Page 25 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

What the hell does love even mean?

But despite my protests, I can't shake the gnawing suspicion that love may very well be the source of my turmoil. The idea terrifies me. Love means vulnerability, and vulnerability has no place in my world.

Yet, as I stare at the crumpled invitation, I know that my resolve is wavering, and my heart refuses to be silent any longer.

The memory of the gala plays out before my eyes like a film reel, refusing to grant me any peace. I see Vincenzo's elegant face, his blue eyes meeting mine like an endless ocean filled with promises.

The way he gently took my hand, guiding me through the dance, his warm breath caressing my ear as we sparred with clever comebacks and playful retorts.

"None of this makes sense," I mutter, my heart pounding against my chest, each beat echoing the name 'Vincenzo.' "Why am I feeling like this?"

My fingers trace along the edge of the invitation, the paper now damp from my sweaty palms. I feel like I might be coming down with a fever, and I urgently need to root out this infection.

I need to remember what happened. I was ready to kill him, bored of his existence even, and then? I had reached into my purse to release the pin on the bracelet.

A minute later, I talked myself out of using that weapon.

Whatever happened?

The prick—the moment my world shifted—comes rambling back at me—the prick on my finger from that cursed arrowhead. It was like an internal shift of tectonic plates took place at that moment.

"Could that have caused all of this?" I ask myself, desperate for any sort of explanation, no matter how far I sought.

I frantically search my purse, upending its contents onto the coffee table. Lipstick, keys, the gun, and other items scatter across the surface. My hands shake as I sift through the clutter.

And then, I find it, just a wee little thumb-sized piece of magnificence. A tiny crust of dried blood was still on the ruby-red arrowhead.

I lay my forehead into my hands - this arrow must be responsible for my overwhelming change.

"Could it really be that simple?" I whisper, picking up the arrowhead with trembling hands. "But how?"

Is it laced with something? A drug? A poison? Is there a cure?

As I hold the arrow in my hand, I feel a surge of emotions washing over me, emotions that surface in the presence, at the thought, and with memories of Vincenzo.

My heart races yet my body feels calmer. My thoughts remain confused, but the object of my affection remains unquestionably, Vincenzo. My skin burns where he touched me. My hand, my lower back, my waist.

The artifact has unlocked something so profound within me that I don’t recognize myself anymore.

I can't tear my eyes away from the delicate floral filigree etched into the metal, each curve and twist hypnotizing me further.

"Camela, you need to get a grip," I tell myself, shaking off the reverie. "This isn't like you."

But even as I say the words, another part of me argues back. Maybe this is the real me, the one who has been buried beneath layers of living a life fulfilling the Handler’s mission. The one who never met herself.

Or maybe the arrow is just messing with my thoughts, trying to confuse me with its poisoned tip.

"Vincenzo," I murmur, his name tasting sweet on my lips. "Why you? What do you have to do with all of this?"

I grapple with the power the arrow holds over my heart and mind, the flood of emotions threatening to drown me. My instincts scream at me to destroy the artifact, to rid myself of its disturbing influence once and for all.

But another part of me hesitates, afraid that if I destroy this little golden thing, it could destroy the very essence of what Vincenzo means to me.

I could lose him; even death seems sweeter.

And so, the arrow remains in my hand, having convinced me to let it exist.

My mind is splitting as I contemplate the full implications of this inner transformation. I can’t, and I won’t kill Vincenzo.

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