The Don’s Deadly Assassin

42. Vincenzo

Vincenzo

Chapter 42

I watch Camela’s face fall at the realization that Matthiera is called the Snake for a haunting reason. Usually, being proven right is a thing of pleasure, but I seek none in watching the woman I love being proven wrong.

She stares at Matthiera with such pain in her face, her lips trembling, her hands shaking. Behind her, the Handler sits on his desk, a small smile on his lips, pleased at how Camela’s beliefs crumble around her.

“Camela,” I say, trying to get her to look at me.

The Snake wrenches my arms tighter behind my back. “Don’t you dare open your mouth,” he hisses.

“He’s never going to change, Camela,” I roar at her, despite the Snake threatening me. “You are NOT the same.”

“You bastard!” The Snake yells in my ear, twisting my hand until a small bone cracks. Camela hears it, her eyes flickering to mine. She gives me the smallest nod, telling me she believes me now. That she understands what I was trying to tell her, all along.

Slowly, she takes a step back from Matthiera, his hold on me easing slightly as he registers her movement.

The Handler chuckles softly, the sound grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “You see that, Camela? You believe you have this power, to see good in people. There’s no good in the world. All these years, you thought Matthiera to be a friend. Look at you two now. Are you willing to go through this heartbreak again, with Vincenzo?”

Camela turns to face him, and slams her hands on his desk. “Don’t you dare put darkness in my thoughts,” she screams, and the next thing I now, her hands are extending in two directions. From the right, she throws a jar of ink straight into the Handler’s eyes. The Handler cries out, temporarily blinded, flapping around in his chair trying to get the ink out.

As he stumbles off the chair, Camela doesn't waste a second. Her fingers on the right hand are closed around a heavy paperweight, which she pivots towards Matthiera…towards us. With a grunt, Camela hurls the paperweight at Matthiera.

"Vincenzo!" she shouts, her voice strained.

I kick back against Matthiera’s shin, his iron grip loosening around my hands and turn my neck right, opposite to the direction Camela’s makeshift weapon takes towards us.

The paperweight whirls through the air like an unstoppable projectile, flying right past my left cheek, smashing into Matthiera’s forehead with a sickening crunch. He staggers and releases me, his hands flying to his bloodied face.

“You bitch!” he cries, falling back against the wall, moaning in pain.

Camela rushes towards us. “Hold the Handler at bay,” she tells me. “Don’t kill him.

I nod, massaging my wrists, before rushing over to where the Handler is trying to wipe out the ink with a napkin and some water from a glass.

I take the glass out of his hands, smash it on the floor. “Camela. You’ll pay for this!” he tells me, rage coursing through him. He rubs his eyes over and over again, the ink only spreading further into them, all over his hands.

“It’s me,” I bend down and hiss in his ear, grabbing his neck to pull his head down towards my rising knee. I jam him in his nose, and blood sprouts everywhere as he collapses onto the floor, choking on his own blood, blinded in the eyes.

That should keep him down for a while.

I turn back, seeing Camela and Matthiera circling each other like two predators sizing up their prey. It's been years since they trained together under the Handler's cruel tutelage as brother and sister, but now, they confront each other as enemies.

"Camela," Matthiera hisses, a sinister grin stretching across his face. "Ready to say goodbye to your sad, pathetic life?”

“Trust me,” she says. “The only person I’ll be saying goodbye to is you,” she hisses. He leans forward to jab her, but in a swift move, she dodges, pushing him back. He reaches over to the bookshelf and pulls out a sword from the display.

My heart turns cold. Camela has no weapon. He reaches forward, and with a swift motion, she bends down and reverse-kicks along the bookshelf, dropping piles of books onto him and disorienting him momentarily. In the flick of a second, she goes into her boot and pulls out a knife.

It’s small. I rush to the side of the desk, running to help her. She looks up as she rises to her feet and shakes her head, telling me that this kill is hers.

I stay put, against every fiber in my being, telling me to go fight alongside her.

The Snake reorients himself, now standing with parted legs, staring at Camela’s small knife, his own sword gleaming in the light. I watch, afraid of what might come next.

The Snake advances, but she matches his pace in walking backwards, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. Her movements are controlled, unlike his.

He’s charging with anger, with menace, like a bull. She’s watching, predicting, taking it all in. He launches a powerful strike, the sword reaching for her right shoulder. With a deft sidestep, she evades the blow, running out of his sight from the left to go behind him, turning him back against the wall she was just at.

“Carmelaaa,” he roars in a rage, jumping on both feet to face her now. She stands with her back arched down, and he rushes forward, hacking with the sword again. Camela twists backward, her eyes narrow, and ducks under the blow, striking out at his shin with the razor-sharp knife. The Snake leaps back, hissing with pain.

He jumps back up, but Camela counters with a lightning-fast kick aimed at his midsection, driving him back. Seizing the opportunity, Camela closes the distance with astonishing speed, her movements a blur of controlled aggression.

With expert timing, she launches a series of rapid strikes, her knife flashing in the darkness as it deftly parries the Snake’s desperate attempts to regain the upper hand.

Matthiara, unable to match her speed, lunges forward, attempting to overpower her with raw strength. But Camela ducks under his swing, and with an almost supernatural grace, she flips over him, landing behind him in a single fluid motion.

"You really think you can beat me?" she sneers, her voice low and dangerous. "You've always been beneath me, Matthiera."

She exhales sharply, her breath creating a cloud of mist in the frigid air. With a swift kick, she sends him careening against the wall. He slams into it with a thud, and she walks over, kicking the sword out of his hand. The sword flies through the air, jamming into a chair.

Matthiera raises his knee to kick her in the pelvis, but she jumps back and raises her leg in a sidekick to strike him in the neck. His windpipe, to be precise. He gasps, clutching at his throat for air, and she leans forward from her torso, grabs his hand off the throat and tugs it against the wall. In less than a second, she has the knife through his hand, attached to the wall above him.

Blood splatters everywhere, down his hand and his clothes, sprayed across her face. It should make me sick, nauseous even, but I’ve never seen her look fiercer, wilder.

It turns me on. I watch, enthralled at how she plans to take him on. Just then, I feel a tug on my leg and look down to see the Handler twisted his foot around one of mine, raising his other leg to kick me behind my knees.

Taken by surprise, I buck under the pressure and fall to the ground with my back to him as he lunges up to grab me by the throat, knocking the wind out of me.

As I struggle to catch my breath, I feel the cold metal of a knife against my throat, his grip on my neck tight. I'm choking, gasping for air, but my throat won't cooperate. I can hear Camela asking Matthiera how he’d like to die.

She doesn’t know the Handler is awake. I’m going to have to handle this myself. My hands are still free, and I tuck down my chin to protect my windpipe and reach back, jamming fingers into his eyes.

He screams, the knife digging into my throat just a quarter of an inch, and it burns like fire, but he falls back, the knife clattering to the ground.

I gasp for air and turn on my knees, crawling over to him. I jam my elbow in his chest, and when he’s wholly down, place a knee on it, keeping him in place. He clutches his eyes, screaming and howling in pain.

I look out from under my desk and see Camela’s last act. She pulls out the knife from Matthiera’s hand, and he falls to the ground, clutching his bloodied palm.

She then takes the knife and jams it in his throat.

“I’d like to say you’d be missed,” she hisses. “But that would be a lie.” His eyes grow wide, and he splutters blood out of his nose and mouth. His body begins to shake violently, and then, the life leaves his eyes. He slumps against the wall, his body hanging down to one side.

Camela looks around the room wildly, for me, for the Handler.

She rushes over to us, behind the desk and gasps when she sees the scene before her. She leans down, staring at me, her eyes wandering to my bloodied neck.

“Vincenzo,” she breathes, color draining from her face.

“I’m alright,” I tell her, my voice hoarse. “It’s not a deep cut.” I swipe at my neck to remove the excess blood, letting her see it’s just a little puncture.

She’s here now to do with the Handler, her father, what she wants. I remove the knee from his chest, and he gasps, slowly standing to his feet. He feels for the chair, finds it, and slumps into it. Then, he swivels it to face us.

“You won’t kill me, Camela,” he says, looking right at her. His vision. It must be coming back, however hazy it might be.

“I won’t?” she threatens, stepping forward.

I reach over to grab the knife the Handler had jammed at me, handing it over to Camela. She takes it, walks over to the Handler, and places it on his neck.

But her face goes pale. She doesn’t drive it through. Instead, she slowly pulls back the knife.