Page 41 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He nods.
I stare at him for a moment, unsure whether I am more startled by the boldness of the lie or by the fact that he so easily thought to protect me, to cover for me without needing to be asked.
I take another bite, slower this time, trying to process the quiet revelation that I still do not know this man as well as I think I do.
Silence stretches between us, as I finish the sandwich, every bite a soothing counterpoint to the tension winding through my chest.
By the time I reach the end, the dizziness that has been teasing the edge of my vision since last night returns with sharper teeth.
The room tilts slightly.
I lean against the frame of the window with one hand, setting the napkin on the sill.
Enzo is already on his feet. "Aria."
"I'm fine," I say too quickly, but the way the room pulses around me betrays the lie.
He's at my side in two long strides, steadying me with a hand at my lower back.
"You're not fine," he mutters, easing me toward the bed. His strength is effortless, not in the way that brute force can be, butin the quiet confidence of someone who's held too many broken things to ever let one fall.
I sink into the sheets without resistance.
My limbs feel heavy, boneless.
His hand grazes my ankle as he draws the covers over me, a gesture so tender it tugs something deep in my chest.
I watch him as my eyelids grow heavy.
I want to say something.
To tell him about the secret I carry.
To ask him what it would mean if he knew.
But the words dissolve before they form.
The last image before sleep takes me is the faint outline of him moving through the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
When I wake, the sun is already high, the bedroom swathed in late-morning light that filters through the gauzy linen curtains.
My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, but the sensation is pleasant, dulled by rest and memory.
I lie there for a moment, blinking slowly, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
Enzo's bed is large and sharply made, the sheets a dark slate color that contrasts with the pale stone walls and the minimalist art hanging in careful symmetry above the headboard.
Everything in the room is understated, clean, masculine.
With a little groan, I get up and head to the expansive bathroom with sleek marble counters and a rainfall shower that steams almost instantly when I turn the tap.
I step under the stream, letting it wash away the sleep and the thoughts I cannot yet name.
When I emerge, wrapped in one of his towels, I find a clean stack of folded clothes resting on the armchair: a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of perfectly tailored dark jeans.
I dress slowly, breathing in the faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to the fabric.
His scent.
