Page 80 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

"But he was harmless!" I cry out, my heart aching.

"My purpose is not to question the missions. Only to act." Her voice holds no regret, only grim acceptance.

"Explain," I demand, my voice shaking. "Tell me about your training. What did he do to you?"

Camela's gaze grows distant. "He never really did anything to us, Vincenzo,” she defends her trainer. “He only did what was necessary to make us the best in the world. He did it for us. He raised us since we were just babies, orphans with no family to miss us. I was paired with another, a boy called Matthiera. The Handler watched over us, kept us safe.”

Her voice remains flat, devoid of emotion. "He taught us to endure pain. Starvation, sleep deprivation, physical punishments. Matthiera once broke three ribs during a beating and continued to train for weeks without treatment."

I suck in a sharp breath, feeling sick at the thought of such malice. The golden arrow grows warm in my grip. “How old was he?” I ask.

“Maybe ten, eleven?” she shrugs. “But it made him stronger. It was the only way!” she almost smiles, like she’s proud of what they’ve been made to endure.

A fear goes through me. If he did that to this boy Matthiera… “And you?” I ask. “How did he train you?”

“As a child, I used to love animals,” she tells me. “He used to send us into the forest alone, for days at an end. He would threaten to shoot us if he saw us. He wanted to teach us to survive. There, perched on trees, I watched the deers, and bears and rabbits. They seemed harmless, victims of our world. A year later, I found an injured rabbit. I brought it in. He let me keep it, save its life. Helped me cook for it and care for it. That rabbit became my friend.”

I smile, thinking there’d be some redemption in this story.

“One time,” she continues. “He put us in a hole in the ground without food or water for stealing cookies. Matthiera and I would pull out some weeds from the walls in this hole, and drink the dew from it. By the end of it, we were so tired, so hungry. There was this gnawing pain in my belly. He released us a week later, but before we could enter the house, he submerged us in the ice bath for an hour. We came in, shivering, hungry, starving. There was a hot stew on the table. I thought I would faint while trying to walk to the table, but I managed to reach it. I fell into the chair, without a towel, still soaking wet with the ice water. My fingers were blue. The stew - it was so warm, so lovely.”

Tears prick at my eyes and a lump forms in my throat at her torturous recital. She, however, speaks as though she’s reciting the plot of a book she read once.

“I was about to dig in when he told me it was the rabbit. I was eight years old and so angry. I cried and told him I wouldn’t eat it. He sent me to bed, hungry. The next day, I was still hungry. He served that same rabbit. I refused. The day after, I couldn’t carry on. My stomach was in knots. I was hallucinating from the starvation. I knew he’d let me die if I didn’t eat the rabbit. So, I ate it. I never had a pet again. I had a name for it once,” she smiles slowly. “But I can’t remember it anymore. It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Horror leads to bile in my mouth. My heart constricts with each word she speaks, the cruelty and manipulation of her handler unbearable to think of. How could someone do this to children? To Camela?

“You never thought to seek help?” I gasp, my knuckles turning to stone in my lap.

“Help?” she questions, like she’s never heard the word. “But he was helping us, Vincenzo. He taught us how to survive, no matter what. The world is too harsh to allow for weakness. Seeking help never crossed our minds because we were the only ones who could help ourselves. We didn’t belong to each other either. Sometimes, when we were confined in our cells, Matthiera and I would communicate using a secret code we developed," she continues. "It was our only source of comfort, even though we both knew it wouldn't last. The Handler made sure we never grew too close, always emphasizing that one day, we might be ordered to kill each other."

Her words cut deep, and my tears fall freely now as I imagine the lonely, desperate existence she must have led. A life devoid of love or compassion, where trust is a liability and every bond is a potential threat.

Camela continues tonelessly. "If we showed emotion, we were punished. Fear, sadness, affection - all forbidden. The handler said it made us weak. Over time, we needed an emotion wheel to understand the words behind each feeling we never had because we needed it to understand other people.”

Camela's gaze grows distant as if lost in the haunting memories of her past.

She blinks, eyes refocusing on me. "Emotions are a liability. I was taught not to feel. It was necessary. Maybe he was right because once the arrow pricked me, I became weak for you. I disappointed the Handler and forgot myself. All that mattered was keeping you alive, even being prepared to let myself be killed for you. Before, I couldn’t even imagine living an entire life filled with such…weakness."

I shake my head, trying to erase her words. Doesn’t she see that love is not a weakness? Does she need me to show her the strength it can hold?

I put down the arrow and rose from my chair, stepping forward and pulling her into an embrace. Salty tears prickled my skin.

Maybe it’s reciting her past that’s made her regress, but there’s no warmth where I touch her skin. She’s cold, like the living dead. She hasn’t shed a tear since she started speaking of her training. She felt no pain, no loss. It’s harrowing and heart-wrenching and so not … human.

"What that man did..." I pause, emotion choking my voice. "You don't even understand how wrong it was, do you?"

Camela says nothing, standing rigid in my arms.

I lean back to meet her eyes.

"Your handler manipulated you. Hurt you. Made you think his cruelty was normal." I shake my head, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. "You didn't know anything else existed. I mean how could you?"

I lift a hand to her face, brushing back a lock of hair. "But I will show you. I promise."

For the first time, a flicker of something like confusion passes over Camela's features. She searches my face.

"Why do you shed tears for me?" she asks bluntly. "I am a killer. Your friend died by my hand."

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