Chapter 64 Antonio
The door to Giulio’s private office whispers shut behind me, sealing me in a tomb of polished mahogany and unearned success. He was meant to be here. Waiting. Apologetic. Nervous. A man who knows the scale of his failure and is prepared to abase himself for a chance, however slim, to rectify it.
Instead, there is only the low hum of the city of Rome. Even at this time of night, you can hear the distant, grumbling of the traffic, god knows how many floors below, and the profound silence of an empty leather chair behind a vast, pretentious desk.
I let out a soft sigh, the sound absorbed by the plush Persian rug. Of course, Giulio Fortunato has managed to fail one last time. Even this, the simplest of instructions was beyond him.
My gloves are already on, supple black leather that moulds to my hands like a second skin. There is no hurry. This is not a smash-and-grab; it is a recalibration. A necessary, if messy correction to a flawed equation.
I begin my circuit of the room. My fingers glide over surfaces, not leaving so much as a molecule of myself behind. I am a ghost already, a rumour in the making.
The office is a testament to Giulio’s particular brand of avarice. Gaudy gold-leaf frames hold pictures of him shaking hands with politicians whose careers have vastly outshone his own.
The desk is the heart of it. I circle it, taking in the chair’s position, seeing the room as he would see it.
I open drawers with meticulous care. They slide without a sound, well-oiled and expensive.
Inside, the story is different. The chaos of the real Giulio emerges from beneath the polished veneer.
Piles of contracts, some signed, most forgotten along with a half-empty packet of antacids and an almost empty bottle of some cheap alcohol.
I leaf through the pages. His notes are sloppy, a child’s scrawl. Missed deadlines circled then ignored. All this, all this evidence should have been destroyed, and yet it’s here for anyone to find. He wasn’t just incompetent; he was negligent.
I hear the elevator ding faintly from the reception area outside. A moment later, a key fumbles at the lock. The handle turns.
I don’t startle. I don’t rush. In one fluid motion, I close the drawer and move away from the desk, positioning myself by the bookcase, a casual visitor admiring his collection of unread leather-bound books clearly chosen for the sole purpose of impressing others.
My heart rate remains a steady, languid drumbeat. This is the play. This is the performance.
Giulio bursts in, a whirlwind of rumpled linen and panic. His face is flushed, beaded with sweat. He smells of espresso and fear.
“Antonio. Dio mio, Antonio, I am so sorry.” he blurts out, his eyes wide, darting from me to his desk and back again, as if checking to see if I’ve uncovered his sins. Perhaps he senses it. “I only meant to be out a moment. The traffic from Trastevere was a nightmare, a complete disastro, l…”
His voice is a reedy, grating thing. I let him talk, let him weave his tapestry of pathetic excuses. I watch his hands flutter like wounded birds, a performance of anxiety so theatrical it would be amusing if it weren’t so tiresome. This is the man entrusted with Brethren secrets he cannot keep.
I slowly, deliberately roll my eyes. It’s a small gesture, but it sucks the air from his excuses. He stammers to a halt, his mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on the riverbank.
“Sit down, Giulio,” I say. My voice is quiet, like a calm sea hiding a lethal undertow.
He hesitates for a second, then obeys, scurrying behind the fortress of his desk and sinking into the large chair. It seems to swallow him whole. He leans forward, elbows on the blotter, ready to launch into another volley of self-justification.
“You have to understand, none of this is my fault,” he begins, his voice gaining a desperate, whining momentum.
“None of this is my fault. She was hot, unbelievably sexy... any full-blooded male would have fucked her without a second thought. How can I be responsible for who she works for? Am I expected to vet every woman who wants to suck my cock? If you were me, you would have done the same, I promise you that…”
I don’t listen to the words, I listen to the tone, the pitch of a man who has already accepted his own victimhood.
I move around the desk, coming to a stop behind him.
He can’t see me now, he can only feel my presence at his back, a shadow falling over him.
He tenses but doesn’t stop talking. The words are a shield he hopes will protect him.
“It will blow over. All of this will…”
I place my hands on his shoulders.
He freezes. The stream of excuses cuts off with a choked gasp.
My grip is firm, not hostile. Reassuring.
The hands of a friend, a confidant, a superior offering comfort for a battle hard-fought.
I can feel the knotted tension in his muscles through the fine cotton of his shirt, I can feel the frantic thrum of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
“Shhh, Giulio,” I murmur, my voice low and soothing, a parent calming a frightened child. “It’s alright. I understand. Everything is okay.”
I feel a fraction of the tension leave his shoulders.
He lets out a shaky breath, a shudder of relief.
Stupid fool, he thinks he is being absolved.
He thinks his performance has worked. This is the most tragic part of it all: his staggering, infinite naivety.
He believes in the fantasy of his own excuses so completely, he thinks others must, too.
“Grazie, Antonio,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I knew you would see reason. I will make it right, I promise you, I will…”
The sound is not loud. In this well-insulated room, it is a percussive thump, like a heavy book falling on the carpet. A hard, final punctuation mark.
His body jolts violently under my hands. Then, all the strength goes out of him. His head slumps forward, a dark pool of blood spreading across the pristine white parchment of the papers laid out before him.
I hold him for a second longer, ensuring he doesn’t slide from the chair.
Then, with the same methodical care I used to open the drawers, I guide his right hand, pressing the sleek, compact pistol into his palm, folding his limp fingers around the grip.
His index finger I curl through the trigger guard.
The weapon, untraceable and sterile, looks both alien and inevitable in his soft, pudgy, manicured hand.
I step back. The scene is set, but it requires one final prop. From an inner pocket of my jacket, I retrieve a single sheet of paper. I composed it myself having studied samples of his handwriting, mimicking the flamboyant loops of his ‘g’s, and the impatient slash of his ‘t’s perfectly.
I lay it squarely on the desk beside his head, weighting one corner with his favourite fountain pen. It’s perfect. It reads exactly like the melodramatic exit of a weak man who could never face the consequences of his actions now that they’ve been revealed to the world.
As I take one last look around, a silent thought echoes in the pristine quiet of my mind, cold and clear as ice; If you want a job done properly, you have to do it yourself.