Page 73 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Gabriel's world is filled with sand and juice boxes, storybooks and sleepy afternoons under palm trees.
There is no room in it for the truth.
And still, he asks.
Still, he wants to know.
I brush his curls from his forehead, my fingers trembling just slightly, and gather him closer, as if the right answer could be found somewhere between our heartbeats.
"Your father is…far away," I begin carefully, the words tasting like ash even before they leave my tongue. "He lives in a world that isn't safe for children. Not safe for you. And he doesn't know how to leave it."
Gabriel frowns, tilting his head, but doesn't interrupt.
He waits, patient and solemn, and I realize that no matter how much I try to keep him young, some part of him is already growing old along with the absence.
"He loves you," I say, and I hate myself for how easily the lie falls from my lips, not because I don't believe it but because I know he may never get the chance to feel it. "But sometimes love isn't enough to change the world a person was born into."
He nods slowly. There are tears gathering in his eyes, though he doesn't let them fall.
I see the effort it takes, the way he swallows hard and curls his fingers into my shirt like he's trying to hold the moment still.
And for all my strength, I nearly break.
I want to tell him the truth.
That his father's name is Enzo Salvatore and that he once looked at me like I was the last piece of light in a world swallowed by shadow.
That we loved in stolen hours, in hallways built for war, in rooms where everything was made of fire and silence.
I want to tell Gabriel that his father whispered my name like a vow the night before I vanished, and that if there were a version of our lives untouched by blood feuds and family honor, Enzo might have been reading to him every night instead of becoming a ghost I carry alone.
But I cannot tell him those things.
I made my choice five years ago.
I chose survival.
I chose him.
When Gabriel was born, I knew hiding would no longer be enough.
I needed stability, not just invisibility.
A government program for migrant mothers helped me get certified as a translator.
Spanish to Italian.
French to Italian.
I had always been good with languages, and it was something I could do without drawing attention.
I built a reputation slowly, one job at a time, working with small clinics and legal aid offices that needed help bridging gaps.
No one ever asked where I was from.
I made sure of that.
I keep my ear to the ground through a single contact in Florence.
