The Assassin's Gift

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  Her mother had asked her to visit the uncle and request some help, asking if he could send one of his farm workers to fix a water pump in their garden.

  She had cycled over to the house, around three PM on a Saturday afternoon, only to find the man sleeping on a sun-lounger on the terrace of his house. His wife was not there, having perhaps gone into Palermo for the day, or to visit friends.

  Alessandra had long ago discovered that the man was one of the group of her father's rivals within the mafia family, although it seemed unlikely that her mother knew this.

  His name was on her list.

  There was an empty wine bottle on a table beside the uncle, and an empty glass. Beside the bottle, lay a gun. It drew Alessandra’s attention immediately.

  From listening to the man's snoring, Alessandra had guessed that he was drunk and sleeping off the bottle.

  Knowing that no one knew she was there, apart from her mother, and seeing the unarmed man, sleeping so helplessly before her, Alessandra had become strangely excited. Her pulse had quickened, and her mind had rapidly changed its focus. It had been almost two-and-a-half years since she had last killed someone, but as she hovered above the snoring man, shifting her feet nervously from one to the other, she knew that if she acted fast, the opportunity to kill was presenting itself again.

  The man before her was in his early fifties. He was overweight, but probably very strong, and should he awaken Alessandra would be no match for him. Also, someone could come home at any moment.

  Alessandra had long ago heard the expression that opportunity only knocks once, and when it does, you have to grasp it fast, before it leaves.

  Quickly, she made up her mind, and frantically thought of how she should kill him. Her eyes kept darting back towards the gun, but instinctively she knew that it was not an option.

  A gunshot was loud and would draw attention. Besides, it would be messy, and if any of the man's blood splattered on to her dress, she would be incriminated immediately. There had to be another way. More subtle.

  Walking swiftly around the side of the house to the garden shed, she stepped inside and hurriedly scanned its contents.

  Not knowing exactly what she was looking for, but fervently seeking inspiration, as soon as she saw the pile of coiled ropes, her heart skipped a beat.

  Grabbing five of the ropes, she hurried back to the sleeping man, and knelt down on the slabs of the terrace. Uncoiling the ropes she quickly passed them underneath the sun lounger, ensuring that there was enough on the other side to pass back over the top towards her.

  Standing up, she tiptoed around to the other side of the sun-lounger and after spacing the position of the ropes along the length of the body, - two across the chest, another around the waist, the third around the man's thighs, and the last around his ankles, - she passed them across to the other side of the man, leaving them resting gently on his body. Returning back to the other side, she took several deep breaths, took a few moments to check no one had returned home, then quickly began to tie up and tighten each of the ropes with a Trucker's Hitch, before securing each with a couple Half Hitches.

  Within a moment, thanks to the knots that her father had taught to her during their special times at sea together, the man was fully restrained. His arms were immobilised underneath the ropes, and his body was quite firmly tied to the heavy sun-lounger.

  As Alessandra picked up a cushion from another of the sun-loungers on the terrace, her hands began to shake.

  Lifting the cushion and holding it with both hands above the face of the snoring man, she hesitated.

  She wasn't scared. And it was not that she was having second thoughts, but for a few moments she looked down at the face of her next victim and just stared at him.

  The man's eyes blinked open.

  He stared straight at Alessandra.

  Their eyes connected and for a brief moment, Alessandra froze.

  The man tried to move his left hand, and at that moment began to realise that he was tied up.

  He began to struggle. He shouted at Alessandra. What he shouted didn't register with Alessandra, but it broke the spell and galvanised her into immediate action: she had to shut him up.

  Climbing on top of his chest, she pressed the cushion down hard onto the man's face.

  The man started shaking his head from side to side.

  Alessandra pressed harder, leaning forward.

  As she did so, she could feel the man rocking his weight from side to side on the sun-lounger beneath her, struggling to escape from the ropes that bound him.

  Thankfully, the sun-lounger was made from solid iron, and moving it was probably difficult enough even when sober and untied. Nevertheless, at that moment, Alessandra had begun to doubt her actions. Would he succeed in pushing her off him, breaking the ropes or slipping out of them? Had anyone heard the man's cries? Had she tied the knots properly, just as her father had taught her? She remembered then that her father had always insisted that knowing how to tie proper knots could maybe one day save her life...

  She pushed harder, worried now that her arms were getting tired.

  Looking down at the man's hands, there was a moment when panic almost overcame her and she feared that he was about to break free.

  She imagined a hand coming up and grabbing her throat, squeezing it. Crushing her...

  She pressed harder.

  Then almost abruptly, the man's head stopped moving underneath the cushion.

  Not wanting to fall for any tricks, she leaned forward putting all her weight upon the cushion.

  Then accepting that the man's body was now still, she shifted her weight around on top of him, and sat on the cushion across his nose and mouth.

  She sat there for three or four minutes, making absolutely sure.

  Finally, she removed the pillow and looked down at the man's face. Eyes wide open and red. Blue lips. Vomit coming out of the corners of his mouth.

  She felt nothing but relief.

  Nodding, and mentally visualising the number ‘four’, she climbed off the body, and quickly went to work.

  Undoing the ropes, and coiling them back up, she returned them to the shed where she had found them. Hurrying back to the terrace, she picked up the dead uncle's gun from the side table, and wrapped it in a cloth she'd found in the shed.

  Then carrying the pillow to the well in the courtyard, she dropped it down inside. Retrieving her bicycle from where she had left it propped up against a wall, she placed the gun in its protective cloth in the basket on her handlebars, and covered it with her light summer jacket. Then she cycled home.

  Three days later she had read about the man's death in the newspaper.

  He had drunk too much, fallen asleep in the sun, and then choked on his own vomit.

  Thankfully, no one had heard him cry out, no one had found the cushion in the well, and no rope abrasions had been found on his body.

  She had been lucky, and Alessandra knew it.

  Lesson learned.

  Chapter 5

  Sicily

  Alessandra's teenage years

  From the list she had compiled in her bedroom, three of the names had already been scored out.

  There were still nine to go.

  Nine more people that she'd sworn to kill to avenge her father's death.

  But how?

  It had been slow progress so far, but she couldn't push everyone over a cliff, down a well, or wait for them to fall asleep.

  The truth was, Alessandra wasn't really a proper killer, just an opportunist. If she was to achieve her goal, she knew she had to become better. She needed to learn more about the art of killing, and not only how to take advantage of situations, but also how to create them.

  If she didn't, most of the others on the list would die of old age before she would get round to ending their lives for them.

  She had two advantages in her favour.

  First, she now had her very own gun. She also had a plentiful supply of ammunition which she h
ad found in her father's office cupboard, and which fitted the gun perfectly. Since her father's death, her mother hardly ventured into his rooms, and almost everything lay just where it was on the evening he'd been murdered.

  Secondly, since she was a baby, she'd been surrounded by killers, from whom she knew she could learn everything she needed to know, if only she could be given the chance. Even now, long after her father had been killed, she and her mother remained part of the extensive mafia family. Since her father's death, her mother had become a shadow of her former self, and had largely withdrawn from her social life, preferring to remain mostly at home, and hiding in her garden.

  For several years she had officially been in mourning, but had recently stopped wearing the black clothes which had become her uniform. Since then a few men had come calling at her door. All Mafioso. She had shown no interest in any of them, bar one, even though several had been wealthy, and young.

  Her mother had not lost her looks, and Alessandra had tried to encourage her to live again. Alessandra's life was just starting, and she was determined to explore the world as she knew her father would have wanted her to do. He had often promised to take her places: to show her New York in America, London, and even Victoria Falls in Africa! Places he had been when he was young and had wanted to share with her. She was determined to see them all, preferably with her mother, but without her if needs be.

  Of all the men who had come-a-calling, one had caught her mother's attention. He was Vincenzo Balistreri, a handsome man several years her junior, quiet, attentive and charming. He had a sparkle in his eye, and a beautiful smile which when directed at Alessandra, made her feel special.

  By now, Alessandra was a young woman. At fourteen years of age, she noticed that some men had started to look at her differently and that too made her feel special.

  She was not particularly attractive, and she knew it, but when she smiled, her features transformed and her face lit up. During the following months when her mother left the house to go out for the evening, or for walks with Vincenzo, Alessandra would sneak into her mother's bedroom and play with her make-up, trying to mimic the use of it on her face, having studied her mother applying it for hours on end.

  She learned that make-up could change her appearance dramatically, transforming her from the unnoticeable duckling that she mostly was, into a beautiful swan beyond her true years.

  She knew her mother would be furious with her if caught, so she always endeavoured to ensure that every trace of it had been wiped from her face before she and Vincenzo returned from wherever their courting took them.

  The months turned into years, and Alessandra and Vincenzo became close. Had she not fought it, he could have easily become a second father figure to her. However, Alessandra never allowed herself to feel like that towards any man. Her father was her father. She did not need another one even though he was no longer with them.

  Instead, Vincenzo became her friend and her confidante.

  She trusted him.

  So much so, that one day the following summer, when she was fifteen, she voiced two questions to him which she had been thinking for many months.

  "Vincenzo, is it true... are you the top assassin for the Capo?"

  Vincenzo had been silent for a while, then replied, "Yes, I work for the Family. But there are many assassins and I cannot state with certainty that I am the most successful."

  Alessandra had nodded, carefully considering his reply.

  He had not denied it, but in true style, he had refused to exaggerate or lie.

  "Vincenzo," Alessandro had looked him straight in the eye, and spoken with clarity and sincerity, "will you teach me how to kill?"

  --------------------

  The answer was no.

  At first.

  Vincenzo could see that she had meant what she had asked, and that it was no idle request. Yet, how could he teach the daughter of the woman he was courting, the art of death?

  However, a year later, when the relationship between Alessandra's mother and Vincenzo had run its course, he was set free to ask her the question that had troubled him ever since she'd asked it.

  "Alessandra, why do you want to learn to kill?"

  The question was asked one evening in the garden of the local Capo, the leader of the local branch of the Family. Officially it was an evening intended to celebrate the start of the grape harvest, although unofficially everyone knew it was in honour of the son of a respected mafia member who had just been 'made' - and been granted full membership and the protection of the Mafia Family. It was a warm evening, the crickets were chirping loudly all around, and the moon was full.

  They'd walked for a while in silence, slipping away from the others, before Alessandra had replied.

  "I need to avenge my father's death."

  "Please, sit here beside me, Alessandra." Vincenzo had stopped at a seat beside the small lake at the bottom of the garden.

  Alessandra sat down and turned towards him.

  "You wish to kill those responsible for your father's death?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you know who they are?"

  "I do. I have always known."

  "I too know, Alessandra. But killing them will not be simple. Especially for a young woman."

  "But that's surely to my advantage, isn't it? No one will suspect me. I can get close to them without being suspected. I can strike before they even know it."

  It was not the reply that Vincenzo had expected.

  "Are you prepared to die in the process?"

  "Yes, Vincenzo, I am. Which is why I am asking for your help. I don't want to die. And I do not want to get caught. But I do want to kill. And to do it well, so that the other's will respect me for it."

  Vincenzo had laughed. Not in mocking her, but perhaps out of surprise and admiration.

  "And your heart is set on this?"

  "It is," she replied.

  "Then I will teach you."

  --------------------

  It had been that simple. Alessandra had thus found a teacher, and Vincenzo had found a pupil and perhaps an heir. Over the years that followed, both had fulfilled their roles with dedication and respect for the other.

  At first it had been a slow process, during which Alessandra had learned the many tools of the trade and had been set upon a course of exercising the muscles of her body so that she could become strong enough to kill others with her bare hands.

  During her pupillage she had learned a lot about her tutor that no others knew. Sworn to secrecy, and having taken an oath upon her father's memory, she had learned about the various assassinations that Vincenzo had committed, and how they had been conducted.

  She had learned to recreate them, using the various tools that Vincenzo had used: guns, shotguns, ropes, explosives, medicines, drugs, and brute force.

  During the subsequent years, she had endlessly practised everything that Vincenzo taught her. She was a star disciple. So much so, that just before her eighteenth birthday, - deliberately chosen so that she was not yet legally an adult in the eyes of the law should she be caught -, she had accompanied Vincenzo to Palermo and under his guidance, had assassinated a businessman who treated the Family with a lack of respect, and had many unpaid bills.

  Following her intended target for hours until the right moment had presented itself, Alessandra had finally caught the man alone in an almost empty cobbled street, with high-rise apartment buildings on either side.

  Trailing the man from a respectable distance, as soon the only other pedestrians in the street had passed by in the other direction, she had quickly closed the gap between them and inserted a syringe deftly into his neck, emptying its contents into the ascending aorta.

  Without stopping to wait for him to die, she had hurried on, followed by Vincenzo who had momentarily crouched over the dying man and whispered something in his ear.

  "What did you say to him?" she had later asked.

  "I told him the name of his assassin, so that he
would respect and fear you in the afterlife."

  "What name did you tell him?" she had asked.

  "Salvador."

  "But that's a man's name!" she had exclaimed.

  "Exactly."

  "I don't understand?" she replied.

  Vincenzo had looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

  "Well, Alessandra, you certainly don't look like a man to me. And you never will. Which is ideal, because even if all the police in the world eventually hear of you, and search for you, they'll never find you. They can't find what isn't there."

  A month later she had killed her first woman. A politician in Palermo who was asking too many questions. Vincenzo had watched her from afar, and this time it was Alessandra that had whispered Salvador's name into the victim's ear.

  Then six months later, she had killed a policeman, followed a week later by another businessman.

  Each time, Vincenzo had watched from afar. Each time a little further away.

  After two years, Vincenzo had agreed to help her kill one of the names on her list.

  The name belonged to a 'made man', a member of the mafia who had the Family’s full support and protection. Vincenzo knew the man, and although he did not like or respect him, he could not agree to have a part in his killing - officially.

  He had advised Alessandra. Helped her select the weapon, the time and the place, but on the evening of his assassination, Vincenzo was intentionally having a drink with his Capo, the local leader of his branch of the Family.

  Above suspicion, and although under no immediate threat to himself, he had worried about his protégé all evening, until they had spoken by phone early the next morning.

  Without enquiring about the fate of the other man, he had simply asked, "Are you okay?"

  Her reply was all the confirmation he needed.

  "Yes."

  Her apprenticeship had lasted eight years, until the age of twenty-four, when one day Vincenzo himself had been murdered.