The Don’s Deadly Assassin

21. Camela

Camela

Chapter 21

I wake up in the middle of the night. Did something wake me? I lie still for a while, listening to all the sounds around me, feeling whether there is any change in the movement of the air in the room.

My eyes search each window, the dim lights from the garden paths casting angular patterns against the tall walls.

After a while I relax from my alert state and realize my body is feeling out of place. The couch is too small for two people, and I'm practically lying on top of Vincenzo. I carefully slip out of his strong arms, trying not to disturb him.

His coat lies on the floor, and I reach for it, draping it around my shoulders to cover myself before I begin walking around the dimly lit living room.

It’s just the new surroundings. I’ll get used to it soon enough. My thoughts don't comfort me much as I pace through the room. My eyes are drawn to a photo on the wall, and I freeze as I notice the man in the picture with Vincenzo.

There's a sense of familiarity that washes over me, but I can't quite place it.

For a brief second, this unknown man draws me in. I rack my brain, trying to remember who he might be.

But it’s strange having to do this. In my line of work, I’ve been trained to remember every name and every face because forgetting means creating an opening for the enemy to take you by surprise. Yet his, I can’t place.

"Who is he? Why do I feel like I've seen him before?" I question internally, my curiosity piqued.

Maybe it's just my nerves playing tricks on me, I think to myself, desperately hoping that's all it is. And yet, I can’t seem to pry my eyes away from the photo.

Deep down, I know there must be more to it. I lean closer and observe the details of his face. The photo is in black and white, but I can see his floppy hair and the slight manner in which his jaw juts out.

I find more features, transfixed.

I blink, and suddenly, a memory flashes before my eyes. I see the man's face again, but this time, he's laughing at an unfamiliar dining table. The sound of his laughter echoes in my mind, filling me with warmth and leaving me confused.

At this table, he looks tall. I’m staring at him with my head tilted up. Why does it feel like he's looming so large in my memories?

It's as though I'm seeing him through a child's lens, but that doesn't make any sense. The Handler never had company. None that I can remember, at least.

Maybe I’m just tired, I tell myself, trying to shake off the disorienting memory. Or it could be some sort of side effect from the arrow's power ... maybe Vincenzo's memories are seeping into my mind somehow.

That's the only logical explanation I can come up with. It has to be a figment of my imagination. In what world could I ever have met anyone from Vincenzo’s life in my younger years?

Is it even possible for our memories to merge like this? I wonder, feeling a sharp pang. If he ever had a glimpse of my memories, he would hate me with all his being. I shiver involuntarily. Or could there be something else going on here?

I stand motionless before the photograph that commands my attention. My pulse quickens with every passing moment, and it is as if my body knows something my mind doesn’t. I’ve long ago learned to trust my gut.

I consider what I've just experienced. There must be a reason why I'm recalling that man's face so vividly. But what connection could he possibly have to my past?

"Camela?" Vincenzo's voice startled me, and I spun around to face him, clutching his tighter coat around me. He pushes himself into a sitting position on the couch.

"Is everything alright?" His voice is gravelly from sleep.

"Ah, yeah. I couldn't sleep," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. But the image of the laughing man still lingers in my mind, refusing to be dismissed.

"Come here," Vincenzo beckons, extending an arm towards me. I hesitate for a moment before walking back to him, allowing myself to sink into his embrace. It feels warm and comforting, a temporary refuge from the storm brewing inside my head.

"Who is he?" I finally ask, unable to suppress my curiosity any longer. "The man in that photo with you," I point at it.

Vincenzo studies my face for a moment as if gauging how much to reveal. "That…," he begins slowly, choosing his words carefully. "is... He was my brother."

"Your brother, the one who passed away?" My heart pounds faster now. Why would I know Vincenzo’s brother…his dead brother!

"Antonio..." Vincenzo pauses, swallowing hard as he fights to maintain his composure. "He was assassinated a few years ago. An untraceable bullet, the hitman disappeared, leaving no clue of who ordered the hit or why. It remains an unsolved murder.."

“What?” I gasp. Suddenly, I feel shock. Could I have been the one…?

No. I’m driving myself crazy. I’ve never forgotten a kill. I can’t even entertain the horrific idea of being responsible for his brother’s death. Maybe the Handler? The Snake? But none of them ever mentioned such a man to me.

The room suddenly feels colder, and my sense of foreboding grows heavier. The feeling of familiarity when I see Antonio’s face defies all logic. What are the odds that I would be drawn to this photo, to this man who had his life cut short under inexplicable circumstances? My mind races with questions.

"Can you tell me more about him?"

Vincenzo sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. "He was a good man, kind-hearted and dedicated to helping others. He was the head of this mafia but always put others before himself. He wanted to shelter me from this life and protect me from it, which is why he encouraged me to follow my passion for academia. But beyond that, there isn't much to tell. He lived a quiet life."

For a second, I forget my own worries when I see the pain in Vincenzo’s eyes. I reach over and gently place a hand over his. “He sounds like a wonderful man.”

“He was,” Vincenzo shakes his head. “Which is why his death never made sense. The police, my men, our network, everyone worked tirelessly to get to the bottom of it but it seems as though that bullet was one of a kind, made just for him.”

As Vincenzo shares more about Antonio, I can't shake the feeling of unease creeping up my spine. The pieces of this puzzle don’t fit, and with each new piece I uncover, the web of mystery just seems to grow thicker.

The memory of Antonio lingers heavily in the air, a looming presence that demands attention.. The thought that such a kind-hearted man would meet such a puzzling fate leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, mingling with the guilt that already stirs within me.

I was about to show Vincenzo a similar fate, until that arrow pricked me.

"Maybe it's best if we try to get some sleep," I suggest, feeling overwhelmed with everything that’s happened tonight: putting an end to The Ghost, making love, discovering memories of Vincenzo’s brother and learning of his death. "This couch isn't exactly comfortable for both of us and a good night’s rest might be just what we need."

"Of course," Vincenzo agrees, understanding my need for solitude. He stands up, offering me his hand, and together we walk towards my bedroom.

As he opens the door for me, I pause for a moment, looking back at him. "Thank you, Vincenzo," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "For everything."

"Sleep well, Camela," he says softly, closing the door behind me as I step into the room.

The room is bathed in shadows, the only light seeping in from the sliver of moonlight that filters through the curtains. I lie down on my bed, but my mind refuses to rest. Antonio's smiling face keeps replaying in my thoughts, haunting me like a specter from the past.

I toss and turn, the sheets tangling around my legs as I struggle to find peace. My heart races, and I wonder if this sense of danger I feel is connected to Antonio's assassination or still the lingering threat to Vincenzo.

"Was it really just a coincidence that I thought I knew him?" I mutter to myself, staring at the ceiling, hoping for answers to materialize before me. "A simple chance of déja vu? Or is there more to this than I realize?"

More consuming questions arise, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. None of this was in Vincenzo’s file.

The room seems to close in on me with each passing moment, the walls inching closer together, suffocating me under the weight of my own anxiety. I sit up, taking deep breaths, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

But the images of Antonio refuse to fade away, his laughter echoing in my ears like a sinister soundtrack to my own unease.

"Camela," I whisper to myself, "you need to stop this. You're letting your imagination run wild."

My eyes squeeze shut, attempting to block out the world and the treacherous thoughts that cloud my mind. The clock on the wall ticks incessantly, its hands inching forward in a slow dance that finally puts me into a restless sleep.

My sleep is fitful, plagued by dreams of Antonio and the mysterious dining table. In my dreams, Antonio's laughter turns into a mocking taunt, echoing through the cavernous space until it feels as though it will swallow me whole.

I wake up with a gasp, choking for air.

"Stop it," I whisper to myself, forcing my eyes open once more. "You're just scared, Camela. That's all. It was only just a dream."

Yet, I can’t find myself going back to sleep.