Page 16 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Dread makes my stomach turn.
"A marriage," he continues. "To an arms dealer with direct access to Eastern European manufacturers. Or perhaps an olive oil merchant with routes we can exploit. Someone with influence. Someone with power. Someone who will put the Lombardi name back on the map."
I knew this was coming.
I have always known this was coming.
But knowing and hearing it aloud are two different things, and I understand perfectly well that this is no marriage.
Rather, it is a hand extended in alliance to someone who will never love me, someone chosen for the benefit of Papa's empire, not for my own happiness.
And worst of all, I know who it won't be.
Enzo Moretti.
The name causes a physical ache in my heart because it is a precious secret I've held for too long.
He is Luca Salvatore's most feared hitman, the blade in the dark, the soldier who never hesitates when given an order.
His hands are stained with blood, and his loyalty to his family is absolute.
He would never betray the Salvatores, and I could never betray my own.
I school my face into an expression of acceptance.
I cannot fight this.
But inside, my blood burns with defiance.
Because I know the truth, deep in my bones.
No part of me wants Papa's chosen groom.
I want the man I can never have.
2
ARIA
The rest of the dinner passes in a haze.
Dish after dish arrives in gleaming silver trays, each one a spectacle.
Golden saffron threads shimmer over pillowy rice, yielding a fragrance that is heady and warm.
Slow-roasted lamb glistens in its own juices, the meat so tender it yields at the barest touch.
There's risotto studded with wild mushrooms and shaved truffle, its aroma earthy and rich, and platters of spiced prawns, still crackling from the pan, swimming in butter and chili oil.
The scent alone makes my stomach clench with longing.
Servers glide past in silent harmony, unveiling each course with theatrical precision.
They speak the names of dishes like sacred incantations, tracing their lineage to centuries-old recipes and kitchens where stars hang on walls like medals.
Every plate placed before me is a promise of indulgence.
And yet, I barely touch any of it.
