Page 88 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He's sitting at a café somewhere coastal, sunglasses pushed into the collar of his shirt, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.
A second photo shows him leaving in a dark car.
The license plate is blurred.
"Name?" I ask.
"Stefano Amari," Marco answers. "Used to be muscle for the Conti brothers before they were absorbed into our partners at the ports. Since then, he's gone quiet. Too quiet. Now he's been seen in places he shouldn't be, having conversations with men we no longer trust."
Giovanni leans closer, glancing at the file. "He's not just talking to ex-Conti. There's whispers he's feeding information to the other side of the mountain. And if that's true, it's not just betrayal. It's a declaration."
Luca lifts his glass and takes a slow sip. Then he says the thing that makes the room turn colder.
"I want you to confirm it. Then I want you to clean it."
The way he says clean tells me everything.
This is not about making an example.
This is about sending a message that doesn't need to be spoken aloud.
"Location?" I ask, sliding the file closed.
"Dubrovnik," Marco replies. "He's rented a place on the southern slope. Waterfront. Secluded. Perfect view of the harbor. He thinks we've forgotten him."
I tuck the folder under my arm and nod once. "He's wrong."
"Good," Luca says, the final syllable sharp as glass. "Then you'll leave by tonight. Giovanni will arrange your crossing."
Sofia shifts slightly in her seat, setting down her glass with too much care.
Her face is pale now.
I don't know if it's the wine or the name in the file.
But I know she's afraid.
And fear has a scent I never forget.
"There's one more thing."
That's all. No flourish, no elaboration.
Just those five syllables, and suddenly every nerve under my skin sharpens like the teeth of a blade that's about to be unsheathed.
Giovanni stiffens beside me, but his face shows nothing.
Marco, seated at Luca's left, shifts his gaze to me, as though he already knows this is mine to carry.
From the shadows, Guiseppe steps forward.
No words from him either.
He carries a silver salver in both hands, polished bright enough to catch the reflection of every unspoken truth in this room.
On it rests a single envelope, sealed with red wax the color of old blood, hardened and cracked like something ancient.
The seal glints faintly under the chandelier.
