Page 42 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
The jeans fit almost perfectly, cinching slightly at my waist, and the shirt falls to mid-thigh, oversized and soft, like something borrowed and treasured.
I hesitate only a moment before rolling up the sleeves and buttoning it to the top.
The hallway beyond his room is hushed, and as I make my way through the estate, the sheer scale of it begins to dawn on me.
The Salvatore mansion is sprawling, a newer construction that pretends at old-world elegance but lacks the timeworn history that lingers in Lombardi halls.
The corridors are lined with gilded sconces and hand-cut crown molding, but they smell of new polish and fresh plaster rather than antique wood and forgotten secrets.
I pass a grand staircase and a towering mural of Luca Salvatore standing beside a sleek black thoroughbred.
This place is a monument to wealth accumulated quickly, the kind that speaks in gloss and sharp angles rather than heritage.
The living room I enter is lavish, but too pristine to feel lived in.
Gilded mirrors hang above polished consoles.
Velvet armchairs flank a massive stone fireplace that has likely never seen a flame.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light, and the staff moves through the space like clockwork, each one engaged in tasks with silent precision.
None of them acknowledge me.
In time, I enter a living room and pause by a window, if only to catch my breath.
I'm deep in thought when Valentina Salvatore enters the same room in a tasteful, fluid, muted green dress.
She carries herself with grace, but there is a steeliness beneath it, something carefully sharpened.
"Excuse me, are you Mrs. Salvatore?"
"Yes," she says, tilting her head slightly. "Who are you?"
"Aria Lombardi," I reply, offering a hand she takes with brief politeness. My eyes flick toward the hallway. "I was hoping to speak with Enzo. Is he available?"
She shakes her head. "I wouldn't know. He doesn't exactly check in with me."
Her words strike an odd chord, but I choose to maintain civility.
She's married to Luca Salvatore.
She has every reason to have ghosts of her own to tend to. "I understand. Do you mind if I wait here?"
She nods and I take a seat, folding my hands carefully in my lap.
The silence that stretches between us is poised, and in time, it becomes clear that neither of us is here just for polite conversation.
"I'll go look for him," she finally says, her voice clipped. "My husband should know where he is."
I watch her retreat, her heels soft against the marble, and I remain seated, too aware of every inch of myself in these clothes, in this house, in this war between families that no longer feels like it can be drawn in clean lines.
My phone rings once more, the fifth time in the last two hours.
Each missed call is either from Mama, Papa, or Luciana.
I'm running out of time to make a decision.
If I choose Enzo, it will mean waging war with my family, giving up everything my father stands for.
