Page 67 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"Please," he says. "I didn't know what they were planning with the intel. I thought it was just smuggling—just muscle for some rival crew. I swear I didn't know it would go this high."
He cries the last part. It echoes, faint and cracked, like a child's voice inside a cathedral.
I don't ask him to repeat it.
I don't give him a nod, or a prayer, or a final confession.
The truth is already spilled. Every bit of it. Like blood.
"Aria Lombardi?—"
My whole body goes still. By now, there are many rumors circulating this city, and one of the more subdued ones is that the Lombardi family's jewel was secretly consorting with the Salvatore hitman, aka me.
Luca never questioned me about it, and I never let it get in the way of my job.
But, in the stillness of this moment, I cannot pretend that hearing her name spoken out loud after five years does not make my almost nonexistent heart lurch.
"What did you say?" My voice has dropped dangerously low.
"She's not dead," he blubbers. "P—please—I know who?—"
On the off chance that hedoesspeak the truth, I cannot have him reveal Aria's situation in a room full of people who would hunt her down to please the boss.
So, in the next instant, I draw out the gun, chrome black, clean, and still warm from the last job.
I cock the slide, and pull the trigger.
The bullet lands with a low thump.
Skull against concrete.
Bone and silence.
His body topples over, still tied to the chair, falling like a monument razed in slow motion.
There's a small twitch.
A final breath.
Then nothing.
The others wait.
I do not.
I walk out of the room without casting a glance back.
I've always believed in respect for the dead.
But not like this. Not when the soul has already left and the mess behind is just flesh cooling on stone.
Outside, the hallway is quiet.
Damp walls and exposed pipes.
The old slaughterhouse we've repurposed for such business still hums with the memory of what it once was.
Lorenzo steps forward, his face pale.
