Page 83 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He is quiet now, his breathing shallow, his face pressed against the curve of my shoulder.
I press my forehead against the cool tile of the floor, willing my heart to slow, willing the shaking to stop.
I count the seconds.
One for every choice I made that led me here.
One for every rule I broke when I chose to protect Valentina.
One for every time I told myself Enzo would never come for me, even though a part of me still hopes he might.
Gabriel stirs against me, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. "Mama…was that man one of the bad ones?"
I do not answer right away. I lift my head and take a breath, slow and ragged.
"I don't know," I say, and it is not a lie.
I never saw the man's face again after the first glimpse, just enough to recognize him, enough to remember that he once stood beside Enzo at a wedding, lifting a glass to some oath I was never meant to hear. That was before.
Before I made the choices I did.
Before I stopped being a Lombardi in name and became something far more dangerous—a survivor with no master.
Gabriel pulls back slightly, his hands still on my shoulders. "Why would he chase us?"
I look into his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, I see not only the softness of childhood but the spark of something else.
Awareness.
The kind that cannot be undone once it settles.
"Because some people think I belong to a world I walked away from," I say carefully. "And when people lose control of something, they try to take it back."
He studies me. I can see the questions forming, but I know he will not ask more today.
I shift onto my feet, my knees stiff and burning. My dress is torn. My hair clings to my face. I limp toward the small kitchen and pour him a glass of water with shaking hands.
The flat feels eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that follows a storm but promises another. I glance toward the curtained window. Nothing outside yet. But that means nothing.
Gabriel drinks slowly, watching me.
I clean my knee with a damp cloth and salt, ignoring the sting.
I change my clothes, rinse the blood from the torn fabric, and hang it on the line behind the house, where the sun will dry it as if it is any other day.
Taking extra care, I lock the back door.
I take the burner phone from the tin in the pantry and charge it in silence.
Gabriel senses my mood and keeps himself busy, being incredibly perceptive for a child this small.
He has Enzo's genes in his propensity for quiet, too.
The light shifts as the day ages, tilting westward into that soft, golden hush that falls over the rooftops just before dusk.
The marketplace noise fades into memory, replaced now by the rustling of the lemon tree in our courtyard and the slow creak of the drying rack on the balcony as the breeze moves through the clothespins.
Gabriel has fallen asleep on the couch, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other still gripping the edge of the blanket like he's afraid it might disappear.
