The Don’s Deadly Assassin

1. Camela

Camela

Chapter 1

Present Day

I approach the decaying Sicilian mansion, a relic of forgotten grandeur. The house shines no light at this hour, save for one window on the first floor, seen from the front fa?ade.

I crawl forward with one side of my body inched against the eight-foot-high boundary walls, lost in the shadows.

A crunching sound creeps into the night. I strain my ears to hear a pitter-patter of small, soft feet. Four feet. A rabbit, probably foraging through foliage.

I’m in the clear. I move further. As the house draws nearer, I notice the little things. Ivy clings desperately to crumbling blue stone walls, while the windows look like new aluminum, fresh and untainted glass.

It’s not that the professor doesn’t care for the upkeep; it’s simply that he can’t be bothered with things that don’t concern him.

The darkness is my cloak, shielding me from unwanted eyes. Just before I reach the house's porch, I get down on the grass and pull out my frequency jammer to disrupt the signals of the security cameras.

They’ll get a beautiful show of snow. I then employ infrared LED lights to obscure my body heat from the motion sensors, effectively masking my presence.

Crawling up to the main door, I jump to my feet, pressing myself against the wall to reach for the door. Standing right in front of a closed door is an unnecessary risk.

So I stretch out my arms while I pick the lock, just until I hear that soft, satisfying click letting me know that I have the tumblers and pins just where I need them. The alarms won’t be a problem.

Once inside the mansion, I pause to take in the scene before me. The grand entrance hall is home to spectacular vases sitting atop a mahogany foyer table. Ancient, precious art flanks the hallway. There’s a small, dim light on in the corridor.

The mansion's aging walls seem to hold their breath as I slip through the corridors undetected.

The Handler would be proud. I’ve always been the best at avoiding detection.

I walk up the stairs to the first floor and then take a right to find the room in which I saw the light. I barely breathe and stay against the wall.

A failed assassination is not an option. Tonight is no exception. The Handler handpicked me for this task. He chose me over The Snake - Matthiera.

The dim glow of what must be a desk lamp breaks the darkness as I carefully approach the study. The door is ajar.

I lean in with my head so I can take a peek with one eye. Professor Julian Castellano sits hunched over at his desk, completely absorbed in his work. It's almost a shame to disturb him – almost.

I could dart right inside, taking his life in a flash, but I love the thrill of testing my stalking skills, getting as close as possible without detection.

The Professor turns around, his surprised eyes taking me in—the combat boots, the black cloak, the hair slicked back into a ponytail, the mask covering my face—and he rises to his feet, his hands hovering to reach for the panic button.

I smile and summersault over to the desk, just kicking his hand away before jumping onto the table. I crouch down on my haunches over his trembling body. “Who–” he begins and tries to push back his chair, but I grab his chin with one hand, removing the syringe concealed in that sleeve.

I plunge it into his neck before he can even complete his sentence. Its deadly payload of botulinum travels through his bloodstream, obstructs vital vessels, and causes a catastrophic embolism.

I hold on to his chin, that smile still etched on my own, as his eyes widen, and he sputters for air. He struggles against my grip, chokes, and sputters, but I only let go when his eyes turn cold.

He slumps forward onto the desk, lifeless, never knowing what hit him.

Once again, I am what the Handler says I am - an apex predator. It’s not the first time I've taken a life, nor will it be the last.

I’m made for the kill.

I turn my attention to the room, scanning for any surveillance devices or potential evidence that would indicate the presence of an intruder.

My gloved fingers trace the intricate woodwork, the ornate bindings of old journals, and the cold metal surfaces of antique weapons. Nothing escapes my scrutiny.

"All clear so far," I mutter under my breath. "Keep looking." I know The Handler will want a thorough report, and I'm determined not to disappoint.

I delve deeper into the study, examining every corner and shadow for anything that might betray my presence. With each passing moment, my confidence grows, the familiar euphoria of a job well done coursing through my veins.

In a little while, I’ll disappear into the night without a trace. I know how this will play out; I conjure up images in my head. Eventually, someone will notice the professor missing. They might come looking or send someone. The police will arrive at some point.

And they’ll find nothing out of the ordinary. There is no sign of forced entry, and his body shows no marks of violence. The prick of the needle is so small, non-existent to the bare eye.

The professor was old, they would say. In his mid-sixties. It was the isolation and the stress of the job that got him. You know, these intellectual kinds.

A heart attack or a cardiac arrest, perhaps?

I smile at the predictability of humans, so gullible.

After surveying most of the room, I walk over to his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. My fingers brush against the spines of ancient books, resting on their cracked leather and dusty pages. Suddenly, one of the books shifts under my touch, and a soft click echoes through the room.

"Interesting," I murmur, this unexpected turn sparking curiosity within me. “Keeping secrets, dear professor?”

For the first time in my life, I begin to wonder why the Handler wanted the target eliminated. This kill is peculiar. The Handler usually goes for people who wronged him. What could he possibly have wanted with a respected, tenured professor?

Perhaps I’m about to find out what dirty little secrets the professor held.

The bookcase swings open, revealing a chamber beyond. Although I stopped having the weaker human feelings a long time ago, my heart races with glee at this revelation. I step into the chamber.

It’s so dark that I smell the room before I can see it: dust, a little musty, with that cozy hint of precious metal. Then, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and little things begin to shimmer at me.

I pull out my flashlight and cast a beam around the room. It takes my breath away. There are shelves upon shelves upon shelves, filled with items whispering tales of times long past. I can't help but step further inside, drawn to the mysteries concealed here.

"Didn't expect this," I whisper, scanning the room with rapt attention. But it's not the danger that holds my attention – it's the treasures before me. Walls lined with lamps, Chinese tapestries, chest boxes, and artifacts of rubies and emeralds. Frames with ancient portraits, jewelry, a bow and arrow.

I knew that the professor was a historian, archaeologist, and researcher. But this room did not show up on any of the building plans I studied. I purse my lips in thought. These might be items the dear professor kept off the record.

He keeps souvenirs. Who would have thought?

Gently, I glide my gloved hand over some of the items. Truly remarkable. How many digs did he work on? Are these pieces a reminder of his most renowned discoveries?

Slowly, a thought begins to take shape in my mind, and my lips curl up into a grin.

How many kills do I have to my name? Dozens? Hundreds? There are so many that I’m losing count. Perhaps I, too, deserve a souvenir for each kill. Not only is it hard work, but it is a testament to my dedication and years of blood, sweat and tears I’ve put into becoming an accomplished assassin.

“What do I want to remember you by, professor?” I murmur, walking deeper into the room. I tap my fingers along the shelves, picking up little objects here and there.

An ivory trinket box, too fragile.

An amphora, too bulky.

A Mesopotamian tablet is too boring.

A signet ring, too frivolous.

I abandon this wall. Ancient scrolls piled high on a table beckon me closer, their parchment fragile and yellowed with age. I gently unroll one, careful not to damage it. I examine the faded ink, trying to make sense of the text. It seems anciently irrelevant.

I continue to explore, unable to deny the allure of the relics surrounding me. I pick a single piece to commemorate my workmanship.

This room holds a power that draws me in, tempting me to linger just a moment longer.

"Such incredible history," I say softly, the knowledge from centuries past bearing down upon me.

Just then, a shimmer of gold catches my eye, stealing my attention. I move closer, drawn to the object as if summoned. There, resting on a silk pillow, lies a golden arrow – but as I draw nearer, it’s not a plain golden arrow.

I gasp as it gives off a shimmer in the dark. I pick it up and almost drop it; it's touching my skin warm.

“How?” I whisper in astonishment as I try to decipher the source of its glow. It is thin, as thin as the tine of a fork, and long, longer than my arm. At its head is an inverted heart, its tip decorated with the tiniest, perfectly pointed ruby. I examine it with keen interest.

"Beautiful," I whisper, unable to tear my gaze away from the exquisite craftsmanship. "So unlike anything I've ever seen before."

I hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not this is a fitting souvenir for this kill. My instincts scream at me to leave it be – to close my mission and exit the villa without unnecessary risks.

But what more appropriate gift for a huntress than an arrow? I muse, twisting it over again and again. "To think the professor kept such a unique treasure hidden from the world."

As my fingers brush against the cool ruby at the tip, I feel a jolt of energy surge through my body. The sensation is both exhilarating and terrifying, leaving me wondering what kind of force could be contained within such a seemingly delicate artifact.

Despite the fear it brings out in me, I yearn to possess it, to master it.

"That’s settled," I say softly, gritting my teeth and steeling myself for whatever side effect this thing might come with, "you're coming with me."

I grip it tighter and playfully tap the hood of the arrow. I’m about to turn around and walk out of here when I feel something shift in my palm. I look down, and the wind gets knocked right out of me.

The arrow is folding into itself. I watch, mesmerized, as it turns to the size of my thumb.

Bloody hell! It’s like you were crafted to be concealed.

This arrow just made the whole act of stealing it so much easier.

Carefully, I pocket the golden arrow, treating it with the reverence I instinctively know it deserves. With renewed determination, I turn my attention to getting the hell out of here. The clock is ticking, and I can't afford any more distractions.

The Handler must be waiting for news.

"Time to go," I whisper, slipping back into the shadows as the bookcase creaks closed behind me, sealing the ancient secrets within.

The moon casts a silvery glow over the gardens of the mansion as I slip out of the house, my heart still pounding from adrenaline. I walk out with confidence. The CCTVs are already out. No one will be able to place me at the scene tonight.

With one final backward glance at the villa, I slip onto the sleeping streets, leaving behind the murdered professor and his secrets. The warm Mediterranean breeze caresses my face, carrying the scent of wildflowers and citrus trees as I make my way toward a rendezvous point several kilometers away.

Once I reach the secure location, I pull out the satellite phone with encrypted channels, my fingers deftly dialing the familiar number. The Handler's voice crackles through the static, cold and detached as always.

"Report," he orders, wasting no time on pleasantries.

"Target eliminated," I reply, keeping my tone steady and professional. "No complications."

"Good," The Handler says, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You'll receive further instructions within twenty-four hours. Dispose of the phone once we've concluded this call."

"Understood," I acknowledge, feeling the weight of the golden arrow pressing against my thigh. For a moment, I consider telling him about the artifact – but then, an inner urge to keep this discovery to myself stops me.

I know just what he would say. A souvenir creates a bond with your victim. You must never tolerate any form of emotion.

He would view this need of mine as a weakness. Best, I say nothing.

"Huntress," The Handler says, his voice pulling me back to the present. "Well done."

"Thank you," I reply stiffly, unsure how to respond to his rare praise. With a click, the line goes dead.

I slowly pull out the golden arrow and clutch it in my hand. I sigh, "What have I gotten myself into with you?"

As I crush the satellite phone beneath my heel, I can't help but feel that I've crossed some invisible line. And as I melt back into the darkness, I know that there's no turning back now.