Page 8 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

Gently, I turn the stone over, revealing elegant calligraphy in a language I recognize to be Venetic, from the Veneto region in northeastern Italy. I place it back where I found it. Let the professional divers extract these precious things.

I'm struck with a sense of awe for the civilization that created these artifacts so long ago.

In a small hollow beneath a collapsed beam, I uncover several corroded coins, confirming the wreck's age as I had estimated. The coins bear the image of an ancient ruler, his stern likeness worn away by the passage of centuries.

I document the find carefully, though my thoughts continually return to the golden arrow in my pouch.

What an adventure this has been! But the real thrill lies ahead when we can properly examine the artifacts. With one last sweeping gaze at the ruins, I begin my ascent back up toward the shimmering surface, eager to let the world know of my discovery.

But the arrow is an artifact that I have decided is mine and mine alone.

Chapter 1

Camela

Present Day

I approach the decaying Sicilian mansion, a relic of forgotten grandeur. The house shines no light at this hour, save for one window on the first floor, seen from the front façade.

I crawl forward with one side of my body inched against the eight-foot-high boundary walls, lost in the shadows.

A crunching sound creeps into the night. I strain my ears to hear a pitter-patter of small, soft feet. Four feet. A rabbit, probably foraging through foliage.

I’m in the clear. I move further. As the house draws nearer, I notice the little things. Ivy clings desperately to crumbling blue stone walls, while the windows look like new aluminum, fresh and untainted glass.

It’s not that the professor doesn’t care for the upkeep; it’s simply that he can’t be bothered with things that don’t concern him.

The darkness is my cloak, shielding me from unwanted eyes. Just before I reach the house's porch, I get down on the grass and pull out my frequency jammer to disrupt the signals of the security cameras.

They’ll get a beautiful show of snow. I then employ infrared LED lights to obscure my body heat from the motion sensors, effectively masking my presence.

Crawling up to the main door, I jump to my feet, pressing myself against the wall to reach for the door. Standing right in front of a closed door is an unnecessary risk.

So I stretch out my arms while I pick the lock, just until I hear that soft, satisfying click letting me know that I have the tumblers and pins just where I need them. The alarms won’t be a problem.

Once inside the mansion, I pause to take in the scene before me. The grand entrance hall is home to spectacular vases sitting atop a mahogany foyer table. Ancient, precious art flanks the hallway. There’s a small, dim light on in the corridor.

The mansion's aging walls seem to hold their breath as I slip through the corridors undetected.

The Handler would be proud. I’ve always been the best at avoiding detection.

I walk up the stairs to the first floor and then take a right to find the room in which I saw the light. I barely breathe and stay against the wall.

A failed assassination is not an option. Tonight is no exception. The Handler handpicked me for this task. He chose me over The Snake - Matthiera.

The dim glow of what must be a desk lamp breaks the darkness as I carefully approach the study. The door is ajar.

I lean in with my head so I can take a peek with one eye. Professor Julian Castellano sits hunched over at his desk, completely absorbed in his work. It's almost a shame to disturb him – almost.

I could dart right inside, taking his life in a flash, but I love the thrill of testing my stalking skills, getting as close as possible without detection.

The Professor turns around, his surprised eyes taking me in—the combat boots, the black cloak, the hair slicked back into a ponytail, the mask covering my face—and he rises to his feet, his hands hovering to reach for the panic button.

I smile and summersault over to the desk, just kicking his hand away before jumping onto the table. I crouch down on my haunches over his trembling body. “Who–” he begins and tries to push back his chair, but I grab his chin with one hand, removing the syringe concealed in that sleeve.

I plunge it into his neck before he can even complete his sentence. Its deadly payload of botulinum travels through his bloodstream, obstructs vital vessels, and causes a catastrophic embolism.

I hold on to his chin, that smile still etched on my own, as his eyes widen, and he sputters for air. He struggles against my grip, chokes, and sputters, but I only let go when his eyes turn cold.

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