Page 17 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

I turn the page and pause at a photograph that captures a moment of pure joy taken during a family gathering. Antonio, laughing, his arm thrown around my shoulders, while I grin in response to whatever joke he's just whispered in my ear.

On the other side, Professor Julian, looking amused, poured a drink into Antonio’s empty glass.

My heart begins to stutter, alerting me to something….

Over the years, Antonio and Julian have become close friends. Their shared interest in furthering my career and worry about my well-being have turned them into brothers.

They shared various common interests. Could they have shared enemies, too?

As I contemplate Julian's recent death, some parallels seem to stand out. Antonio's assassination, three years earlier, had been swift and brutal.

A single, unmarked bullet ended his life before he could even grasp the danger.

Professional. My men had scoured Rome’s criminal underworld for answers but never found the source of that homemade projectile. Untraceable.

"Could there be a connection?" I wonder aloud. So far, the obvious assumption was that Antonio became a target due to the continued power struggles between Rome's crime families.

But Julian wasn’t connected to that life. His life revolved around history and studying ancient artifacts. Something all three of us loved.

“Who am I kidding?” I gulp down the last bit of my scotch, welcoming the burn in my throat as I slam the glass down on the table.

“Who would kill a man who knows Mesopotamian pottery and cooking methods, for goodness’ sake?” In an instant, my pain turns to anger, anger at myself.

“I should have seen it coming!” I grab the empty glass and hurl it against a wall, where it shatters. I freeze, looking at the mess I’ve made. Just like the mess I’ve made of protecting Antonio.

“I’m sorry, Antonio. I didn’t have your back.” And as the thunder puts on another performance in the gardens beyond the window, I fall to my knees and let the agony of failing to protect my only brother wrack my body.

I wake up in my office, somewhat bleary-eyed and with a creak in my neck from falling asleep in the Morris recliner chair.

The leather is smooth, a result of generations of Consolini men who have sat in it and made the tough decisions that guaranteed this family’s position. Before me, Antonio made those decisions.

Last night’s storm was cathartic. Now, sitting here in the aftermath, looking out at the view of the grounds, leaves still glistening with lingering raindrops, I feel a new inner strength.

Antonio’s death left me paralyzed, Julian’s death gave me renewed purpose. It is time I set out to find the truth. “For both of you.”

I close the photo album and set it aside. At some point, I will need to revisit our old habits and speak to mutual acquaintances.

They might offer some fresh insight into Antonio and Professor Castellano's friendship, a different angle I could use.

Then I remember the upcoming party…I should probably cancel. The Professor’s death will certainly dampen the merriment. Then again, it would be the perfect opportunity to meet with common friends and ask some questions.

Once again, my eyes wander to the picture on the wall. I’ll ask someone from the historical society to make a short speech at the party and have a moment of silence in his honor.

In the meantime, I’ll let my man keep digging through the professor’s life and see whatever else he might come up with.

I’ll get to the bottom of this, my friend, I promise.

I rise from the chair with the most energy I’ve mustered since I received the news of the professor’s passing. I leave my office to find Francesca and give her the updated guest list.

Chapter 5

Camela

I take one last look at my reflection in the mirror. No one would guess that under the beige satin, figure-hugging gown, my thin frame packs a mass of muscle.

My gold-green smoky eyes betray nothing of the deadly intent hidden beneath my charming exterior. And the elegant jewelry underscores my status at such a high-class event.

If I dress the right part, who would suspect me, right?

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