Page 108 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

“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.

Chapter 43

Camela

My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at the Handler, the man who raised me, trained me, and now, I've discovered, is my father. I falter, unable to simply stab him to get it over with.

Tears blur my vision, and the grip on my knife loosens. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, but it comes out craggy, like a child’s. "Why? Why did you keep your identity hidden from me all these years?"

He doesn't even flinch at my words. "Camela," he says, enunciating each syllable with chilling precision, "I saw your talent as a child, and I considered it a gift. A gift that had to be nurtured and honed."

"Stop speaking in riddles!" I shout, my voice cracking. "What does that have to do with lying to me about who you are?"

"Everything, my dear," he replies, a sinister smile playing on his lips. "You see, if you had been deemed unworthy, if you hadn't lived up to your potential, I would have disposed of you by burying you alive in the sand. You wouldn't even have been worth the effort to waste a bullet on. The sand would have swallowed you whole, choked you as you slept. And I? I would have raised another in your place. All of you, the Snake, you, the Shadow, the Temptress, are disposable. You proved it so yourself when you killed each one."

A wave of nausea washes over me, and my legs threaten to buckle beneath me. But Vincenzo reaches over, steadying me with a gentle touch on my lower back.

And so, I stand my ground, unwilling to let the Handler see how much his words affect me. My mind races, trying to comprehend the cruelty of this man whose blood I share. The same man who stood by my side during all those grueling training sessions with Matthiera, pushing us both to our limits.

It was never about making us better. It was always about him, getting what he could out of us - his weapons.

"How did you kill my mother?" I demand, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Your mother was weak," he replies, his voice void of emotion. "But she birthed you. For that, I gave her the honor of a bullet. I made my choices, and if you think even for a moment that I regret any, I don’t,” he spits on the floor beside me.

"Is that what you call it? A choice?" I spit back at him, my anger boiling over.

"Of course," he says, his eyes narrowed. "We all make choices, Camela. And now it's your turn to make yours."

The cold steel of the knife seems to burn in my hand. Vincenzo steps closer. He glides his hand up from my lower back to my shoulder, his touch gentle but firm.

"Camela," he murmurs, his voice warm and soothing. "Love cannot be forced. Not even with the arrow's prick. Some people are simply incapable of experiencing true love. They may go through the motions, but it will never truly touch their hearts. Your father is one of those people. You have the capacity for love, and that makes you stronger than he could ever be. Just know, he’ll never be the man you hope he would.”

I know just what he’s trying to tell me. Kill him, end this madness. But my grip on the knife doesn't strengthen. I'm still unsure of what choice to make. Do I walk away from everything I've ever known, or do I let my blood live? If I’m capable of love, with his blood running through me, then can he not be saved?

"Enough of this!" The Handler snaps, his patience wearing thin. I can almost feel the chill of his soul in the air around me. "If you don't make a decision, I'll make it for you."

In a blur of motion, he lunges at me with a pen, his intent clear: to kill. He sticks the pen into my thigh and reaches for my wrist, for the knife. Panic fills me, but I don't freeze. My training kicks in, and I react instinctively. My free hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and using his own momentum against him.

"Camela, now!" Vincenzo shouts, his voice a mixture of encouragement and fear.

I struggle to maintain my grip on the Handler as we grapple, the knife in my hand feeling like both an ally and an enemy. The Handler puts his face down, biting into my hand in a last-ditched effort to get the knife and in that moment, I know one thing for certain: I cannot let this man control my destiny any longer. Vincenzo is right.

The world around me slows down, Vincenzo's words echoing in my mind. A clarity washes over me, and I realize the truth in his statement. The Handler will never know true love.

"Never again," I snarl, twisting my body and using my training to my advantage. “You will never decide my fate again.” In one swift motion, I ram my knee into his stomach, loosening his grip on me and drive the knife into the Handler's throat, the blade sinking deep into his flesh.

His eyes widen in shock, his hands grasping at the handle of the knife protruding from his neck. For a moment, it's as if we're both frozen in time, our gazes locked with a mixture of disbelief and fury.

"Y-you..." he manages to choke out, blood gurgling in his throat and staining his lips crimson. "You... traitorous... b-brat..."

"Don't you dare call me that!" I snap back, a torrent of emotions surging through me. Rage, relief, sorrow – they all battle for dominance within my chest, not knowing which should matter more.

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