Page 142 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"Boss," I say quietly, "I have a request."
He studies me then.
Long enough for the silence to gain teeth.
His fingers tap once on the side of his tumbler, the rhythm more thoughtful than dismissive.
"You've earned the right to speak," he says after a beat. "Go on."
But I don't rush. I don't speak of the farm.
Of the boy I've come to love like he carries my soul in a smaller skin. I don't say Aria's name, because it doesn't have to be said.
It lives in every choice I've made since the day I found her again.
"I'll finish the job," I say instead. "As asked. No mess. No trail."
Luca tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile barely touching his mouth.
"And after?"
The question sits there between us, soft as a trigger click. He already knows.
Of course he does.
Luca Salvatore always knows the shape of a man's breaking point long before the man does.
That's what makes him who he is.
That's why I've followed him through a dozen doors other men wouldn't even knock on.
"I'd like to talk when it's done," I say. Nothing more.
He watches me carefully, then drains the last of the amber in his glass. He sets it down with a muted clink.
"If it goes well," he says, brushing an invisible speck from his cuff, "you may find I'm more open to conversation than usual."
26
ARIA
The corridor outside Valentina's wing is wrapped in the hush of late hours, lit only by a single brass lamp that casts long shadows across the stone floor.
I follow her through the passage, my pulse steady but strange, as if my body knows something my mind hasn't named yet. Her gown brushes softly as she walks, the hem embroidered with thread that glints faintly in the low light, something ceremonial in its elegance. She doesn't speak, but her silence is not cold. It is carved from understanding.
She pushes open a set of wooden doors, and I follow her into a chamber softened by candlelight and the quiet thrum of sleep. The room is larger than I expected.
Windows arch-shaped with pale curtains. A long settee beneath a faded tapestry. And on the far side, near the fireplace, two small beds.
One is empty.
The other is not.
Gabriel is curled beside another boy, older, broader in the shoulders, but still soft at the edges with youth.
His arm is draped around my son in a protective arc, and Gabriel sleeps against him like he's always belonged there, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, lashes dark against his skin.
The sight undoes something inside me. My knees bend before I know I'm moving. I kneel beside the bed, brushing the sweat-damp curls from Gabriel's brow, pressing my lips to the crown of his head.
