Page 95 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I know this is the last time he will run through those olive trees, chase the cat that belongs to the neighbor upstairs, kick pebbles down the sunlit path.
In his own ways, he is saying goodbye.
That night, he goes to a sleepover with a friend from his school, and I honor the night with a walk through the city.
I do not carry a bag, and I do not wear shoes that will slow me down if I have to run.
I just walk.
I go past the cathedral, where old women light candles for sons lost to crime and war.
Past the bakery where the woman with the crooked teeth sells bread that tastes like honey and ash.
Past the train station where I arrived with nothing but a name and a handful of lies.
I walk until my feet ache, until the sky turns the color of bruised silk and the city lights glow like a thousand little stars we pinned into place to trick ourselves into thinking the night cannot swallow us.
I walk until I find myself at the fountain near the old opera house, where the water never quite runs clean and the statues have long since eroded into ghostly silhouettes.
I sit on the edge of the stone basin and watch the ripples catch the light, and I let myself remember everything.
The way Enzo looked at me the first time he saw me dance in the rain…it was possibly the only time I'd seen him smile, really smile.
The way his voice dropped to a whisper when he told me I was his peace in a world made for war.
The way he held me that last night, and the way he told me he would always choose Luca Salvatore over me and my son.
15
ENZO
It is the morning after Luca delivered Aria's name to me and told me to have her dead.
The coast stretches out like a silver knife, quiet and treacherous beneath the early haze of morning.
Dubrovnik gleams in the distance, its tiled rooftops rising from the sea like the back of some ancient serpent, beautiful and old and full of teeth.
I stand at the edge of the lookout just beyond the southern slope, the rented car idling behind me, its engine ticking softly as the metal cools in the breeze.
I keep one hand tucked in my coat pocket, fingers grazing the pistol's grip like it might answer the questions crawling beneath my skin.
The house is a stone thing, narrow and discreet, perched halfway down the winding road that leads to the harbor.
It faces the water, like all good hiding places do, the shutters angled just enough to suggest someone inside is watching.
I do not move yet.
I let the wind wrap around me, let the moment settle.
This is not a rush job.
Luca was clear.
Confirm, then clean.
I reach for the folder in the passenger seat, flip it open again.
Stefano Amari. Former Conti muscle.
