THE ASSASSIN
He was always surprised by the way they looked. Often standing there in silence he would envy the serenity in their faces. It’s not that he didn’t feel remorse, he never felt anything. More out of habit than respect he knelt down and slid his long slender fingers in one accurate swoop and shut her eye lids. Leonard the friendly but slightly senile watchmen walked towards 345, he relished his little chats with Miss Marcini, She was the only one who used to ask him how his day was, not the usual ‘were fine Leonard’ followed by a swift but abrupt shut of the door. Although past his prime he could still appreciate those legs “hmmm Miss Marcini’s legs, wow” he thought to himself. As the Assassin reached for his notebook he smirked, in his little black book he etched target Marcini elimin... before he could finish he could hear sounds of footsteps, each step progressively getting louder, time was short, removing the leather gloves from his beautifully crafted suite jacket he headed for the window and after the satisfying squelch of leather on his hands, he exited without looking back. As Leonard reached 345 a broad grin formed, “Oh Miss Marcini…” he called while knocking on the door. He heard nothing but silence. With increasing rapidity he knocked again, still silence. Slightly disappointed he turned to head back to his night post but the glimmer of the door handle caught his eye. He stopped and slowly put his hand on the handle and turned. “Hmm open” he pushed the door back and slowly stepped inside. The chandelier was bright and it took a moment for Leonard’s eyes to adjust. What he saw he knew he would never forget for the rest of his days. His eyes were shut now but the image burned brightly as if branded to the inside of his eyelids. He fell to his knees and fumbled trying to find his radio transmitter, how could anyone do this, and why leave the body in that way, that inhuman position, Leonard held back the urge to vomit and crackled out something resembling “send help, 345”. Miss Marcini’s body lay motionless, body contorted and spine broken; her body formed a giant C. the infamous sign of the Cambrini clan. His apartment was as it always was, immaculate, sterile. He poured himself a glass of incomprehensibly expensive wine. Although he did not succumb to most modern pleasures a fine wine was something he relished, it relaxed him and even for a few seconds he felt human. He headed to his bedroom, he had done well. As he lay in his bed he knew tomorrow would bring a new day and a new job. He wouldn't dream, he doesn’t dream anymore. Mr. Marcini’s face slowly tightened, on the other end of the receiver detective Kurshaw slowly with little emotion described what had happened to Mr Marcini’s daughter, Kurshaw finished with a feigned gesture of sympathy, gang family assassinations were not new to him. The phone was now silent yet Mr Marcini still held the receiver to his ear, time for grief would be later, revenge is the only course… Tuesday the 18th, his alarm clock proclaimed loudly. It was 7:30 in the morning and the sun shone brightly over his tanned skin. Without hesitation or even so much as a rub of his eyes he rose and headed for the shower. Routine kept him sane. After a protein rich breakfast he sat down by his desk, people knew how it worked; a
