Page 74 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
A florist with ties to an old mutual friend of Luciana's.
She tells me what I need to know, no more, no less.
Which families are rising. Who has fallen. Whether the Salvatores are looking for me. Whether Luca's wrath still festers like an open wound.
The last I heard, the Lombardi name had crumbled under the weight of its silence.
My death, staged as it was, came at the cost of their favor.
No one punishes betrayal like a grieving king who learns his wife's disappearance was not an accident, but a choice.
I cannot pretend I do not think of Enzo.
There are nights when the ache of missing him presses so sharply against my ribs I have to bite the inside of my cheek just to breathe.
I remember the way he used to watch me across a room, like he was always calculating how to reach me fastest if everything fell apart.
I remember his hands.
The things they did to me.
The things they held back from the rest of the world.
I remember the way he said my name in the dark, not with tenderness, but with something more dangerous.
A reverence sharpened by sin.
And yet, he made his choice.
He stood beside Luca.
He said the family came first.
And I will never forgive him for that.
Because while he was swearing loyalty to a legacy soaked in blood, I was carving a future from ashes.
I was bleeding alone, scared and desperate, trying to give our child a life worth surviving.
Gabriel curls closer into me now, his head resting against my collarbone, and I breathe in the scent of his sun-warmed skin.
I can feel the tears burning, but I refuse to let them fall. I have no room for fragility anymore. Only resolve.
"I want to meet him someday," he says quietly. "Even just once."
My throat tightens, but I kiss his forehead and nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because the truth is, so do I.
"Let's go have lunch somewhere special, yes?" I clear my throat and extend my hand to him. "Come on, darling boy."
Gabriel insists on carrying the bucket of shells, both arms wrapped around its plastic handle as if it contains treasure more precious than anything the world could offer.
His cheeks are flushed from sun and sea, hair still damp at the edges, curling softly against his forehead.
I drape a towel over his shoulders and gather our things, folding the blanket with one hand and slinging the tote over my shoulder.
The path from the beach is steep and shaded with bottlebrush trees, and the scent of crushed saltbush and rosemary clings to our legs as we climb.
By the time we reach the ridge, the breeze carries the warm scent of bread and basil, the kind that tells you the morning market is in full swing.
