Page 87 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
She shouldn't be here.
Whatever this meeting is, it's not one of those leisurely afternoons where wives drift in and out of the conversation like silk curtains. Something's wrong.
Even if no one says it.
Giuseppe, the butler, is standing in his usual place, tucked into the shadows by the door.
He doesn't speak.
He never does.
But he listens like it's a holy act. Nothing that passes through this room leaves without brushing past him first.
I don't speak until spoken to.
That's a rule as old as the floorboards.
But Giovanni, true to form, breaks the silence first.
I walk in and stop before the desk.
Giovanni lingers beside me, and for half a breath, no one moves.
The air hums with a quiet sort of menace, one that creeps into your bones and settles there, cold and alert.
Then Giovanni opens his mouth.
"Dramatic as always. You'd think we were reading out a will in here."
I do not look at him. But I feel Marco stiffen just slightly, a ripple under the surface. Sofia blinks once. Even Giuseppe's expression, usually blank as a wall, seems to still further.
Luca does not react for a full beat. Then a smile ghosts across his mouth, the kind that cuts rather than soothes.
"Giovanni," he murmurs, "you have a gift for choosing the wrong moment with perfect precision."
Giovanni spreads his hands in mock surrender. "What can I say? It keeps things interesting."
I shift my stance. Just a fraction. But enough to show that I am here for business, not banter. Luca reads the movement the way a hawk reads a twitch in the grass. His eyes slide to mine and stay there.
"There's a task," he says, finally.
The words are smooth, unhurried, yet they land like dropped stones. He does not speak often unless it matters. Today, it matters.
"A courier from the Adriatic side turned up dead last week," Luca continues, tapping a single finger against the rim of his glass. "One of ours. One of mine. The route was clean. The drop was routine. Yet he ended up floating near the marina with his tongue in his pocket and no teeth left in his jaw."
I nod once.
Not surprised. Not pleased.
Luca's men do not get touched without consequence.
Not unless someone wants a war.
Marco steps forward now, tossing a thin manila folder onto the desk with enough force to slide it across the leather in my direction.
I catch it with one hand and open it without breaking eye contact with either of them.
Inside is a photograph. Grainy. Midday light casting shadows across a man's face I don't recognize.
