Page 61 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

The morning sun casts a warm glow across the hallway outside Camela’s room as I knock on her door, breathing in the scent of blooming flowers that fills the air. Giovanni changes the bouquets every three days.

"Hey," I say when she opens the door, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Her face is puffy and she’s got these dark circles I haven’t seen before. It looks like she could use a change of scenery as well. "How about we do something outdoors today? Gardening, maybe?"

"Sounds lovely," she replies, her face brightening at the idea. "I could use some fresh air. Just give me fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

I give her a nod and head downstairs, instructing my kitchen staff to send out some coffee and toast to the garden. Neither of us have had breakfast and it might be good to have a nibble or two.

Camela joins me and together we step out.. It’s a beautiful morning. The sunlight illuminates the dew-covered grass, each blade shimmering like a tiny gemstone.

We have our coffee and a piece of toast each and then gather our gardening tools and set to work, digging into the rich soil and tending to the flowerbeds that border my home.

"Did you know that marigolds can help repel pests?" Camela kneels beside me, carefully placing a vibrant orange flower into the hole she just dug. "They release a chemical that insects find unpleasant."

"Really? I had no idea. You seem to know a lot about plants."

Camela smiles, her eyes lighting up. "I always liked the idea of having your own garden. A garden indicates one must have a home.”

“Was there a garden?” I ask. “In the orphanage you grew up in?”

A shadow crosses her face and I wonder if I perhaps asked too much. But then, she nods and proceeds to tell me about all the plants that grew there.

Our conversation flows easily as we work side by side, our hands covered in dirt and sweat beading on our brows. The physical labor is grounding, calming my racing mind and allowing me to focus on the present moment.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in my finger. A thorn from a rosebush has pricked me, drawing a small bead of blood.

"Here, let me see," Camela says, gently taking my hand. With practiced ease, she removes the thorn and wraps a bandage around my finger. Her touch is soothing.

"Thank you," I murmur, touched by her concern.

"It’s wise to remember even beautiful things sting," she replies with a smile.

“But not all beautiful things,” I reply, placing a thin stroke with my thumb on her cheek. She looks into my eyes, and we’re lost in the moment for a few seconds.

Until a butterfly comes and sits upon her arm. Its delicate wings flutter gracefully as Camela gazes at the butterfly with a soft smile, her eyes sparkling with wonder. The sight of her, so ethereal and at peace, warms my heart.

She truly is a chameleon. She fits into an orphanage, into a party, into my life, into a garden with such ease that I begin to think of her as fluid.

Every space she walks into, it’s like she just belongs.

As the day wears on, the sun climbs higher in the sky, making the skies bluer. The vibrant colors of the flowers and the sweet scent of blossoms fill my senses, drowning out the anxiousness that has been plaguing me all morning.

But then, it begins to get hot, and we realize we’re famished. “Would you look at that?” I say, staring at my watch. “It’s half past two. We better get some food in us before one of us faints.”

“About time!” Camela says, jumping to her feet and smacking her hands together to get rid of the dust.

“You missed a spot,” I say, leaning closer.

“Where?” she asks, looking at her arms with worry.

I lean down, and kiss her on her lips.

We make our way to the corner of the living room by the open window. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves outside. One of my butlers brings out a selection of ham, lettuce and cheese sandwiches along with a side of salad and some iced tea.

“Mmm,” Camela licks over her lips after digging into the sandwich. “Just what we needed!”

“I was starving,” I tell her, grabbing another one.

We mostly eat in silence, ravaged as we are. We’re just about finished, and I’m considering reaching for another when Giovanni walks in.

---