The Don’s Deadly Assassin

22. Vincenzo

Vincenzo

Chapter 22

The shrill sound of my phone ringing rips me from a deep sleep. I wake with a gasp, like I’ve been plunged into ice-water. I look at the time. Eight a.m.!

I overslept.

Groggily, I fumble for the device on my nightstand, bringing it to my ear.

"Hello?" I mutter, voice heavy with sleep.

"Mr. Consolini?" The voice on the other line is unfamiliar, yet formal. "My name is Guido. I'm the late Professor Julian Castellano's lawyer."

"Ah," I say, instantly awake. "What can I do for you, Guido?"

"Sir, I need to request a personal meeting with you this afternoon. There’s an important matter I need to discuss with you in private. Unfortunately I cannot say more over the telephone." His tone is urgent and rubs off on me.

"Alright," I agree, curiosity piqued. "What time would you like to meet?”

“Does three o'clock suit you? I can come over to yours?"

“It works. I will send you my address.”

"Thank you, Mr. Consolini, I‘m familiar with your address. I'll see you then."

The call ends and I toss my phone aside, sinking back into the plush pillows, now wide awake. What could the lawyer want? Can he provide answers to the questions surrounding my dear friend's death?

I roll onto my side, staring at the wall, and try to quiet my racing thoughts. But they only grow louder, feeding off the silence. Obsessively, I imagine various scenarios – the enemies Julian might have, clues that might lead to his killer, or maybe even some secret research he never had the chance to share with me.

As the minutes tick by, my anticipation builds. Time seems to crawl slower than ever, making every second feel like an eternity.

Needing a distraction from my restless thoughts, I decide to spend the day with Camela. I won’t be able to focus on my work today, not with this pending meeting.

All I can think of is Julian. If not Julian, then Camela. Camela’s the better bet, since thoughts of Julian are circular, obsessive, and driving me mad.

I will have my answers this afternoon. Until then, I need a distraction.

The morning sun casts a warm glow across the hallway outside Camela’s room as I knock on her door, breathing in the scent of blooming flowers that fills the air. Giovanni changes the bouquets every three days.

"Hey," I say when she opens the door, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Her face is puffy and she’s got these dark circles I haven’t seen before. It looks like she could use a change of scenery as well. "How about we do something outdoors today? Gardening, maybe?"

"Sounds lovely," she replies, her face brightening at the idea. "I could use some fresh air. Just give me fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

I give her a nod and head downstairs, instructing my kitchen staff to send out some coffee and toast to the garden. Neither of us have had breakfast and it might be good to have a nibble or two.

Camela joins me and together we step out.. It’s a beautiful morning. The sunlight illuminates the dew-covered grass, each blade shimmering like a tiny gemstone.

We have our coffee and a piece of toast each and then gather our gardening tools and set to work, digging into the rich soil and tending to the flowerbeds that border my home.

"Did you know that marigolds can help repel pests?" Camela kneels beside me, carefully placing a vibrant orange flower into the hole she just dug. "They release a chemical that insects find unpleasant."

"Really? I had no idea. You seem to know a lot about plants."

Camela smiles, her eyes lighting up. "I always liked the idea of having your own garden. A garden indicates one must have a home.”

“Was there a garden?” I ask. “In the orphanage you grew up in?”

A shadow crosses her face and I wonder if I perhaps asked too much. But then, she nods and proceeds to tell me about all the plants that grew there.

Our conversation flows easily as we work side by side, our hands covered in dirt and sweat beading on our brows. The physical labor is grounding, calming my racing mind and allowing me to focus on the present moment.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in my finger. A thorn from a rosebush has pricked me, drawing a small bead of blood.

"Here, let me see," Camela says, gently taking my hand. With practiced ease, she removes the thorn and wraps a bandage around my finger. Her touch is soothing.

"Thank you," I murmur, touched by her concern.

"It’s wise to remember even beautiful things sting," she replies with a smile.

“But not all beautiful things,” I reply, placing a thin stroke with my thumb on her cheek. She looks into my eyes, and we’re lost in the moment for a few seconds.

Until a butterfly comes and sits upon her arm. Its delicate wings flutter gracefully as Camela gazes at the butterfly with a soft smile, her eyes sparkling with wonder. The sight of her, so ethereal and at peace, warms my heart.

She truly is a chameleon. She fits into an orphanage, into a party, into my life, into a garden with such ease that I begin to think of her as fluid.

Every space she walks into, it’s like she just belongs.

As the day wears on, the sun climbs higher in the sky, making the skies bluer. The vibrant colors of the flowers and the sweet scent of blossoms fill my senses, drowning out the anxiousness that has been plaguing me all morning.

But then, it begins to get hot, and we realize we’re famished. “Would you look at that?” I say, staring at my watch. “It’s half past two. We better get some food in us before one of us faints.”

“About time!” Camela says, jumping to her feet and smacking her hands together to get rid of the dust.

“You missed a spot,” I say, leaning closer.

“Where?” she asks, looking at her arms with worry.

I lean down, and kiss her on her lips.

We make our way to the corner of the living room by the open window. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves outside. One of my butlers brings out a selection of ham, lettuce and cheese sandwiches along with a side of salad and some iced tea.

“Mmm,” Camela licks over her lips after digging into the sandwich. “Just what we needed!”

“I was starving,” I tell her, grabbing another one.

We mostly eat in silence, ravaged as we are. We’re just about finished, and I’m considering reaching for another when Giovanni walks in.

“Don Consolini,” he addresses me formally, giving me a slight bow. I take it from his behavior that we have company. “Professor Castellano’s lawyer is here to see you.”

"Ah, right on time," I say, setting down my plate and discarding the idea of grabbing another sandwich. I am impatient, and my shoulders are settling back. Please, show him in."

"I can leave if you need privacy?" Camela asks hesitantly.

"No, stay," I insist, offering her a reassuring smile. “You’re practically family, after all.”

She looks at me with wide eyes, like she wasn’t expecting me to say that. The truth is, I don’t know where those words came from either. But the more I think about it, the more I realize they’re true.

Camela feels like a kindred spirit, like family.

Moments later, the lawyer enters the room, looking somewhat confused by the casual atmosphere. His gaze flits between Camela and me, clearly unsure how to proceed. I gesture for him to continue, unwilling to let the tension build any further.

“You may speak frankly in front of the lady, Guido,” I tell him.

A member of my staff enters, offers the lawyer a tray of cookies and iced tea, and leaves. The lawyer sips on the cold tea, and ignores the cookies.

"Mr. Consoline," the lawyer finally starts. "I have been instructed to deliver this safety deposit box and sealed envelope to you personally." He places the items on the coffee table in front of us.

"Both are related to Professor Castellano's death. I haven't opened the letter, as per his instructions and know nothing more."

"Thank you," I reply, my gaze fixed on the items before me. I try to calm down; my foot taps against the floor. Everything in me hopes that whatever is in that envelope will give us clarity on what happened to Julian.

"Is there anything else?" I ask the lawyer, who shakes his head in response.

"Nothing more, Mr. Consolini. I'll take my leave now." With that, he slips out of the room, leaving Camela and me alone with the mysterious contents of the safety deposit box.

I pick up the envelope, examining it carefully. The seal is intact. Julian always said his lawyer was trustworthy.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter, sitting down next to Camela. Her eyes are wide, and nervous energy radiates from her as she watches me break the seal and pull out the contents of the envelope.

Inside, there's a letter. My fingers tremble slightly as I unfold it: ‘In the case of my death, please open this safe with the code mentioned below.’

"Julian must have known he was in danger," I say aloud. Suddenly, a sadness crawls over me. My poor friend. What burdens did he carry alone? If only he’d shared them with me, I might have been able to help him, maybe even save his life. Camela reaches over and touches my shoulder gently, rubbing circles behind my neck. She doesn’t need words to know how I feel.

"Should we open the safe?" Her eyes shift reluctantly between the safe and me.

"Of course." I take a deep breath and put the code in the safe. We hear a small click, and then I turn the handle. Inside, we find a recording. On the recording are the same devastating words itched in ink: In the case of my death.

Camela walks over to the bookshelf and brings over my laptop, which has been charging there. With shaking hands, I insert the video CD into the player. We sit side by side, our shoulders brushing against each other as we lean in, watching the screen with bated breath.

Julian's image flickers to life on the screen, and I smile sadly when I hear his voice. "Vincenzo, my friend, If you're watching this, then I'm no longer able to tell you in person. Please forgive me for not sharing this sooner; I really didn’t see the point of both of us fretting over this. And I do apologize for now making my burden your problem."

Camela and I exchange glances.

The recording flickers as Julian's image speaks. "I've found an artifact, an arrow from that iconic shipwreck I found in the corner of the Tyrrhenian, the one that was featured all over the media. The thing is," he pauses and rubs his hand over the back of his neck as though he’s feeling ashamed at admitting this.

"I instantly felt power in this arrow and decided to keep it as a souvenir and never told a soul. Over time, I learned its dark secrets. It’s no myth, Vincenzo. The arrow is real, and so is its power. It glows, Vincenzo, when you see it, it’s otherworldly.

I’ve tried to find the mechanism by which it generates this light, but it remains baffling." Julian looks so animated when he speaks of this thing. My first instinct is to shake my head and pity him. He comes across as one of the many who were caught up in the gold rush.

"I started dreaming of this arrow, Vincenzo. I kept it safe in my room of treasures, but it was as if it were calling out to me. You know I am a man of science, but I can’t explain this. So I did some digging and found images in ancient texts of the very same arrow. It is said to have once been the property of a great god; it was stolen from Cupid himself. It’s not a thing of legends, I promise you, its real. It has power over the strongest emotion known to humankind – love. There are people out there looking for it. If I’m dead, find the arrow. If you can’t, please know someone killed me for it and that it has fallen into the wrong hands. And that, Vincenzo," Julian shakes his head with a horrified expression, "that would spell tragedy. It could bring nations to their knees if it is used nefariously. It could ruin the world."

Julian speaks earnestly, looking straight into the camera. "You’ll find a photo of the arrow attached to the bottom of the CD cover. Be safe, my friend. It’s only you I could trust."

The video ends here. For a brief second, I sit paralyzed, trying to process what I just saw. Then, with trembling hands, I reach for the cover. I bring it above my eye level, and there, I see a small Polaroid stuck to the bottom.

It's a photo of an ornate arrow with an inverted heart tip, gleaming in the dim light. Intricate carvings adorn its shaft. The arrow appears to be made of a material unknown to me, emitting a faint, ethereal glow around it.

It's a sight to behold and simultaneously sends shivers down my spine. This artifact holds immense power. I can certainly see its allure, but I also recognize the threat it poses.

Beside me, Camela gasps softly at the image, her eyes fixed on the polaroid. The gravity of Julian's discovery sinks in, and the weight of his words hangs heavy in the air between us.

"An arrow that can control love?" I mutter, my mind reels. How could such a thing be real?

But it must be. I know my friend was no fool, and now, he’s been murdered for this artifact.

Camela looks deathly pale, her eyes wide with shock. This must have been too much for her. A legendary artifact, a murdered friend, a deeper plot at play.

My hand finds hers, squeezing gently. "You're safe, Camela," I reassure her softly. "We'll make sure of that."

"Vincenzo," she whispers, her voice frail. "What if…what if they come after us?"

"Then we'll fight them." I am determined to keep her safe. She has been through enough hardship in her life. "Don’t you worry, Camela. Whoever killed my friend will be held accountable.”

She nods weakly. I want to comfort her, but there’s one thing I must do first.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for my phone and dial the number for the men in my inner circle.

"Riccardo, gather a few of the others," I instruct him as soon as he answers, not bothering with pleasantries. "I need you to search Professor Castellano's home for an artifact resembling an arrow with a heart-shaped tip. It might shine in the darkness. Don't ask questions, just find it."

"Understood, Don Consolini," Riccardo replies, his voice steady and obedient. I trust him implicitly, but I know that keeping details to a minimum is crucial, too.

As I hang up the phone, I glance over at Camela. Her face is still pale, her eyes betraying the fear she's trying to hide. This news will take some time to process. We need a distraction – something to take our minds off the looming danger.

"Camela," I say, forcing a smile onto my face, "While my men do some digging, how about we go to the night market? They've got incredible food, and there's always something interesting to see. It might help us both take our minds off everything."

She doesn’t reply and keeps staring into space.

“Camela?” I ask again, worried for her. When I get no response, I reach out and touch her arm. She startles and looks at me inquiringly, as though she’d forgotten I sat here.

“I was saying,” I broach the topic gently. “It’s been a lot to digest. How about we go to the night market and blow off some steam? It could be fun.”

She hesitates for a moment, her eyes searching mine as if trying to determine whether or not it's safe to let her guard down around me in my dangerous world. Finally, she offers a small, tentative smile. "Alright. Let's go to the night market."