The Don’s Deadly Assassin

4. Vincenzo

Vincenzo

Chapter 4

A violent gust of wind shakes the ancient trees outside my window. I sit in an antique recliner in my private study, my empty gaze drawn to nature’s chaotic display.

A bright flash of lightning spreads its tentacles across the sky, and for a second my compound greens flicker to life, before the following thunder seems to scare them back into hiding. Outside, the compound looks empty, dead.

Just like the professor.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath and lean back in my chair. For the hundredth time, I stare at the framed photograph of me and the professor hanging on the wall opposite me.

The crushing news reached me earlier this afternoon, and I haven’t been able to leave the office since. "Have you heard?" The words echo in my mind, taking me back to the earlier phone call. An old friend had reached out, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"Turn on the television," he had said. "It's Professor Castellano."

It all felt unreal as I turned on the TV. The news anchor was reporting on the unexpected death of the renowned Professor Julian Castellano.

Images of the professor, my dear friend and mentor, flashed on the screen, accompanied by somber music and the anchor's solemn words.

The shock still sits in my bones. The pain of losing another person I deeply care for weighs heavily on me, my heart aching with every beat.

"First Antonio, and now the professor," I think bitterly. "Why is everyone I trust being ripped from my life?"

‘Natural causes’ the news had stated, but something didn’t sit right. A vivid memory of our last meeting – the professor, full of life, boasting about his good health over drinks – flashed before my eyes.

Just last week, we caught up for our usual brandy at our favorite haunt in Palermo. “Order two, my boy,” the professor had cast his coat on the chair across from mine, motioning to the waiter as he took a seat.

His hair had been the signature silver mess, and he hadn’t shaved in days, but he looked just like himself – jovial, full of life and energy.

He had passed me a brandy. “I met the doctor today, and he says I’m at the peak of my health. Never been better, my boy. Never been better.” We had cheered for his health and long life.

Natural causes... Impossible.

I’ve been obsessing over this one detail the whole afternoon. "None of this makes sense," I whisper to myself.

The storm continues to rage outside, mirroring the tempest of emotions brewing within me. I know I can't sit idly by, not when there are too many unanswered questions.

But first, I’ll mourn.

The door creaks open, and I don’t hear it since it coincides with another round of thunder. It is his voice I hear, that alerts me to his presence.

"Sir?" The butler startles me from my contemplations.

"Ah, Giovanni." My eyes flicker over to the tall man before returning to the storm beyond the window. "A scotch, please. And a cigar."

"Right away, Sir." Giovanni strides across the room towards the bar, his polished shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor.

With practiced precision, he selects a bottle of precious aged scotch from the shelf and pours the amber liquid into a crystal glass.

"Your scotch, Sir," he returns, extending the glass towards me with gloved hands.

I take a sniff. “The Highlands, 25,” I remark.

“You look like you needed a special one, sir.”

“You know me too well, Giovanni,” I say and raise the glass towards the photograph, in memory of my friend, before taking a sip.

On any other night, I would have savored the perfectly aged scotch. Tonight, it might as well taste like canal water.

"Thank you, Giovanni," I reply, taking another sip just because I need it. "And my cigar?"

"Of course, sir." Giovanni presents a silver cigar case and opens it for me to select one. I pluck a Cuban from the array, glancing up at my loyal butler.

"Your assistance is appreciated, Giovanni. You may retire for the night. I don't want to be disturbed. Do let everyone know."

"Very well, sir." Giovanni bows slightly before turning to leave the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall after he closes the door.

The storm outside roars on, the wind lashing against the windows as I take another slow drag from my cigar. I stare at the smoke swirling in the air, memories of our first meeting flooding back to me.

"Vincenzo, my boy," Castellano had said, his eyes twinkling with enthusiasm as I questioned why history matters from the front row of his class.

“Without knowing where we came from, we’ll never really know where we ought to go. We’d be like sheep, being whisked along in a truck driven by someone else."

That passion, that fire with which he taught, was so infectious that I still suffer from the disease of needing to learn more.

I found myself drawn to the subject of Ancient Civilizations and Cultures because of Castellano's unwavering belief in its importance.

The thought of never hearing that voice again leaves an ache in my chest that no amount of scotch can dull.

A soft buzz from my phone breaks through my reverie. I glance at the screen and see a coded message from one of my informants. My heart begins to race as I decipher the text.

‘Found tampered CCTV footage. Think AI-generated. Valuables are missing.’

I swear under my breath. No wonder the police didn’t suspect anything. Meanwhile, Julian is dead, and some of his possessions have been taken.

So, my hunch to send someone over to Julian’s place to have a closer look has panned out. This is all I need to confirm that Julian’s wasn’t a ‘natural death.’

"Who would do this to you, old friend?" I ask the storm outside. I leave my chair and go over to the window. My fingers tap against the side of the scotch glass, a nervous habit that surfaces when I'm deep in thought. "Were you hiding something? Why didn't you tell me?"

Memories surge forth, unbidden –of another death that left me reeling - Antonio, my elder brother, assassinated. No trace of his killer, no clue as to why.

"Antonio..." I whisper his name, feeling the same grief that had burdened me then sitting in my chest. Professor Castellano had supported me during that time.

It's as if time has stood still, and I am once again grappling with loss and trying to make sense of it all.

Only this time, I feel even more alone than before.

My eyes roam over the shelves lined with books, bound personal letters, and mementos that tell the story of my life. Among them are tokens from my brother and mentor, whose influence shaped me into the man I am today.

With a trembling hand, I pull out an old photo album, its leather cover worn and faded.

I settle back into the oak and leather recliner and begin to flip through the pages slowly, each photograph a gateway to another memory.

There's a picture of Antonio and me as children, grinning at the camera with dirt-streaked faces, during an afternoon exploring the Roman ruins.

Another captures Professor Castellano and me deep in conversation at the university library, his hands mid-movement.

He had earnestly tried to persuade me to join him on a hunt for ancient relics, a quest he had embarked upon with great enthusiasm.

I remember Antonio taking this picture. He’d told me he was proud of me for getting this far in my academic career. I had never felt closer to my brother.

"Both gone..." My voice catches in my throat, constricting with sorrow.

I turn the page and pause at a photograph that captures a moment of pure joy taken during a family gathering. Antonio, laughing, his arm thrown around my shoulders, while I grin in response to whatever joke he's just whispered in my ear.

On the other side, Professor Julian, looking amused, poured a drink into Antonio’s empty glass.

My heart begins to stutter, alerting me to something….

Over the years, Antonio and Julian have become close friends. Their shared interest in furthering my career and worry about my well-being have turned them into brothers.

They shared various common interests. Could they have shared enemies, too?

As I contemplate Julian's recent death, some parallels seem to stand out. Antonio's assassination, three years earlier, had been swift and brutal.

A single, unmarked bullet ended his life before he could even grasp the danger.

Professional. My men had scoured Rome’s criminal underworld for answers but never found the source of that homemade projectile. Untraceable.

"Could there be a connection?" I wonder aloud. So far, the obvious assumption was that Antonio became a target due to the continued power struggles between Rome's crime families.

But Julian wasn’t connected to that life. His life revolved around history and studying ancient artifacts. Something all three of us loved.

“Who am I kidding?” I gulp down the last bit of my scotch, welcoming the burn in my throat as I slam the glass down on the table.

“Who would kill a man who knows Mesopotamian pottery and cooking methods, for goodness’ sake?” In an instant, my pain turns to anger, anger at myself.

“I should have seen it coming!” I grab the empty glass and hurl it against a wall, where it shatters. I freeze, looking at the mess I’ve made. Just like the mess I’ve made of protecting Antonio.

“I’m sorry, Antonio. I didn’t have your back.” And as the thunder puts on another performance in the gardens beyond the window, I fall to my knees and let the agony of failing to protect my only brother wrack my body.

I wake up in my office, somewhat bleary-eyed and with a creak in my neck from falling asleep in the Morris recliner chair.

The leather is smooth, a result of generations of Consolini men who have sat in it and made the tough decisions that guaranteed this family’s position. Before me, Antonio made those decisions.

Last night’s storm was cathartic. Now, sitting here in the aftermath, looking out at the view of the grounds, leaves still glistening with lingering raindrops, I feel a new inner strength.

Antonio’s death left me paralyzed, Julian’s death gave me renewed purpose. It is time I set out to find the truth. “For both of you.”

I close the photo album and set it aside. At some point, I will need to revisit our old habits and speak to mutual acquaintances.

They might offer some fresh insight into Antonio and Professor Castellano's friendship, a different angle I could use.

Then I remember the upcoming party…I should probably cancel. The Professor’s death will certainly dampen the merriment. Then again, it would be the perfect opportunity to meet with common friends and ask some questions.

Once again, my eyes wander to the picture on the wall. I’ll ask someone from the historical society to make a short speech at the party and have a moment of silence in his honor.

In the meantime, I’ll let my man keep digging through the professor’s life and see whatever else he might come up with.

I’ll get to the bottom of this, my friend, I promise.

I rise from the chair with the most energy I’ve mustered since I received the news of the professor’s passing. I leave my office to find Francesca and give her the updated guest list.