Page 11 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

"Thank you," I reply stiffly, unsure how to respond to his rare praise. With a click, the line goes dead.

I slowly pull out the golden arrow and clutch it in my hand. I sigh, "What have I gotten myself into with you?"

As I crush the satellite phone beneath my heel, I can't help but feel that I've crossed some invisible line. And as I melt back into the darkness, I know that there's no turning back now.

Chapter 2

The Handler

I sit in my private office with a cigar in one hand, the smoke curling lazily around me. It’s dark and cold in here, private, with only the light of a single desk lamp keeping me company. Just how I like it. The darkness helps me think.

I pull out the reports and photographs of the scene on my satellite phone. My eyes narrow as I swipe through the images, scrutinizing every detail, ensuring that nothing has been overlooked.

"Once again, an exceptional performance tonight, Camela," I mutter with pride, recalling her cold efficiency during training. Her nickname, 'The Huntress,' is truly fitting.

But I expect nothing less; after all, she was molded into a deadly weapon under my guidance.

"Handler," a voice crackles through the speakerphone on my desk, interrupting my thoughts. "We've secured the perimeter as you instructed. Awaiting further orders."

"Enter premises," I reply curtly. The furrow in my brow deepens. With each step my men take, I receive real-time images. I follow their path.

They wipe all footprints and glove prints from every surface the Huntress stepped on or touched.

They scan in between the blades of grass to remove any long, brunette strands of hair. That is how thoroughly my team works; that is the gold standard we are known for.

“Ground floor clear,” the voice crackles.

“Proceed to the scene of elimination,” I command.

As my team moves through the house, meticulously erasing any trace of the huntress, I lean back in my chair and take another long drag from my cigar, letting the smoke drift upward, swirling in the dim light of the room.

"Elimination scene secure," the voice reports over the speakerphone. I observe the live feed on the screen, not missing a single detail.

"Good," I respond, my voice steely and commanding. "Leave no trace. The professor's demise must appear natural and undisturbed."

“Your assassin already made sure of that.”

I smile. Of course, she did. She is my best one, my special one.

“Now, find the artifacts.”

My men use thermal imaging cameras to look for concealed spaces. When they scan the bookshelves, I watch the lights switch to indicate depth through temperature variations.

In less than a minute, they identify the way in, discovering a small lever activated by the movement of a book.

I lean in, holding my breath, hyper-focused on whatever comes on screen. The shelf parts reveal a room of treasures. It’s dark, and my men put on laser lights.

There are hundreds of things in there, but not every one of them finds its way onto the screen.

“Go over each shelf, start on the left.”

“Yes, sir.”

I notice every coin, every scroll, every little trinket box. How large would it be?

Nervously, I grip the cigar tighter, causing ash to fall on the polished surface of the desk. As they reach the end of the room, an empty cushion catches my attention.

It has a small, thin, elongated indentation from something that was there until quite recently. The impression would go unnoticed by most eyes. But not mine.

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