Page 92 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Because I failed you. Because I let my past touch you. Because I almost lost the only reason I'm still breathing.
Instead, I say, "Sometimes grownups cry when they've been strong for too long. But I promise, I'm all right now."
He stares at me like he doesn't quite believe it. His little brow furrows again, not with suspicion, but with the aching weight of a boy too young to carry so much worry. I cup his cheek and kiss his forehead.
"I was thinking," I say, forcing cheer into my voice, "we could have an early night tonight. Maybe even bake something."
Gabriel perks up. "Brownies?"
I nod. "Your favorite."
He smiles then. It's small, but it's real. I start cracking eggs into a chipped ceramic bowl while he climbs onto the kitchen stool and begins unwrapping the bar of chocolate I keep hidden at the back of the pantry. The oven hums to life. The smell of sugar and vanilla slowly fills the air, sweetening the tension into something warm and bearable.
For a while, we move through the kitchen like we used to before all of this. I hand him the spoon to stir while I measure out the flour, and he sneaks a lick of batter when he thinks I'm not looking. I do not stop him. I do not mention the man in the alley or the flight through the market. I do not remind him that we're not safe. For these few moments, I let the illusion hold.
The brownies bake in silence. Gabriel watches an old cartoon on the couch, curled up with a blanket and his favorite stuffed bear. I stay in the kitchen, watching the clock. Every minutethat passes without a knock on the door feels like a gift I don't deserve. I wonder if it will last until morning.
After dinner—just two scrambled eggs and toast, something simple to keep the edges of our nerves from fraying—I help him wash up and tuck him into bed. He's out within minutes. The brownies are still cooling on the counter, untouched.
I sit on the edge of the couch and let the quiet settle around me.
My body aches from the sprint through the marketplace, my knee throbs beneath the bandage, but none of it compares to the storm in my chest.
It should be enough that he's safe.
That we made it through the day without being found. But I can't shake the image of that man's face. Vitale. Salvatore muscle, always silent, always watching.
What if he saw more than I thought he did? What if someone else already knows?
I stare at the front door, half-expecting it to swing open. Nothing moves. The night air is still, but my breath is shallow, caught in a rhythm that belongs to the hunted.
I reach for the photograph hidden in the drawer beneath the television.
The edges are worn, the image blurred slightly with age, but the face is unmistakable.
Aria Lombardi, my former self, dead and buried, seated beside a man with a smile like thunderclouds and promises he never intended to keep. I trace his jaw with my fingertip.
"Enzo," I whisper into the stillness.
I hate that his name still fits in my mouth like a secret. I hate that part of me aches for him, even now, when I know better.
Even now, when it is his world that threatens to destroy mine. But the pain does not care about logic. It never has.
I close the drawer again and return to the kitchen. I slice the brownies into perfect squares, wrap a few in wax paper, and place them in Gabriel's school satchel for tomorrow, even though I know he may not return to that school.
We may not return to anything at all.
Not this home.
Not this town.
Not this life I have carved from the ashes of my old one.
I lean against the counter and close my eyes, hands braced on either side of the sink.
My breath hitches once, then again.
Then I let it come, the sob that has been clawing at my throat all day. It breaks free with a violence I don't have the strength to stop. I sink to the floor, curl into myself, and weep like I haven't allowed myself to in five years.
