Page 95 of Capuleto

They should have used bricks with some texture instead of that polished surface.

I looked around and found only one solution: to wrestle with the crowbar I had in the trunk, make some holes in the polished stone plates to place my foot, my fingers, and thus propel myself to the top of the wall; I couldn’t think of anything else.

The bad part would be if a neighbor looked out, or the owner himself, and caught me red-handed. It was risky, but I had no choice.

With the iron in hand, I went straight to the section I was interested in and hit it. The piece of metal caressed the surface and made my hand vibrate. I had to hit harder, and many more times, if I intended to crack it. I looked nervously from side to side. It was going to make a hell of a noise, and if I got caught, what was I going to say? That the stone was a protected species?

I forced myself to calm my nerves. I took a deep breath and struck with greater force. One, two, on the third, the corner broke off, I just needed a little more, I didn’t want the whole piece to fall. I struck again and finally the chunk I needed broke off. A drop of sweat fell into my eye causing a painful sting.

Now I just needed a couple more holes a bit higher up to give me the necessary stability to fit my fingers.

This time it was much easier, I had the force measured out.

Perfect, those notches should be enough.

I rubbed my eyes. I wiped away the sweat and dust that had fallen into them with my sleeve. I returned the bar to the car, demanding calmness from myself.

No one had come out to confront me, which was a good sign.

I went to the foothold, placed the tip of my foot for leverage, and hooked my fingers into the ledges.

"Damn it."

I had just driven a sharp piece of stone into my finger and it was bleeding. I wasn’t going to stop for a little cut. Good thing I didn’t have to make a living as Spider-Man because right now I’d be screwed. If Spider-Man were to see this... Marksmanship was more my thing.

I had to be quick, extend my arm and lean on the top of the wall to climb up.

It was either going to work on the first try, or it was.

Three, two, one...

I extended my arm so much that my shoulder twitched, but I achieved my goal. Andrey would have climbed it like a monkey with those steel biceps; it was going to cost me a couple of cracked ribs.

I was still not recovered, and they complained when I tried to propel myself to hoist my weight up with one arm.

I don’t even know how I managed. My ribcage was burning.

Once at the top, I thought about how much worse the descent would be because now I had to jump. Fortunately, there was no one in the garden and the grass covered most of the surface. There were no dogs in sight, which gave me some peace of mind.

In addition to the house, there was a beautiful pool, trees, hammocks, plants, and a gazebo. I prepared for the jump. I counted down and let myself fall.

When I hit the ground, I suppressed the cry of protest that arose in my vocal cords. I just hoped my ribs hadn't cracked again. It was hard to breathe, I rolled toward some bushes in case I needed to camouflage myself. I spent a couple of minutes trying to ease the pain. Once I was sufficiently recovered, I continued toward the modernist-style house.

I had to be cautious; there was a lot of glass and I could be easily seen. A housemaid passed in front of one of the glass walls. I managed to hide behind one of the trees and brought my hand to the weapon hidden in my belt. I should have attached the silencer. Luckily, she didn't see me. I moved forward as soon as I lost sight of her silhouette.

The house was large; I needed to find a way in. Surely, there would be a sliding door I could pull on. It was a style similar to Romeo's house, and the staff usually didn’t lock those doors until nighttime.

I heard a noise from above. Someone had opened the main terrace door. I ran to a column and pressed my back against it.

A male voice reverberated strongly. It had a clear Russian accent; it had to be him. I pulled out my phone and tried to focus the camera from where I was.

I couldn’t see the guy. If he didn’t come out, I would have no choice but to go in, and I really didn’t want to. It was daytime, there was the housemaid, and who knows if someone else.

I tried to listen to the conversation, to see if it would be useful; most of it was monosyllabic, from which I couldn’t make out what he was talking about.

I scanned my surroundings for the sliding door. It seemed I had just found one and that he was about to wrap up the conversation.

I returned my gaze to the screen to stop the recording when I noticed a tattooed hand peeking over the balustrade. I had seen that tattoo before.

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