Page 84 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I sit at the edge of the bed in the adjoining room, the open doorway between us letting me watch his chest rise and fall in steady rhythm.
There is a balm in the sight of him sleeping, the purity of a child's rest, untouched by the chaos that followed us through the market. But even that fragile comfort has its limits.
I do not believe in coincidence.
That man was not there for me, I am sure of it.
There was no urgency in his steps, no sharpness in his movements.
He had not been looking for anyone.
But the way his eyes had moved over the crowd, the brief pause when they caught on me before shifting away, told me enough.
He had seen me.
He just didn't know what he had seen.
I rise and walk into the kitchen, keeping my steps light.
The kettle is already warm from earlier.
I boil the water again, measure out the chamomile I keep for nights like this, and pour it into the chipped mug I found at the Sunday market two years ago.
Pale green with a worn gold rim, it used to belong to someone's grandmother.
The vendor had said so with a shrug, as though old lives were only worth as much as the coins handed over in silence for their forgotten possessions.
I wrap my fingers around the cup, take one sip, then carry it to the balcony where the breeze is cooler now.
The sky has gone soft with lavender and smoke, the buildings casting long, lean shadows over the narrow streets.
Below, someone is playing a radio too low to make out the lyrics. A dog barks once, then again, before it is silenced by a voice I cannot hear clearly.
And then I see that man—again—moving slowly.
Mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered beneath the navy linen shirt rolled to his elbows, with a distinct scar that cuts just beneath his left jawline.
That's how I remember him.
I've seen him before, years ago, trailing behind Enzo like a faithful hound at the port where they'd met with a southern crew to negotiate transit routes.
He had kept to the shadows then, speaking only when spoken to, his hands always near his belt but never on his weapon.
Salvatore muscle. Quiet. Observant. Dangerous only when cornered.
His name comes back to me after a moment, swimming up from the depths of memory like something half-forgotten.
Matteo Ferrante. A logistics man. That was what they'd called him.
He coordinated transport schedules for the Salvatore family, handled port shipments, and made sure their goods moved with discretion.
Never involved himself in executions or shakedowns.
He wasn't a soldier in the traditional sense.
His weapons were maps and manifests, not knives. Which makes his presence here—of all places—feel like a sharp chasm opening too close to my feet.
He pauses directly in front of the narrow alley that leads to our courtyard.
