Page 95 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

If they only knew the truth. But they never will.

Chapter 34

Vincenzo

I sit in the dimly lit living room, shoulders slumped, as Camela and I attempt to relax after the chaos at the ball. Camela sighs and kicks off her heels, tucking her legs beneath her, curling into the corner of the couch. The memory of blood staining the pristine marble floor lingers in my mind, refusing to fade away.

I glance over at Camela, who looks just as exhausted as I feel. Her once vibrant eyes now hold a dull, lifeless gaze. She wraps her slender arms around herself as if trying to hold together the pieces that threaten to shatter at any moment.

"Here," I say, getting up from the couch and heading to the small bar area tucked into the corner of the room. "Let me pour us something to take the edge off. You look like you could use it."

I carefully select two crystal glasses from the cabinet, making sure to choose ones without any chips or imperfections. It may seem trivial, but I want everything to be perfect. I make two glasses of brandy, adding a splash of laudanum to hers.

"Thanks, Vincenzo," Camela murmurs, a faint smile touching her lips. When I hand Camela her glass, her fingers brush against mine. I linger there a moment, stroking the inside of her wrist. She smiles up at me, earthy eyes flickering in the firelight.

"This is perfect," she adds softly, raising the glass to her lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. As the brandy warms her throat, I can see a slight change in her expression – a subtle shift from anguish to resolve. Just as I'd hoped, the drink seems to have given her a momentary respite from the weight of our situation.

The moment feels fragile like it could shatter at any second. I can't let that happen.

"Camela," I begin, my voice gentle but firm. "I've been thinking about our lives – this constant danger we're putting ourselves in. It's not sustainable."

She looks at me, her dark brown eyes searching mine for understanding. "Vincenzo, I know things have been difficult lately, but..."

"Difficult?" I interrupt, my voice rising slightly before I catch myself. "No, amore mio, it's more than that. We're constantly looking over our shoulders, never able to relax or enjoy life truly. I want something different for us, for our future together." The words feel heavy and raw, but they need to be said.

Camela sets her glass down on the coffee table, folding her hands in her lap as she listens attentively. Her graceful posture and focused gaze make it clear she's taking my concerns seriously. She doesn't brush them off or dismiss them; she's always been good at that – really hearing me when I speak.

"I grow tired of this life, cara mia. The constant scheming and killing and running. I want--"

"Peace?" she supplies.

“The ability to venture out just for the thrill of venturing out, without having to look after our shoulders, fearing we’d get caught, or killed." I gesture vaguely at the room around us. "Simpler times. Where we can live as we choose, without assassins running after us."

"Vincenzo, I understand your concerns," she says softly, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "But you know as well as I do that leaving our pasts behind isn't so simple. There are consequences for what I did. I truly wish I could take away your burden."

My heart clenches at the truth in her words, but I refuse to let go of the hope that vibrates in my chest. "There must be another way, Camela. I'm willing to fight for it, for us. Are you? Or are we going to continue living like this till the end of time itself? Tell me, you know the Handler well. Will he ever stop?”

She parts her lips, then closes them, shaking her head. She knows, just as well as I do, that our pursuer won’t rest until he has me dead.

Camela's gaze drifts towards the window, her eyes searching the darkness beyond the glass as she considers our options. "There might be someone we can contact," she says hesitantly, breaking the silence that had settled between us.

"Who?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"The Snake." Her voice is steady, but I sense a hint of apprehension in her tone.

My heart quickens. “Matthiera? The child the Handler had trained alongside you?”

“The very same,” she says.

“Absolutely not,” I shake my head in reprehension. “He’s still under the Handler’s control.”

"Just hear me out," she says softly.

I fall silent, watching her. Waiting.

She takes a deep breath. "Matthiera owes me his life. Twice over. If I call in that favor..."

"He would never agree to help us against those the Handler sends," I say sharply. "And even if he did, his aid would come with strings attached. Dangerous strings. Besides, even if he owes you his life, he owes the Handler all his lifetimes. Why would he ever help you?"

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