. "Whatever's circling in your head," he murmurs silkily, "you should chase it down before it finds a better hunter."
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
He's not wrong, and that's the damn problem.
If one man knew Aria was alive, others would know soon enough.
Information never stays buried in our world.
It seeps through cracks, it sells itself on street corners, and once it's out, it spreads like wildfire in dry grass.
It means whispers in rooms I cannot control, questions I may not be able to silence.
And it means that I need to know if the rat was being honest, and fast.
12
ARIA
The stalls blur around me.
Colors streak past in a dizzying palette of woven cloth, baskets of lemons, dusty hats, and sweat-slicked vendors shouting over one another in the rising heat.
My hand is clenched around Gabriel's, but I feel him struggle, his tiny legs unable to match the pace I am forcing on him.
He stumbles once, nearly trips again, and I hear him behind me, breathless and pleading.
"Mama, wait, Mama, slow down!"
But I can't. I don't dare. I know what I saw.
I shove past a man carrying crates of tomatoes, nearly send them scattering to the ground, muttering an apology I do not mean as I drag Gabriel deeper into the tangle of market stalls.
Behind me, somewhere beyond the scent of fried fish and the smoke of roasting meat, I know they are moving.
I do not need to see their faces.
I have lived enough years in the shadows to know how Salvatore men walk, how their silence speaks louder than shouts, how the air shifts when someone has you in their sights.
And I know what it means to be caught.
Treason does not expire, not even five years later.
I am not just the daughter of a disgraced Lombardi, I am the woman who helped Valentina Salvatore vanish like a whisper.
And in doing so, I made myself a target in every way that matters.
Gabriel tugs at my arm again, trying to slow me, but I am past the point of reasoning.
I glance back, scanning every face, every gesture, every tailored shirt and casual stance that might conceal a weapon or a signal.
The morning heat wraps around my shoulders like a noose. My heart pounds too hard against my ribs. I can barely hear myself think over the roar of blood in my ears.
