Page 86 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
And what do I say to my son before uprooting his whole existence?
13
ENZO
Two days later
There are a number of matters to be handled today. I'm headed to the Salvatores now, and while I know Luca won't open with the only agenda that has been haunting me, I'm also certain it won't be too long before it comes up.
I'd hoped to buy more time.
But the call came in yesterday midafternoon, while I was finishing a weapons inventory in the back room of the compound.
The steel cases were still open on the table, ammunition lined in careful rows, when Marco's name lit up my phone.
I answered without delay, wiping the grease from my fingers as his voice came through on the line, dark in the way it always was when something serious had landed on his desk.
He didn't start with questions or orders.
He gave me a name.
One name.
I said nothing for several seconds.
My hand remained frozen on the table, curled around a strip of cloth I had been using to clean the barrel of a pistol.
I waited for him to correct himself, to give me a different name, to explain that this was someone else.
But nothing changed.
I asked if he was sure. He said yes.
Which brings me to where I am headed now.
The doors to the Salvatore family study aren't made to be opened in silence.
They groan on thick hinges, the sound stretched long and low like a warning, announcing every entrance whether the man on the other side wants it or not.
Giovanni pushes them open with a touch too much flair, his knuckles still slightly red from whatever he dealt with this morning.
I walk in beside him, shoulders straight, eyes forward. The room is dim despite the hour, lit only by the morning light slanting in through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes like they were secrets that couldn't settle.
Luca sits behind the carved desk with a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, the smoke rising in a clean line that curves once, then vanishes.
Marco is at his side, standing by the window, arms folded, his posture sharper than usual, which is saying something.
His jacket is off, shirt cuffs rolled, and he watches us with that quiet calculation I've grown too used to reading.
If he nods once, it's permission.
If he doesn't nod at all, you already know you've failed him.
I catch sight of Sofia near the corner, perched in one of the velvet-backed chairs with a glass of wine she doesn't seem to be drinking.
Her legs are crossed, but her foot doesn't bounce.
Her spine's too straight for someone who is relaxed, and even the way she holds the glass is careful, her fingers curled just enough to avoid showing a tremor.
