Page 16 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

“You look like you needed a special one, sir.”

“You know me too well, Giovanni,” I say and raise the glass towards the photograph, in memory of my friend, before taking a sip.

On any other night, I would have savored the perfectly aged scotch. Tonight, it might as well taste like canal water.

"Thank you, Giovanni," I reply, taking another sip just because I need it. "And my cigar?"

"Of course, sir." Giovanni presents a silver cigar case and opens it for me to select one. I pluck a Cuban from the array, glancing up at my loyal butler.

"Your assistance is appreciated, Giovanni. You may retire for the night. I don't want to be disturbed. Do let everyone know."

"Very well, sir." Giovanni bows slightly before turning to leave the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall after he closes the door.

The storm outside roars on, the wind lashing against the windows as I take another slow drag from my cigar. I stare at the smoke swirling in the air, memories of our first meeting flooding back to me.

"Vincenzo, my boy," Castellano had said, his eyes twinkling with enthusiasm as I questioned why history matters from the front row of his class.

“Without knowing where we came from, we’ll never really know where we ought to go. We’d be like sheep, being whisked along in a truck driven by someone else."

That passion, that fire with which he taught, was so infectious that I still suffer from the disease of needing to learn more.

I found myself drawn to the subject of Ancient Civilizations and Cultures because of Castellano's unwavering belief in its importance.

The thought of never hearing that voice again leaves an ache in my chest that no amount of scotch can dull.

A soft buzz from my phone breaks through my reverie. I glance at the screen and see a coded message from one of my informants. My heart begins to race as I decipher the text.

‘Found tampered CCTV footage. Think AI-generated. Valuables are missing.’

I swear under my breath. No wonder the police didn’t suspect anything. Meanwhile, Julian is dead, and some of his possessions have been taken.

So, my hunch to send someone over to Julian’s place to have a closer look has panned out. This is all I need to confirm that Julian’s wasn’t a ‘natural death.’

"Who would do this to you, old friend?" I ask the storm outside. I leave my chair and go over to the window. My fingers tap against the side of the scotch glass, a nervous habit that surfaces when I'm deep in thought. "Were you hiding something? Why didn't you tell me?"

Memories surge forth, unbidden –of another death that left me reeling - Antonio, my elder brother, assassinated. No trace of his killer, no clue as to why.

"Antonio..." I whisper his name, feeling the same grief that had burdened me then sitting in my chest. Professor Castellano had supported me during that time.

It's as if time has stood still, and I am once again grappling with loss and trying to make sense of it all.

Only this time, I feel even more alone than before.

My eyes roam over the shelves lined with books, bound personal letters, and mementos that tell the story of my life. Among them are tokens from my brother and mentor, whose influence shaped me into the man I am today.

With a trembling hand, I pull out an old photo album, its leather cover worn and faded.

I settle back into the oak and leather recliner and begin to flip through the pages slowly, each photograph a gateway to another memory.

There's a picture of Antonio and me as children, grinning at the camera with dirt-streaked faces, during an afternoon exploring the Roman ruins.

Another captures Professor Castellano and me deep in conversation at the university library, his hands mid-movement.

He had earnestly tried to persuade me to join him on a hunt for ancient relics, a quest he had embarked upon with great enthusiasm.

I remember Antonio taking this picture. He’d told me he was proud of me for getting this far in my academic career. I had never felt closer to my brother.

"Both gone..." My voice catches in my throat, constricting with sorrow.

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