Page 32 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

Fortunately, I’m saved from fabricating an answer, as above us confetti begins to fall all around. Eyes turn upwards, and the chandeliers part on all four corners, like a lotus. From within emerge beautiful, scantily clad women in swing dresses, leaping and curling around on thick pieces of cloth.

“Oh my goodness,” Ang gushes, her hand reaching her chest, her neck craned up, her eyes wide as she follows one stunt to another. “Were they there the whole time? Stunning. Just stunning!” she screeches, not taking her eyes off of the performance.

Just then, a large fire breathing dragon made from paper floats across the room, twenty feet above our heads, releasing cold fire. People scream and gasp, in complete reverence. Ang now claps, her excited chatter catching the attention of people nearby wanting favor with the princess.

This is my moment for escape. I know I shouldn’t want that. I paid for all this. These are my people, my friends. The grand hall is alive with laughter and music, a sea of elegantly dressed guests dancing and mingling beneath the glittering chandeliers. I should enjoy each moment with my friends.

Yet I fear I would be rather bad company tonight.

"Where is she?" I mutter to myself, my gaze darting from one face to another, searching for Camela among the guests. The memory of her mysterious departure the other night still lingers in my mind – that enigmatic smile, the subtle hint of intrigue in her eyes. It's as if she had cast a spell on me, and now all I think of is her.

"Vincenzo!" a familiar voice calls out, snapping me back to reality. I turn to find an old friend, a historian with the local museum, approaching me with a smile. He extends his hand, and I shake it warmly. "You've outdone yourself this time. What an exquisite gathering!"

"Thank you," I reply, giving him a genuine smile. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he assures me, and then, he leans closer, gripping my hand tight. I lean in to his ear. "By the way, I asked around about the professor with our old friends. None of them questioned what the papers say. They believe it was a natural death.”

I frown, and he catches the look on my face. He squeezes my hand, forcing me to look into his wise eyes. “Vincenzo,” he tells me. “We’re all old, straightforward, simple men from the university. If you truly want to know something, you must dig into his other world – the people he kept company with outside of work.”

“But however would I know who that might be?”

“A man ought to never lie to their doctor, their accountant, and their lawyer,” he says, advice steeped in wisdom. "Excellent," he nods, seemingly satisfied with the information he provided me. "Well, I won't keep you any longer. Great evening, my friend. Truly spectacular."

Somewhat dumbfounded, I watch him walk away. I know my friend was murdered, just like my brother. The overwhelming lack of information speaks for itself.

Needless to say, I will keep reaching out to old friends and colleagues, maybe even that doctor, lawyer and accountant, until I know what happened to him.

But for now, I get should back to the party. Another twenty minutes pass. I say my hello’s to a dozen people.

The clock keeps ticking, and Camela has yet to appear. My confidence wavers slightly. I make my way back to the window, lean against it, feeling the cool glass pressing against my shoulder, and a flicker of doubt crosses my mind.

What if she doesn't come? Did I scare her off by sending her another invitation so soon?

"Everything alright, Vincenzo?" a concerned guest inquires, noticing my furrowed brow.

"Of course," I answer with a forced smile. "Just taking a moment to enjoy the view."

"Ah, yes," they nod, following my gaze out of the window. "It truly is a sight to behold."

"Indeed," I agree, though my thoughts remain focused on Camela's absence.

Thoughts of that woman do strange things to me, insane things to me. I’m beginning to hate every guest, every song, every drink.

Nothing seems the same without her. The very charm of this party seems grotesque without her.

It was too much and was all for her.

I begin to think about my own role in this situation. I’m acting irrationally in this obsession with a woman I only met once. Her hair, her smile, her graceful movement, the smell of her perfume – maybe they’ve come to mean so much to me because she proved to be the distraction I needed from all the thoughts of death and murder plaguing me since the professor’s passing.

Maybe this is it. I now need to strike her name from my memory. I straighten my spine and motioned at the white-gloved waiter to bring me champagne. He turns to my voice, his hand gracefully swinging the tray in the air.

He takes note of my command, bows and leaves, and I’m about to turn around when I see her, from the corner of my eye, hidden from my sight by the waiter who just left.

I almost do a double-take.

My heart leaps with indescribable joy as I spot the most graceful woman, looking stunning in a deep-cut, floor-length silver gown that shimmers with every step she takes. "Camela," I murmur under my breath, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. She's here.

The sequined fabric is tight around her hips, loosening just a little below the knees. Her bare arms show silky olive skin. Her soft, loose curls are tied in a low bun, with little wisps framing her face. Diamonds dangle from her ears, peeping through the tendrils of her curls.

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