The Don’s Deadly Assassin

8. Camela

Camela

Chapter 8

I sit alone in my darkened, safe house, with just three candles for company. There’s no electricity here and no running water. No plants, no pets and no neighbors: this way, I can pass this cottage off as abandoned.

After what happened this morning, I couldn’t go back to my apartment. Vincenzo managed to track me down.

Not himself, but there was an invitation with his name on an envelope placed inside my letterbox. That was enough to make me run.

Vincenzo should be dead. That was my mission – one I had accepted without question, like so many times before. But something has changed, and I can't quite put my finger on it.

I turn over the invitation, gently feeling over the embossed script. I should feel nothing but neutrality for this man. He is, after all, just a little pawn on the Handler’s chessboard.

A chicken to be butchered in the cage. Yet my heart flutters wildly with each caress of his name.

"Stupid," I mutter under my breath, crumpling the invitation into a ball before tossing it onto the table. But the minute I do, a stab of pain goes through me.

I grab the paperback, trying to smooth it out. But the creases remain, and I feel like I’ve ruined something important.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can't afford distractions, and I'm not in my line of work. The Snake would never let such childish emotions cloud his judgment.

We both absolved the same training under the Handler's watchful eye. I always thought myself to be better, but now I wonder if I’ve been lying to myself all along.

Overwhelmed, I pull out the emotion wheel from one of the Handler’s old training manuals. It seemed ridiculous at the time, but now I find myself studying it intently, desperate for insight.

"Anger, fear, sadness, melancholy, desire..." I read as I trace along the various sections. None of them seem to capture the essence of what's tearing me apart.

Not that I have words for emotions. I’ve never really had them, but I've never mind exploring them.

I was trained as a machine.

My eyes land on the section labeled 'love', and I shiver involuntarily.

"Love? No, that's impossible," the word sounds silly, even to my own ears. "I don't love him. I can't."

What the hell does love even mean?

But despite my protests, I can't shake the gnawing suspicion that love may very well be the source of my turmoil. The idea terrifies me. Love means vulnerability, and vulnerability has no place in my world.

Yet, as I stare at the crumpled invitation, I know that my resolve is wavering, and my heart refuses to be silent any longer.

The memory of the gala plays out before my eyes like a film reel, refusing to grant me any peace. I see Vincenzo's elegant face, his blue eyes meeting mine like an endless ocean filled with promises.

The way he gently took my hand, guiding me through the dance, his warm breath caressing my ear as we sparred with clever comebacks and playful retorts.

"None of this makes sense," I mutter, my heart pounding against my chest, each beat echoing the name 'Vincenzo.' "Why am I feeling like this?"

My fingers trace along the edge of the invitation, the paper now damp from my sweaty palms. I feel like I might be coming down with a fever, and I urgently need to root out this infection.

I need to remember what happened. I was ready to kill him, bored of his existence even, and then? I had reached into my purse to release the pin on the bracelet.

A minute later, I talked myself out of using that weapon.

Whatever happened?

The prick—the moment my world shifted—comes rambling back at me—the prick on my finger from that cursed arrowhead. It was like an internal shift of tectonic plates took place at that moment.

"Could that have caused all of this?" I ask myself, desperate for any sort of explanation, no matter how far I sought.

I frantically search my purse, upending its contents onto the coffee table. Lipstick, keys, the gun, and other items scatter across the surface. My hands shake as I sift through the clutter.

And then, I find it, just a wee little thumb-sized piece of magnificence. A tiny crust of dried blood was still on the ruby-red arrowhead.

I lay my forehead into my hands - this arrow must be responsible for my overwhelming change.

"Could it really be that simple?" I whisper, picking up the arrowhead with trembling hands. "But how?"

Is it laced with something? A drug? A poison? Is there a cure?

As I hold the arrow in my hand, I feel a surge of emotions washing over me, emotions that surface in the presence, at the thought, and with memories of Vincenzo.

My heart races yet my body feels calmer. My thoughts remain confused, but the object of my affection remains unquestionably, Vincenzo. My skin burns where he touched me. My hand, my lower back, my waist.

The artifact has unlocked something so profound within me that I don’t recognize myself anymore.

I can't tear my eyes away from the delicate floral filigree etched into the metal, each curve and twist hypnotizing me further.

"Camela, you need to get a grip," I tell myself, shaking off the reverie. "This isn't like you."

But even as I say the words, another part of me argues back. Maybe this is the real me, the one who has been buried beneath layers of living a life fulfilling the Handler’s mission. The one who never met herself.

Or maybe the arrow is just messing with my thoughts, trying to confuse me with its poisoned tip.

"Vincenzo," I murmur, his name tasting sweet on my lips. "Why you? What do you have to do with all of this?"

I grapple with the power the arrow holds over my heart and mind, the flood of emotions threatening to drown me. My instincts scream at me to destroy the artifact, to rid myself of its disturbing influence once and for all.

But another part of me hesitates, afraid that if I destroy this little golden thing, it could destroy the very essence of what Vincenzo means to me.

I could lose him; even death seems sweeter.

And so, the arrow remains in my hand, having convinced me to let it exist.

My mind is splitting as I contemplate the full implications of this inner transformation. I can’t, and I won’t kill Vincenzo.

For the first time in my life, I’m putting a near-stranger over my own survival.

I hate feeling this weak.

"Can I ever go back to who I was?" I wonder about this newfound vulnerability pressing down on my chest. "Or has this change become an irreversible part of me?"

The sudden shrill sound of my phone ringing instinctively makes me reach for my gun. My heart pounds in my throat as my hand hovers over the phone. I’ve been fearing the Handler's call.

I mustn’t let on that I’ve been compromised. He’d kill me himself if he found out. I’ve seen what he does to those who can no longer serve his purpose.

"Hello?" I finally manage to say, making sure my voice remains cold and steady.

He trained me to be the greatest liar in the world, and now, I put the master to test.

"Huntress, tell me you have completed your mission." Straight to the point

For a second, I consider the consequences: honesty or deception.

"Is everything alright?" The Handler's tone is laced with suspicion,

I force out a response. "We need to meet."

“What happened?” His tone could freeze fire.

“When can I see you?” I answer his question with a question, a tactic he taught me himself.

To my surprise, he lets it pass.

"Meet me at the warehouse on Pier 8 in one hour," The Handler says tersely.

"Understood," I say, barely able to suppress the tremble in my voice. As soon as the line goes dead, I release the breath I'd been holding, my mind racing to find a way out.

I need to buy time to figure out a way to safeguard Vincenzo. Requesting to meet the Handler is suicide, but it's necessary if I'm to maintain any semblance of control over this situation.

As I ponder my next move, I recall the Handler's words from our training days: "Emotion is a weakness. It clouds judgment and leads to failure. It’s best you never learn them," And yet, here I am, drowning in unfamiliar feelings, unable to determine their origin or how to quell them.

I glance at the arrow, its metallic gleam catching my eye. Whatever power it holds, I must unlock its secrets and regain control over my own heart before the Handler discovers the truth. There's no room for error now; the stakes have never been higher.