The Don’s Deadly Assassin

2. The Handler

The Handler

Chapter 2

I sit in my private office with a cigar in one hand, the smoke curling lazily around me. It’s dark and cold in here, private, with only the light of a single desk lamp keeping me company. Just how I like it. The darkness helps me think.

I pull out the reports and photographs of the scene on my satellite phone. My eyes narrow as I swipe through the images, scrutinizing every detail, ensuring that nothing has been overlooked.

"Once again, an exceptional performance tonight, Camela," I mutter with pride, recalling her cold efficiency during training. Her nickname, 'The Huntress,' is truly fitting.

But I expect nothing less; after all, she was molded into a deadly weapon under my guidance.

"Handler," a voice crackles through the speakerphone on my desk, interrupting my thoughts. "We've secured the perimeter as you instructed. Awaiting further orders."

"Enter premises," I reply curtly. The furrow in my brow deepens. With each step my men take, I receive real-time images. I follow their path.

They wipe all footprints and glove prints from every surface the Huntress stepped on or touched.

They scan in between the blades of grass to remove any long, brunette strands of hair. That is how thoroughly my team works; that is the gold standard we are known for.

“Ground floor clear,” the voice crackles.

“Proceed to the scene of elimination,” I command.

As my team moves through the house, meticulously erasing any trace of the huntress, I lean back in my chair and take another long drag from my cigar, letting the smoke drift upward, swirling in the dim light of the room.

"Elimination scene secure," the voice reports over the speakerphone. I observe the live feed on the screen, not missing a single detail.

"Good," I respond, my voice steely and commanding. "Leave no trace. The professor's demise must appear natural and undisturbed."

“Your assassin already made sure of that.”

I smile. Of course, she did. She is my best one, my special one.

“Now, find the artifacts.”

My men use thermal imaging cameras to look for concealed spaces. When they scan the bookshelves, I watch the lights switch to indicate depth through temperature variations.

In less than a minute, they identify the way in, discovering a small lever activated by the movement of a book.

I lean in, holding my breath, hyper-focused on whatever comes on screen. The shelf parts reveal a room of treasures. It’s dark, and my men put on laser lights.

There are hundreds of things in there, but not every one of them finds its way onto the screen.

“Go over each shelf, start on the left.”

“Yes, sir.”

I notice every coin, every scroll, every little trinket box. How large would it be?

Nervously, I grip the cigar tighter, causing ash to fall on the polished surface of the desk. As they reach the end of the room, an empty cushion catches my attention.

It has a small, thin, elongated indentation from something that was there until quite recently. The impression would go unnoticed by most eyes. But not mine.

"Damn it!" I snap, grinding the cigar into the ashtray. This is unacceptable. Years of planning, preparation, and execution, all for this one artifact. And now, it's missing!

"Scan through every corner of the house again. Find what was lying on that pillow. Look for it until your fingers bleed,” I bark into the speakerphone, spittle flying. I can’t accept defeat, not yet.

“Understood, Handler,” my men reply and end the live feed.

The arrow must be there, somewhere…unless I’ve missed something.

My pulse pounds in my temples, threatening a headache. I pull out the drawer containing files on various persons of interest. My fingers find the one labeled Castellano, and I yank it from its resting place, neatly spreading the contents across my desk.

Newspaper clippings rustle beneath my hands as I search for any hint or clue about the missing arrow.

‘Professor Julian Castellano Discovers Ancient Shipwreck’ reads one headline from 2016. It is accompanied by a photograph of the man himself, beaming with pride at the treasures he's unearthed. The scent of ink and paper rises from the articles.

‘Shipwreck Dates Back to 1600 BCE’ states another article, and my frown deepens as I mentally retrace my deductions. Once again, I find myself arriving at the same conclusion.

It is around the same time that the legend of the missing cupid arrow began to fade from historical records and stories. A coincidence? Perhaps. But I've never cared much for chance.

With a click, I play a recording on my computer – TV coverage of the shipwreck discovery. The reporter's voice fills the room, recounting the significance of the find and how it might shed new light on history as we know it.

"This is most probably how the arrow was lost to history," I mutter under my breath, eyes narrowing at the screen. Castellano salvaged the shipwreck, it would have been easy for him to take possession of the arrow.

I’ve known the historian for years. He once told me himself about how he likes to keep a ‘treasure’ from sites he discovers and studies. The arrow was never reported as a find from the shipwreck.

He must have kept it hidden for all these years. I would have done exactly the same with such a precious piece.

Where else could he have hidden it? And more importantly, who else might know about it?

I go through every possibility and every connection Castellano has made over the years. I won't allow this golden arrow to slip through my fingers now, not when I’m so close to achieving my goals.

I go over all the evidence once more in my mind, carefully re-evaluating each piece of the puzzle. The wrecked vessel, dating from around the time people stopped recording legends of the arrow, Castellano as a salvor and his tendency to secure souvenirs from his discoveries—it all converges in a single, undeniable conclusion: the arrow must have been on that ship. And if Castellano discovered it, he likely possessed it at some point. But where could it be now?

"Damn it," I mutter, my fingers drumming impatiently on my desk. Frustration simmers under my skin as I dig deeper into the file. I need answers, and I need them fast.

As I continue flipping through the documents, something catches my eye—several photographs of Castellano and Don Vincenzo Consolini together at various events.

They're smiling, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, their camaraderie evident. They have a close relationship, no doubt.

Had they been closer than I thought? How could I have missed this? Vincenzo was a student of Castellano’s and studied under him as a private student for years.

"Vincenzo Consolini," I say his name aloud, letting it roll off my tongue. There's a certain power in speaking a person's name – as if by doing so, you can summon them or control their fate.

If Vincenzo has even the slightest knowledge of the arrow's whereabouts, his fate may very well be intertwined with mine.

My gaze lingers on one particular photograph—Castellano and Vincenzo sharing a toast at some gala event, lifting their glasses in celebration. I can almost hear the clink of their glasses and their unrestrained laughter.

It's uncanny how natural they appear together—like brothers in blood. I expect to find my next lead within this bond.

If Castellano trusted anyone with the arrow, it would be someone like Vincenzo. That means I need to examine him more closely.

"Time to put Vincenzo under the microscope," I whisper. I will find that arrow, even if it means shaking up the entire underworld to do so.

I close the file and put it back in my drawer, waiting until I hear the final click of its unbreachable auto-lock.

"Vincenzo," I murmur. The name is now a promise, a vow to myself. My hand reaches for the phone, lingering over it for a brief moment while I consider who I should call next—the person I select for this delicate mission might make all the difference in the outcome.