Page 148 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I sleep lightly and wake before the sun. Corsica is still outside, the cliffs veiled in fog, the sea muted like a secret whispered too many times. I shave. I dress. I check the weapon again, not because I doubt it, but because it is ritual. Ritual matters. It is what keeps the line between the hunter and the haunted from blurring.
The marina opens at six. I wait until seven.
I spend the early hours watching from a café that overlooks the curve of the inlet. Black coffee. No sugar. My cap is pulled low, sunglasses hiding eyes that have already seen the death I came to deliver. I do not move until I see Cesare.
The bastard moves like royalty, all languid confidence and inherited power. His coat flutters behind him, arrogance stitched into every fold. He speaks to the captain briefly. Hands him something. Probably a list. Then he steps back, lights a cigar, and walks to the edge of the dock, where he takes a seat on a chair left out for him.
I rise, leave a ten-euro note under the empty cup, and head toward the side path that skirts the service lot. I pass no one. The city is waking up, but this corner still dreams. I make it to the blind spot and crouch low, watching through the slats of the mooring fence as Cesare leans against the chair, eyes closed as the breeze drifts over him, smoke curling around his face like a crown.
It's almost too easy.
But I know better. Ease is the disguise of consequence. Cesare is smart. Maybe not in the way Luca is, not cold and calculative, but in the way that makes men like him dangerous. He's charming, patient, subtle. He thinks he's won already. Hethinks the Salvatores are bleeding. That Luca is fading. I wait for the captain to step into the boat cabin. He disappears from sight. Cesare is alone now, watching the sea. The dock creaks beneath his feet, weathered and gray.
The marina whispers beneath my feet, a language made of ropes and waves lapping at wood polished by salt and time. I move closer, slow, silent, my hand inside my coat, fingers curled around the grip of the gun. There are no guards in sight. I time my steps with the shifting tide, reaching the edge of the gangway without drawing so much as a glance. The weapon is drawn but hidden, my body angled away from the light.
Cesare turns his head then. He does not startle. His gaze finds me as if he expected me all along, and a smile spreads across his mouth like blood blooming through silk.
"So," he says, voice low and smooth. "The wolf arrives after all."
I say nothing. He flicks ash into the sea. "You know, I half-wondered if Luca would send someone else. A younger one. Hungrier. But of course, he sent you. His mercenary in a suit."
I lift the pistol slightly. "Stand."
He doesn't.
Instead, he studies me. Really studies. His eyes linger on my face as if trying to see past the bones, into whatever remains underneath. "He's going to use you until there's nothing left. You know that, don't you? You'll win this war, and when it's done, he'll hand you another. And another."
"I'm not here to talk."
"But you should be." He takes a long drag of the cigar. "Because I'm the only man who's ever offered you something different. I've watched you, Enzo. For years. I've read reports. You walk like a soldier, but you think like a king."
The gun doesn't waver.
"I could give you a life. Not scraps from another man's table. Not shadows and orders and blood on the floor before breakfast. But a seat. Power. The kind that answers to no one. Walk away now, and you'd have land, security, a name outside of his shadow."
"I have a name."
He smiles, just barely. "Do you? Or do you have a leash?"
I take a step forward, slow and measured. The dock rocks beneath us, gentle, and his cigar crackles faintly.
"You cannot touch my empire." He smiles at me, and I shake my head. This is the end of the line for the Gotti dynasty. Without Cesare, the network collapses. His men, young and filled with bloodlust, will fight like scavengers over the scraps and kill each other. Luca will be the one to put order back where it belongs.
"The problem with your empire, Gotti," I say, "Is that it's just you. Your son is dead."
For a second, the mask slips. Grief washes over his face. Then he stands, turning his back so that it is against the railing, puffing once more. "You think Luca will thank you? No. He will give you a week of peace. Maybe two. Then he'll find another ghost to wear your skin. That woman of yours, the boy?—"
"Do not say their names."
His eyes spark, finally, with something close to fear.
"I came here for justice," I say, raising the weapon. "But I'll settle for quiet."
He opens his mouth.
I fire.
The sound is not loud. The silencer swallows most of it, and the wind takes the rest. Cesare's head jerks back, then tilts forward, the cigar falling from his fingers and rolling toward my feet. He makes no sound. His body slumps forward in slowmotion, the last of his breath vanishing into the night like smoke pulled under the tide.
