Page 17 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
My fork hovers uselessly even as hunger curls at the edges of my stomach, but something inside me has gone still.
The decadence feels disgusting.
I sit surrounded by splendor I can't bring myself to taste.
I manage a few spoonfuls, just enough to avoid drawing attention, pushing the rest around my plate as Papa speaks, his voice carrying over the murmur of conversation.
He leads the room as he always does, introductions rolling from his tongue, ensuring I acknowledge every guest, every name, every power broker sitting at this table.
I nod when I am supposed to.
I murmur the appropriate pleasantries.
I commit nothing to memory.
The world around me has become weightless, muffled, as if I am watching everything unfold from behind glass.
I hear their laughter, the clinking of crystal glasses, the smooth, easy cadence of men's voices who do not need to fight for space because they already own it.
I feel my mother's occasional glance, the silent expectation in her gaze, waiting for me to play my role with perfection.
But my thoughts are elsewhere.
I am thinking of the way Papa saidmarriage.
He did not speak of it as a possibility, nor was there any room for a discussion.
What he laid out in front of me was a decision that had already been made.
By the time dinner finally draws to a close, my body feels wound too tight, my chest constricted with something between frustration and dread.
The moment it is polite to do so, I push back my chair, smoothing my hands over my dress as I rise.
"If you'll excuse me," I say, my voice steady despite the storm building beneath my ribs.
No one stops me.
I move quickly, my heels whispering against the marble floors as I slip past the double doors and into the quieter halls beyond.
My heartbeat quickens as I make my way down the grand staircase, past the gold-framed oil paintings of Lombardi men who have shaped this empire, each of their expressions severe, their presence looming even in death.
I descend into the lower levels of the estate, following the familiar path through sparsely lit corridors, the polished opulence of the upper floors giving way to something simpler, something real.
By the time I reach the servant's quarters, my breath is coming too fast, my body thrumming with restless energy.
I knock twice before pushing the door open.
Luciana looks up from where she's perched on her small cot, a book spread open on her lap.
She is the only real friend I have.
Growing up in a household like mine, I was never allowed to do the things other girls my age did.
There were no impromptu shopping trips, no after-school sleepovers, no careless afternoons spent in parks or by the beach.
Every moment of my life has been measured, controlled, watched.
Shelteredis too soft a word for what I have endured.
