Page 99 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
"Said there are whispers. That Luca's not as strong as he used to be."
Giovanni chuckles. "There are always whispers. Half the underworld lives on them."
"These were different."
He nods, as if indulging me. "And what do you plan to do with that information?"
I watch the coastline blur past.
"Find out who's whispering. And why."
He says nothing. He just drives, the cigarette smoke still lingering faintly in the car, the road stretching forward into a silence that tastes too much like the breath before an impending war.
16
ENZO
Back at the estate, Giovanni walks beside me, hands in his pockets, the expensive leather of his shoes whispering against the marble floor.
Now that the first task is done, I have to set my sights on the next one. I did not wish to rush it.
Outside the corridor windows, the late afternoon has settled into that strange hour where the light hangs low and the shadows grow longer, stretching toward the walls like hands reaching for something they will never touch.
The estate breathes quietly at this hour, a beast lying in wait, its hunger masked by chandeliers and silk-panel walls.
We descend the staircase together, our reflections catching briefly in the mirror that hangs above the foyer—mine rigid, tight-jawed, haunted, the corners of my mouth tucked in; his, all ease and poorly concealed speculation.
Giovanni has always been good at reading a room, always been a man who knows when to smile and when to sharpen his teeth beneath it.
Over time, I've come to respect the hustle.
"You can talk to me, you know?" That's all he says, but the mere sentiment behind it, and his quiet lightness…it is enough for me.
However, I don't answer.
There are some things I am not ready to say aloud, not even to him.
We walk toward the side wing, where the lower offices are kept.
This wing is colder than the rest of the house, even with the windows closed.
The marble floor hums beneath our steps like something alive.
These are the corridors where loyalty is tested in the quiet, where information matters more than guns.
And I already know who I need to speak to.
Matteo Ferrante returned from Civita Rosso this morning, arriving in one of the black caravans we use when discretion matters more than arrival time.
Civita Rosso is a coastal port most people forget exists, a place where Salvatore goods move in and out without ever touching customs.
Matteo has always been one of the best at keeping things clean, too much so at times, but he never lies without a reason.
I push open the door to the records room.
Matteo sits inside, his jacket still dusty from the road, collar loosened, a pen between his fingers.
He's not watching the screen in front of him.
