The Hitman’s Secret Baby (Underworld Heirs #3)

Prologue

ARIA

T hey arrive at dusk, just as the light begins to slide behind the vineyard hills, casting the estate in amber and gold like the whole evening has been dipped in honey and danger.

I am standing at the top of the grand staircase, my hands resting lightly on the carved mahogany railing, every inch of me dressed for spectacle.

The silk of my evening dress moves like water over bare skin, each shift drawing it tighter against the curves it's meant to flatter, catching at the waist, brushing the tops of my thighs, sliding with a whisper down my spine.

The color is dark as spilled wine, bold against the pale glow of my skin, and it does not need sequins or lace to earn a second glance.

It plunges low at the back, the fabric folding just beneath my shoulder blades, leaving my neck exposed as though it were waiting for breath or lips or whispers soaked in heat.

My smile holds its shape like lacquer while my eyes stay quiet and hungry, catching every stare like a net drawn tight.

The Salvatores are punctual, of course.

Their arrival is as silent as it is formidable, a procession of black vehicles gliding down our private drive.

The tires barely make a sound as they slow, lining up before the front entrance as though this visit is not an olive branch, but a siege in tailored suits.

I have seen them before, though only in curated glimpses.

Nothing has prepared me for the moment they step through our doors.

Luca is the first to appear, handsome in that tell-tale arrogant way that makes powerful men predictable.

His brother follows, broader and more volatile, every movement thick with the easy confidence of someone who has never once feared consequence.

Their men trail behind them, flanking either side with trained discretion, each one blending into the next in a wave of pressed collars and expensive fabric.

And then another man enters.

He is not announced.

No one says his name.

But the moment he crosses the threshold, there is a slight shift, just enough, like the current beneath the surface has turned.

A few voices dip.

Heads tilt imperceptibly, even though most do their very best not to notice the way the atmosphere sharpens, the way the space around him stretches and tightens as if the room itself is deciding whether to bow or break.

He walks behind Luca, but his demeanor isn't indicative of submission, in fact, it looks as if Luca trusts him more than he does most men.

There is no arrogance in his steps, no attempt to impress, only a pervasive command that wraps around him like smoke.

His suit is black and severe, unbroken by color or embellishment, and he wears it the way soldiers wear armor.

The first impression I get is that this man values survival over vanity, and my lips curl into a small smile.

A single, pale scar slices clean across his brow, catching the golden light as he passes beneath the chandelier.

As if pulled by my attention, his gaze finds mine across all the faces, and remains fixed on me for a beat.

A beat where the rest of the world falls silent.

There is no hesitation in his eyes, no flicker of surprise or appreciation, no trace of the performative deference most men offer women like me.

His gaze holds mine with the unnerving weight of someone who has already seen too much, someone who understands exactly what kind of room he has entered and what kind of woman I have been made to become.

He looks at me like he sees the lineage stitched into my spine, the obedience sharpened into my smile, the blood soaked into the hem of a family legacy I never asked to inherit.

And in that endless breath of quiet recognition, something dark and electric thrums beneath my skin, waking in places I thought I had long since turned to stone.

A slow, burning blush creeps across my cheeks.

If Mama were nearby, she would insist I lower my gaze, for it is not becoming for a young woman like me to be so apparently smitten by someone so much older and directly tied to the one family abhorred by Papa.

Taking a moment to compose myself, I smooth down my dress and descend.

My heels strike the marble, the hem of my gown trailing like spilled wine in my wake.

The hall glows warm and golden around us, but the only thing I feel is the cold certainty that this night will not unfold the way anyone expects it to.

I greet the Salvatores in turn, my voice smooth, my smile gracious, offering pleasantries that I have rehearsed a hundred times over.

Luca kisses the back of my hand like a man enjoying the performance, Marco offers a murmured compliment I barely register, and then I reach Enzo, who does not extend his hand.

I do not offer mine.

Once more, we only look at each other, and in that breathless pause, something ancient and wordless passes between us, something far older than this truce or these families or the velvet-covered violence we've all been taught to wield.

His eyes are darker up close, more shadow than color, and they move over my face with the kind of stillness that feels like a decision being made.

"Enzo Moretti," he says at last, his voice low and quiet, wrapped in gravel and midnight.

I feel it more than I hear it.

"Aria Lombardi," I reply, though I suspect he already knows.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, not quite anything, and the space between us seems to contract by a fraction.

It is the smallest shift, the subtlest thing, but I feel it in my chest like a pull, a warning, a promise.

Someone brushes past us and the spell breaks, or perhaps just thins.

He steps back into the line of his family, I return to mine, and the negotiations resume.

Shortly afterwards, we are summoned to dinner, and it is not a moment too soon.

This is a high-profile event celebrating the uneasy truce between the Salvatore and Lombardi families, with a select few present.

All of them have ties to one family or the other.

The dining hall glows beneath chandeliers imported from Venice, each crystal teardrop catching the candlelight like it's been lit from within.

Gold-edged plates gleam on the long table draped in ivory linen, flanked by polished silver, fine stemware, and the kind of floral arrangements that require a private jet and three florists to survive the journey from Palermo.

The room smells of wealth and ambition, of wine aged longer than some of the guests have been alive, of truffle oil and roasted meat, of women wearing too much jasmine and men wielding too much power.

This is not a celebration.

It is a performance, down to the last guest being seated in a chair that is specifically chosen for them.

Papa is seated at the head of the table, as expected.

Luca Salvatore is placed to his right in a gesture of diplomacy.

My mother takes her usual post at his left.

She would look beautiful were it not for the slight sneer that seems to be permanently etched on her mouth.

I'm seated farther down, opposite Marco Salvatore.

Cesare Bellanti is seated between me and one of the Russian arms intermediaries.

His family's role in the truce is pivotal, given their sway over the southern routes, their storage terminals, their influence in cross-border politics.

They are the neutral ground, the oil that keeps the machine from grinding to a halt.

And lately, it's no secret they've been leaning closer to Luca.

The seating arrangement says it clearly enough: Cesare is now in between both families.

Physically. Politically. Financially.

I watch Papa as he lifts his glass in the first toast of the evening.

"To old names, kept alive in newer times."

Polite applause.

A few murmured salutes .

But Luca doesn't touch his wine.

He watches Papa for a heartbeat too long, then finally lifts the glass, smiling with that effortless cool that makes Papa's grip on his stemware turn white-knuckled.

When the antipasti are served—roasted artichokes, shaved bottarga, thin slices of veal tonnato—Papa leans in slightly.

"I must say, it's a rare pleasure to see the Salvatores so interested in diplomacy. Usually, your men prefer...fire."

Luca's expression never shifts. "And yet here we are, sharing a meal instead of territory. Isn't progress beautiful?"

Papa manages a smile, but it looks like he's in pain.

"Progress can be dangerous when it forgets its roots."

Beside him, my mother lifts her wine without comment, though her eyes slide to Luca.

Cesare, ever the politician, breaks the tension smoothly. "My father always said the best deals are made over food, not funerals. Shall we let the lamb do the talking tonight?"

Papa laughs, but this time, it sounds like gravel. "Let's hope the Salvatores listen better than they used to."

While Papa is playing his part well, I can see the lines of worry and resentment on his face.

His smile is pulled too tight, and he flinches when Luca pats him on the arm.

Dinner proceeds for what feels like an eternity, with each dish richer and more ridiculous than the last.

When the last course ends and the plates are cleared away, everyone moves to the study for wine and cheese.

I have had enough at this point, so I slip through the doors leading out to the terrace, my lungs aching for something the interior of the estate cannot offer.

The wind outside is cooler, touched with the faint salt of the sea, laced with the sweet burn of distant citrus and the sharper sting of memory.

Out here, the marble glows under the moonlight, and the vineyard spreads like a dark sea toward the horizon, breathing in silence.

I brace my hands on the carved stone railing, tilting my face to the sky.

The stars look foreign tonight.

Distant, even removed, although I have always felt close to them.

Or maybe it's just me, unmoored in a world built for men with power and daughters dressed in silk to sweeten their political value.

A voice cuts through the quiet behind me.

"You always were good at vanishing when things got dull."

I don't turn right away.

I recognize that voice's owner to be Cesare Bellanti.