Page 27 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"You think a gown and a smile will be enough to undo what they've done?"
"No," I reply softly, "but presence matters. These galas are not about peace. They are about perception. And perception is power."
My mother exhales, her fingers lifting to her chin as she watches me.
"She's not wrong," she murmurs.
Papa turns toward her. "You approve of this?"
"I think Aria has her father's instinct for timing," she says, speaking of me as if I am not in the room with them. "And the sense to know when to strike. The Salvatores would never expect it. That gives us an advantage."
He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair.
"You're too young to understand how dangerous that family can be."
"I'm old enough to understand what we lose if we keep pretending we're still on equal footing," I answer.
Although this is spoken out of turn, I have the sense to keep my head down, my voice level, and my eyes sincere.
Papa studies me for a long time, his fingers drumming once against the edge of his plate.
There is something unreadable in his eyes, built from the knowledge that his daughter has teeth.
"You will go," he says at last, voice clipped, "but you will do nothing foolish."
I incline my head and keep my eyes innocent. "Of course."
My mother lifts her glass slightly, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Make sure they remember who you are, darling."
I nod once, the taste of triumph curling quietly beneath my tongue.
Beneath the table, my fingers curl into my lap.
I do not let the tremor show, not even when I imagine the only person I will truly be going to see.
After breakfast is over, I finish my chores, try to get some reading done, and wonder what Enzo will say if I tell him.
Come evening, I prepare for the gala.
My mother has already selected the dress, a slip of sapphire silk, custom-tailored in Florence and worn once, photographed beneath chandeliers in a different city, during a different war.
Now it is resurrected, pressed, and delivered into my hands like armor.
Jewels glint beneath my collarbone, sapphires encircled in diamonds, heirlooms of a grandmother I never met, gifted not for sentiment but strategy.
My hair is swept up with painful precision, tendrils curling against my temples in calculated softness.
As I get into the limo, only one thought pervades my mind, and that is that I do not look like a girl about to ruin her family.
I look like an offering.
The car pulls away from the Lombardi estate with the low growl of an engine too finely tuned for anything less than ceremony.
We descend through the hills of Nuova Speranza in a procession of sleek black, the city unwinding beneath us like a dark ribbon stitched in light.
The road curves along the cliffs, the sea sprawling beside us, salt crashing against the rocks in invisible waves.
Wind slips in through the vents, tinged with brine and cold, stirring the edges of my gown as if to remind me that nothing tonight will stay still for long.
