Page 50 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

“Oh Vincenzo!” she waves her hand, laughter playing on her eyes. “You’re terrible.”

“It’s best you realize that now,” I wink at her. “So, you enjoy your work?”

She gives me a modest smile. "I enjoy what I do. It can be challenging at times, but it's also very rewarding."

Her humility only adds to her charm, and I find myself wanting to know even more about her. "And have you had the chance to travel much? With your line of work, I imagine you could work from anywhere in the world."

"Unfortunately, I haven't had many opportunities to travel," Camela admits, her gaze drifting over the other tables as if envisioning far-off places. "But I've always dreamt of seeing the world.”

"Traveling can be quite an adventure," I agree, my thoughts drifting to the many trips I've taken throughout my life. "There's something magical about immersing oneself in a foreign land. So, what’s kept you from doing just that?"

“Well,” she takes a gulp and shakes her head. “I never had the chance. I guess I never had the freedom to explore frivolities like the rest of the world did.”

“Travel’s not frivolous,” I frown.

“It is to a girl who was born an orphan,” she snaps back defiantly. “To a girl who knew she didn’t have anyone to depend on. I could never waste my money since I had nothing to lean back on. But perhaps, someday, when I’m no longer fearful of an unsure future…” her voice trails off.

An orphan? The revelation of her past hits me like a wave, and I look down in embarrassment.

The flickering candlelight casts dancing shadows on Camela's face as she takes another sip of her wine. Her eyes glisten with a quiet confidence that I find both intriguing and disarming.

It's hard to imagine that someone with such a self-assured demeanor had faced the hardships of growing up an orphan.

"Camela," I speak gently, reaching across the table to lay a comforting hand on hers. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, and she glances up, meeting my gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and resilience.

"You've carried more weight on your shoulders than anyone should ever have to bear," I say softly.

“Perhaps,” she says. “But most people never understand.”

Her words resonate with me, stirring emotions I've long kept hidden. "I can relate to that more than you know," I say, hesitating briefly before continuing. "You see, I too lost my parents when I was young, a teenager in fact, and I had a brother who died a few years ago."

Camela's eyes were wide in surprise, and she reached across the table to gently touch my hand. "Vincenzo, I had no idea. I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you," I reply, touched by the genuine concern in her voice. "It's not something I often share with others, but I felt this situation demanded it.”

"Sometimes, it's our shared pain that allows us to understand one another truly," she says softly, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Tell me, what happened to your brother?”

“That’s a story for another time,” I say, not wanting to take away the focus from her life story. “So, tell me. How was it for you, growing up?”

“It was…lonely,” she finds the word after a lingering pause. “I never had any aunts or uncles. No cousins. Grew up in an orphanage, and the people who managed it were…cold.”

"Loneliness can be such a heavy burden to carry," I admit, tracing the rim of my wine glass with my finger.

"It is," she replies softly, her gaze never leaving mine. "Even though I've made a life for myself, there's always been this... emptiness inside me. A longing for something more, something deeper."

I lean forward, genuinely interested. “Go on.”

"It's like there's a part of you that's always searching for that missing piece, even if you don't know exactly what it is. Or who it is," Camela adds, her voice barely more than a whisper. "For years, I've wondered what it might be like to have that happy family.”

“That happy family?”

“You know,” she breaks into a wry smile. “The one with a Christmas tree and cousins and an annual family vacation where everyone gets into a fight. I just wonder what those lives are like.”

I reach out and take her hand in mine, the touch sending a protective instinct surging through me, and I find myself wishing I could shield her from all the pain she's endured.

My heart aches at the thought of her navigating this world alone, without the love and support she so richly deserves.

“Well,” I say, squeezing her hand gently. “While I can’t promise a big shebang with cousins and such, I can promise a vacation where we can argue about what time we need to wake up and head out of the door, or what temple to see next. You can yell your head off at how we should have gone to the beach like you said, when we’re lost in the mountains somewhere.”

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