Page 89 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
The knife beside it gleams sharper.
Luca doesn't lift his hand, doesn't nod, but his eyes move to mine and hold.
I see everything in that look.
Power. Knowledge. A quiet warning.
This is not a request.
My boots make no sound across the rug as I step forward.
I stop before the salver and look at the envelope, then at Luca.
His expression does not shift, but the message in his gaze is louder than any order.
This is yours.
Take it.
Understand.
I pick up the envelope.
The paper is thick between my fingers, heavier than it should be, soaked with whatever message it carries.
My thumb brushes the edge, then I lift the knife.
The blade is cold, but I have used it before.
Many times. I cut through the seal and slide the knife back onto the tray with a quiet that feels final.
Like the drawing of a curtain before a show that will not be remembered for applause, but for carnage.
The envelope gives.
Inside, there's a single folded sheet of white paper.
I glance up once, and Luca gives the smallest nod.
"Read it."
I pull the paper out with two fingers.
My hands have done this before, too many times.
Each time, I feel the same thing: a heat under the skin, a buzz in the blood, the edge of anticipation that sits on your tongue like copper before the shot is fired.
It's a ritual.
One I've honored since the day I took my first order.
But this time, something is wrong.
My body reacts before my brain does.
The paper is half-open, the names hidden inside still unread, and already my heart tightens in a way it never has.
My breath pulls shorter, more shallow.
