Page 26 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I will wear whatever dress my mother selects, I will smile at the men who want to sell me off in pieces, and I will find Enzo Moretti before the night is over.
Because no matter what the Salvatores think they know about the Lombardis, they have yet to learn that obedience and submission are not the same thing.
I was raised to endure, but I have learned how to strike.
When I return through the halls, the estate has begun to stir.
Servants move with discretion, the scent of coffee and fresh bread threading through the air as breakfast is arranged.
I place the envelopes in the lacquered tray beside Papa's seat at the long dining table.
I do not say a word about the invitation.
Our dining hall is a monument to ego.
Twelve high-backed chairs line a table carved from dark walnut, its surface always gleaming, always empty but for the curated display of decanters and gold-trimmed serving ware.
Crystal sconces catch the morning light and refract it into fractured stars across the frescoed ceiling.
Papa believes that beauty is proof of power, and this room is his cathedral.
Papa is already seated when I enter, his tailored shirt pressed to perfection, his cuffs gleaming with his initials in gold.
He stirs a cube of sugar into his espresso with absent precision, not looking up as I take my seat.
My mother enters moments later, draped in a silk robe the color of periwinkle dusk, her expression unreadable as she settles in beside him.
The servants begin placing dishes: soft cheeses and figs, warm sourdough with honeycomb, eggs cooked in butter and truffle oil.
I sip from my glass of blood orange juice, waiting.
It takes exactly three bites for Papa to notice the envelope.
"What is this?" he mutters, reaching for it.
His face darkens by the second as he cracks open the seal, eyes skimming the contents.
His mouth tightens.
"Salvatores," he mutters. "Of course."
He sets the envelope down with an edge of disgust.
"They have the gall to invite us now, after the stunts they've pulled this year? Hosting that event like they already own the city."
I slice into my croissant slowly, carefully, letting the butter flake along my plate before I respond.
"Perhaps that's why we should go."
The silence that follows is immediate and sharp.
Papa lowers his cup. "Excuse me?"
Across the table, my mother glances at me, interest evident behind her careful façade.
I meet his gaze calmly. "If we decline, they win. It makes us look afraid. Weak. But if I go, if I represent the family, it reminds them—and everyone else watching—that the Lombardis do not bend to intimidation."
His mouth hardens.
