The Don’s Deadly Assassin

3. Camela

Camela

Chapter 3

I drive my car up a winding cobblestone road, lined with carob trees on both sides. The road is deserted. Through the gaps in the foliage I catch glimpses of the Sicilian countryside. In the distance rises Mount Etna with its picturesque slopes.

The volcano looms ever larger as I drive closer to the estate in Randazzo. I’ve driven for over an hour to reach here from Catania. The reason for demanding my presence remains a mystery.

But that’s always how it is with him.

I pull up to the secluded piece of land, hidden away from prying eyes behind rows of orange and lemon trees. I step out and stretch my travel weary arms and legs, my gaze travelling into the distance, following the curvature of the electric fence into a bend a quarter of a mile away.

Despite having been here countless times, the sight never fails to amaze me. Over thirty-six acres of land to house one man.

As I approach the main gate, I press my fingers onto the scanner, feeling the familiar tingle as it reads my prints. The gate creaks open, and I step into the lair of the beast.

Both, on my left and right, are meticulously placed ‘unkempt’ bushes of wild olive, mastic, myrtle, and juniper, along with various herbs and tall grasses. To the unassuming eye, it might seem that the man in charge doesn’t care for manicured lawns.

The truth is, this shrubbery acts as a vantage point for training his assassins to hunt undetected should the fence be breached.

I walk through the shrubbery for a quarter of a mile. Then I see the stone and wood structure—a double-story made of blue lava stone and distressed white oak wood.

I can only see the second floor, since the first is hidden by a second boundary wall, encompassing all four sides of the house.

There are four small windows, so small that they might as well act as peepholes. Most of the windows lie at the back of the house, so any intruder would need to come from the front.

I have no doubt he’s watching.

I curl my lip and look at each window, giving a small wave. Just in case.

I walk over to the boundary wall, prepared for the multiple layers of security checks that await me. Reaching the Portone, I tap in my ID verification, the scanner humming over my access card.

Then, a small port opens up, and a machine whirs out for my retinal scan. I lodge my chin and forehead between the pads, and the scanner confirms my identity.

Lastly, a small needle pokes out. I prick my finger with it, and then, upon confirming the genetic DNA of my blood at body temperature, the gate finally opens for me.

I've always found it ironic that the same organization that trained me to slip past high-security measures uses those same systems to protect itself. I could circumvent these in a second, and he knows that.

But, I wouldn’t…only out of respect.

Once I’m granted access, I walk down the path towards the main door. It swings open, automated. He’s watching.

I enter, walking down the hallway towards the private office, leaving the door to close itself.

I knock. Thrice. His voice comes through the door. “Huntress.”

I open the door. The Handler stands, waiting for me to approach, then takes a seat behind his enormous desk.

With a curt nod in my direction, his manner betraying no emotion, he gets directly down to business, pushing an encrypted device across the desk.

I walk over and pick it up, unlocking it with my thumbprint. "CONSOLINI, VINCENZO," I read the name on the screen, testing its sound.

"The identity of your next target." His voice is cold, and his pronunciation is precise. “Elimination is to be swift and discreet. He must never see it coming.”

“Do they ever?” Nonchalantly, I take a seat in the chair opposite him and place my feet up on the flawless, natural wooden surface.

I study the Handler's expressionless face and wait.

"Vincenzo is a creature of habit," the Handler reveals. "He frequents an upscale bar in Palermo on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. He always takes the same route to and from his villa in Catania."

"Known associates? Any enemies to watch out for?"

"You’ll find all the details on there,” he points with his chin to where I’m casually twirling the device between my fingers.

“His inner circle consists mainly of his mafia associates and a few trusted advisors. There have been rumors of tension with other factions within the extended Consolini family, but nothing concrete. They’re just inconsequential cousins."

"Exploitable weaknesses?" I inquire, mentally cataloging each piece of information.

"Consolini has a penchant for expensive cigars, academia, and beautiful women." The Handler pauses for a moment before continuing. "However, he rarely lets his guard down, even when indulging in his vices."

"You can go through all available information on Vincenzo, including surveillance photos, schedules, and relevant background details, in your own time."

"Understood." It’s my cue to go.

I swing my feet down, but just before I stand, I look at him coyly. "Should I ask why?”

“Have I ever given you an answer to that?”

He doesn’t frown. But I know he hates that question. Even as children, he made it abundantly clear to us that ‘why’ never matters as much as ‘how’.

I shrug, getting bored of trying to yank his chain.

"Secrecy and precision are paramount."

“I might just make it my best work yet.”

“Your dedication is commendable,” the Handler acknowledges, a hint of warmth creeping into his otherwise stoic demeanor.

"Thank you. I won't disappoint you." I stand up and step towards the door.

"See that you don't," The Handler warns, his tone chilling. "There's more at stake here than just our reputation."

His words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I walk out of the room, lifting my arm above my head and waving with my fingers as the door closes behind me.

Just as much as he hates me playing games with him, I despise him, implying that I am weak.

The cold metal of the encrypted device lies heavy in my hand. I sit in my car and pore over its contents, scrutinizing every detail and committing it to memory.

My target heads the Consolini unit, a large, powerful mafia family. Yet herein lies a paradox: he’s an intellectual, preferring the company of historians, archaeologists and professors.

I smirk. He and the Professor would have gotten along like a house on fire. I make a mental note to look into a possible connection later.

Firstly, like always, I study his habits, his surroundings, and the people in his circle.

Vincenzo's daily routines will become my routines. His favorite haunts will become my second home. The faces of his known associates, like my dearest portraits.

All of this will coalesce in my mind, forming a complex web of opportunities and potential pitfalls.

Allowing me to set my trap carefully.

I feel the excitement building. Stalking your prey is a big part of the hunt. It takes skill to blend in and become one with your prey so that it doesn’t catch wind of any danger.

My confidence returns. This is what I know. This is what I’ve trained for every day of my life.

With newfound clarity, I scan photos of the target’s home. It's an opulent fortress surrounded by high walls and hidden cameras. But even the most impenetrable fortress has its Achilles heel, and I will find it.

Or, I grin as I etch my finger over the main door in the photo. I could walk in. Now that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

Finally, I pulled out the images of Vincenzo. I traced my finger over the silhouette of his dark black hair, slightly wavy. His eyes penetrated the camera, a striking blue.

He looks like he’s smiling in each image, and the curves of his mouth are always turned upward. He’s handsome—thin facial structure, high cheekbones, and a strong chin.

Too bad that face will soon be rotting six feet under. The insects would start with those blue eyes.

It's such a waste of good looks.

The Handler is quite unfair like that. Before we took him out, he should have allowed Vincenzo Consolini to populate this earth with his gorgeous genes.

Oh, well, my mission is clear: eliminate the brainy and very handsome Mr. Consolini.