Page 15 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

It's such a waste of good looks.

The Handler is quite unfair like that. Before we took him out, he should have allowed Vincenzo Consolini to populate this earth with his gorgeous genes.

Oh, well, my mission is clear: eliminate the brainy and very handsome Mr. Consolini.

Chapter 4

Vincenzo

A violent gust of wind shakes the ancient trees outside my window. I sit in an antique recliner in my private study, my empty gaze drawn to nature’s chaotic display.

A bright flash of lightning spreads its tentacles across the sky, and for a second my compound greens flicker to life, before the following thunder seems to scare them back into hiding. Outside, the compound looks empty, dead.

Just like the professor.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath and lean back in my chair. For the hundredth time, I stare at the framed photograph of me and the professor hanging on the wall opposite me.

The crushing news reached me earlier this afternoon, and I haven’t been able to leave the office since. "Have you heard?" The words echo in my mind, taking me back to the earlier phone call. An old friend had reached out, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"Turn on the television," he had said. "It's Professor Castellano."

It all felt unreal as I turned on the TV. The news anchor was reporting on the unexpected death of the renowned Professor Julian Castellano.

Images of the professor, my dear friend and mentor, flashed on the screen, accompanied by somber music and the anchor's solemn words.

The shock still sits in my bones. The pain of losing another person I deeply care for weighs heavily on me, my heart aching with every beat.

"First Antonio, and now the professor," I think bitterly. "Why is everyone I trust being ripped from my life?"

‘Natural causes’ the news had stated, but something didn’t sit right. A vivid memory of our last meeting – the professor, full of life, boasting about his good health over drinks – flashed before my eyes.

Just last week, we caught up for our usual brandy at our favorite haunt in Palermo. “Order two, my boy,” the professor had cast his coat on the chair across from mine, motioning to the waiter as he took a seat.

His hair had been the signature silver mess, and he hadn’t shaved in days, but he looked just like himself – jovial, full of life and energy.

He had passed me a brandy. “I met the doctor today, and he says I’m at the peak of my health. Never been better, my boy. Never been better.” We had cheered for his health and long life.

Natural causes... Impossible.

I’ve been obsessing over this one detail the whole afternoon. "None of this makes sense," I whisper to myself.

The storm continues to rage outside, mirroring the tempest of emotions brewing within me. I know I can't sit idly by, not when there are too many unanswered questions.

But first, I’ll mourn.

The door creaks open, and I don’t hear it since it coincides with another round of thunder. It is his voice I hear, that alerts me to his presence.

"Sir?" The butler startles me from my contemplations.

"Ah, Giovanni." My eyes flicker over to the tall man before returning to the storm beyond the window. "A scotch, please. And a cigar."

"Right away, Sir." Giovanni strides across the room towards the bar, his polished shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor.

With practiced precision, he selects a bottle of precious aged scotch from the shelf and pours the amber liquid into a crystal glass.

"Your scotch, Sir," he returns, extending the glass towards me with gloved hands.

I take a sniff. “The Highlands, 25,” I remark.

---