Page 146 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
We arrive an hour later at the edge of a coastal cliff, where a hotel rises from the rock like it belongs there. It is discreet, three stories high, all clean stone and dark glass.
The sign is in French, elegant and plain, nothing about it screams luxury, but everything about it is curated for privacy. A woman greets me at the reception desk with a key already in hand, no forms, no smile. Just a nod and a whispered, "Room 305."
The room is what I expect. Minimalist. Soft linens, stone floors, a balcony that opens to the sea.
There is a minibar I will not touch, a closet I will not use, a shower that smells faintly of lavender.
I stand for a moment in the middle of it all, breathing in the silence, letting it press into me like armor. I do not unpack. I do not sit.
Instead, I walk to the balcony, open the doors, and let the salt air find me. Below, waves gnaw at the cliff. Above, the sky is the kind of pale blue that makes you think of innocence, of beginnings. But there is no innocence in Corsica. Not for me.
The next morning, I head to a cafe. I've already sent word, and know that I will not be drinking coffee alone.
The cafe sits tucked beneath the overhang of an aging civic building on the southern edge of Ajaccio, all copper chairs and imported ash wood tables, the kind of place that politicians pretend to frequent for the charm, but only ever show up to when they need something cleaned, hidden, or erased.
I sit with my back to the wall, the jacket of my suit open, one leg crossed over the other, watching the man I came for fidget across from me like a schoolboy caught cheating.
Marcello Fontane sits across from me, former chief of port regulation, current liaison to the Corsican infrastructure board, and a man with enough offshore accounts to keep five mistresses and two families fed in Paris. I don't look at his hands. I already know they're sweating. I don't look at the menu either. I didn't come to eat.
"You're nervous," I say, finally lifting my gaze from the curved edge of the sugar spoon beside my espresso. "That's a problem."
He tries to laugh, but it gets stuck in his throat and comes out like a cough. "I'm not nervous, Enzo. Just surprised. You don't usually operate off-continent."
I smile, but there's no warmth in it. "Luca doesn't usually send me unless something's worth finishing."
His face flattens. I see the moment the memory of what the Salvatores do to traitors hits him full in the chest. I don't have to raise my voice. I never do.
"Cesare Gotti," I say quietly.
He flinches like I struck him.
"I don't know anything," he says, too quickly.
"No," I agree, leaning forward just enough that he can smell the steel in my calm, "you don't want to know anything. There's a difference."
Marcello glances around the café. The few patrons at the other tables are absorbed in their croissants and low conversation.
None of them are watching us.
But one is listening.
I made sure of that.
A man in a gray scarf, seated at the far window, whose job is to report directly to me if Marcello even breathes in the wrong direction once I leave.
I set the espresso cup down with a soft click.
"You owe Luca," I remind him. "Your position. Your son's hospital bill last year. Your wife's boutique that no one shops at but still pulls quarterly earnings like a downtown Paris storefront. None of that happens without the Salvatores. And Luca has been very patient."
Marcello swallows hard. "If I talk, I lose everything."
"If you don't," I say, letting my tone darken by degrees, "you lose more than that."
He lowers his voice. "Cesare doesn't stay in one place. He uses proxies, switch points, private estates leased under shell names."
"I know that," I say. "I'm asking what you know."
His eyes dart down to the table, then back up to me. "He has a safehouse in the hills above Capo di Muro. Old monastery grounds. Renovated. It isn't public. No permits filed. But food deliveries go there every two days. Imported wine, fish, marble fruits. Always the same time."
