Page 91 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
The world outside has softened with the orange hush of late afternoon, and still I wait, eyes tracking every shadow, every shift in the narrow alley beyond the garden gate.
I half expect Vitale to come slinking back around the corner, maybe with a cigarette still smoldering between his teeth, pretending this was all some coincidental business errand gone wrong.
But he doesn't come.
Not in the next minute.
Not in the next five.
Eventually, the quiet stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a verdict.
The moment I shift my weight from the wall, I feel the sting at my knee. I glance down, only now noticing the rip in my dress, the smear of rust-colored blood dried into the fabric. I bend to brush it away just as I hear a voice behind me.
"Mom, there's blood on you."
Gabriel's voice is soft, foggy with sleep, but it slices through the moment like a bell tolling somewhere too close.
He stands at the foot of the narrow hallway in his wrinkled dinosaur pajamas, a thumb tucked absently into the waistband, eyes blinking against the overhead light like he's trying to decide if this is still part of his dream.
I straighten quickly, swallow the panic, and force my smile into place.
"It's nothing, my love," I say, lowering to one knee. "Just a scrape. I slipped while we were running."
His little face creases with worry. "Why were we running?"
I pause. The question hits harder than I expected it to.
There are at least a hundred answers, each one more complicated than the next, but none of them feel right for a child who still believes the world should be kind.
"I'll explain everything," I murmur, gathering him into my arms. "Just let me get you cleaned up first, all right?"
He nods, but I can tell the unease hasn't left him. His arms cling tighter around my neck than usual.
When I carry him into the kitchen, his small body leans against me with that full, unquestioning trust only children know how to give.
It wrecks me.
Because I know I am the reason he was frightened today.
I am the one dragging him away from a past that refuses to die.
The bandage box is tucked into the cabinet beneath the sink.
I dab the scrape clean, ignoring the way the alcohol bites into the torn skin, and plaster it over with a thin strip of gauze.
It's nothing. Superficial.
A wound that will disappear in a day or two.
But Gabriel watches every movement, his questions pooling silently in his eyes until they finally spill over.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks quietly. "Is that why you lost me?"
My breath hitches.
"No," I say, pulling him close again. "You did everything right. I just got scared, that's all. It had nothing to do with you."
"Then why were you crying?"
