Assassination Vetoed

I dedicated hours upon hours scrutinizing Angelo Russo, analyzing everything about him, from his skin to his bones, from the crown on his head to the soles of his feet. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the clock struck one in the morning, my mind churned, conjuring the perfect method to kill him. However, I must admit, Mr. Ryuu wasn't spitting empty words. Angelo had a firm grip on a hundred men, while I stood alone, relying on myself. It was a realization that despite being two years my senior, he seemed to possess less strength. He relied on his army, while I remained self-sufficient. He had 276 victims under his control, but my count soared to 823, counting yesterday's victims. Undeniably, he had earned respect, power, and a notorious name in New York, though he had yet to earn superiority over me.

I'm not going to deny that Russo had earned genuine respect from the men he effortlessly manipulates. It's no small feat to earn the admiration of those around you, let alone maintain it. Through strength and determination, he has achieved both, ensuring his men remain obedient until their last breath. As much as I belittle him, I must acknowledge that. Russo and I diverge in this aspect. While he seeks and attains power, my desires lie elsewhere. I find satisfaction in instilling fear.

Just as I bear the title of the Scarlet Serpent, Russo can easily be dubbed the Shadow King. His position grants him authority. He reigns supreme over his men, holding dominion not only over their lives but also over the countless victims he has claimed. In essence, he embodies the image of a king, adorned with a golden crown atop his head, commanding attention and proclaiming, "I am your leader." The moment he graces the scene, it's akin to a drill sergeant orchestrating his troops, expertly guiding them through each intricate step as if they were nothing more than marionettes. He can perch on a single ledge, swinging his legs like a child, observing his dolls dutifully executing his every command. And when he fixes his gaze upon them, a deathly stare pierces their souls, freezing them in their tracks.

At the age of 28, Russo stands two years older than me. Prior to his ascendancy, his father, Giovanni, held dominion over the men who now bow to Russo's command. Tragically, Giovanni fell gravely ill, prompting the passing of the mantle to his son on Angelo's 20th birthday. Little did Russo know, had he been aware that his father would recover, he would never have accepted the position he occupies today. However, a cruel twist of fate unfolded when, mere months later, it was revealed that Giovanni's unknown illness had been cured. Angelo, pissed, found his emotions boiling over until the life abruptly departed from his father's body, a bullet piercing his forehead right before his eyes. Once again, control and authority shifted into Angelo's hands. Here's an unsettling fact: It was my own father who killed Giovanni. Yet, within a year, my father met his own demise.

Within Russo's bedroom, a tense exchange unfolded between him and his father, the reasons for their heated discourse evident. Meanwhile, one of my father's henchmen lurked in another room, eliminating Angelo's mother, Isabella. It was a calculated move, as my father had long set his sights on eradicating the entire Russo family; Giovanni, Isabella, and, of course, Angelo himself. However, on that fateful day, when my father came face-to-face with Angelo, standing there, trembling, having just witnessed his father's life taken by a bullet to the head, my father held back from seizing the opportunity to eliminate him as well. The details of that day remain hazy in my memory, as my father returned home late at night, sharing with me only one vivid recollection: the haunting look on Angelo's face. His eyes widened with tears welling up, his body shaking uncontrollably, yet he stood frozen in place, staring transfixed at his father's lifeless body sprawled upon his own feet.

The Docks hold an infamous reputation in New York, serving as a haven for criminals seeking privacy, a place where even the police dare not tread. It's a hotbed for all sorts of illicit activities, where criminals engage in shooting each other in sensitive areas just for their own twisted amusement. The Docks essentially function as a gathering spot for lawbreakers, a bustling hub of criminal activity. It's not exactly my preferred environment, as I tend to gravitate towards quieter locales. However, despite the constant chaos and cacophony that engulfs the area, there is an eerie sense of tranquility to be found. That is, if you find peace in the symphony of gunfire, agonized screams, and the sickening impact of fists meeting flesh. It's a place where people frequently fall victim to bullets and blades, which is why you must remain vigilant against the criminal faction we commonly refer to as the "Junkies." Now, you might be wondering, what relevance does The Docks hold?

Indeed, The Docks serve as the perfect backdrop for all sorts of dealings, including ruthless eliminations and, just for the hell of it, plunging into the bone-chilling waters of the nearby lake. That's not the crux of the matter, not technically speaking. Our very own Angelo Russo takes great pleasure in indulging in a daily excursion to The Docks, like a predictable clockwork, precisely at 2:30 in the afternoon; a time that conveniently aligns with my awakening. But today is different, as I have matters to attend to. No, scratch that, not just matters, but someone. And who else could it be but Angelo? Usually, Sundays are the quieter times of the week to roam The Docks, and fortunately, it's Halloween, a day when even grown criminals go round terrorizing little kids for trick-or-treating. Angelo despises Halloween, and I can't deny that sentiment resides with me as well. After all, it was on Halloween that both his parents and mine met their gruesome ends, making it a day far from our respective strong suits. It's one of the few shared elements between us.

With an impassive gaze, I observed Russo as he nonchalantly extracted a thick wad of cash from the recesses of his back pocket. Meanwhile, I reclined comfortably in a beach chair, my legs casually propped up, a cigarette dangling from my lips. I sported a New York Yankees baseball hat and a pair of sunglasses with vibrant orange lenses, effectively obscuring my identity. Underneath the disguise, I knew Russo sensed my presence, albeit oblivious to the fact that it was me lurking behind the shield of sunglasses, the Yankees hat, and the perspiration-drenched cargo pants paired with a snug tank top. I took a drag from the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the distance, before gently tapping the smoldering tip into the nearby ashtray. From a distance of twenty feet, my eyes fixated on Russo, an unsettling intensity emitting from my stare.

Today marks the day, the day when I shall bring an end to Angelo Russo. It is an order straight from Mr. Ryuu, a target handpicked by Mr. Ryuu himself. In this little predicament, I am stripped of any authority to defy, not that I would entertain such thoughts even if I had the freedom to do so. Ever since the age of 19, I have taken a sadistic pleasure in erasing lives from this world, and let me assure you, the claim of 823 victims is no exaggeration. I have extinguished that many lives, and the mere thought of it brings a chilling smirk to my lips. And now, Angelo Russo, the Shadow King, shall become my 824th victim.

As I maintained my gaze on Russo, he leisurely thumbed through the stack of money, ensuring he had the necessary amount to settle his transaction with the man before him. I scrutinized his features, the cigarette finding its way back between my lips as I exhaled a stream of smoke through my nostrils. It dawned on me that I had never truly taken the time to closely examine his appearance until now, and in doing so, I gained a clearer understanding of him.

His hair, dark as the night, possessed a thickness and a shine that caught the eye. He slicked it back with his fingers, exuding a sense of confidence. A stubble of facial hair adorned his chin and upper lip. Towering above others, Russo easily reached a height of at least six feet. Adorning his right arm, a Chinese dragon tattoo snaked its way along his entire limb. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of apprehension as I observed the size of his biceps, threatening to burst through the fabric of his shirt. Speaking of attire, he possessed a discerning taste in fashion, unless, of course, his bodyguard curated his wardrobe each morning.

His choice of attire included a pair of black, baggy cargo pants, meticulously tucked into tightly laced leather boots. The boots themselves boasted dark blue laces. Holding up his pants, a sturdy leather belt secured his attire, while a dark blue handkerchief peeked out from his back pocket. A black t-shirt, slightly snug but accentuating his well-defined muscles. Glinting on his right wrist, a silver watch commanded attention, accompanied by a lone silver earring in his right ear. If I were not his sworn enemy, I might have acknowledged that he presented a pleasing image. Not scorching hot, not irresistibly attractive, not strikingly beautiful; just undeniably good.

Mere feet away stood his bodyguard, Luca Moretti, 25 years old, one year younger than myself. Nonchalantly, he leaned against the dock's railing, one leg gracefully crossed over the other, his arms tightly entwined. His eyes constantly scanned in every direction, ensuring no one approached Russo, except for the man engaged in their dealings. But the presence of a young German Shepherd, a gentle giant beneath his exterior, was not enough to deter me. Luca was nothing more than a bodyguard, likely with a limited repertoire of one of two kills. Granted, he possessed physical strength and an intimidating aura, but he paled in comparison to me. In the grand scheme of things, he was inconsequential, a shadow in the presence of a seasoned killer.

Luca, despite his youth, possesses an undeniable tenacity, akin to a fierce feline. His mine harbors an extensive vocabulary, seemingly destined to inflict offense upon unsuspecting targets with his biting words. Let it be known that his sucker punch packs a brutal punch. And let us not forget his mastery of the blade, wielding a five inch knife as if it were a katana or a pair of nunchucks. Over the span of several years, Luca underwent training under the twisted guidance of none other than Angelo himself. It comes as no surprise, then, that Luca's skin bears witness to countless bruises, scars, and cuts.

As the man Russo had been negotiating with finally departed, I rose from the beach chair, discarding the remnants of my cigarette, crushing it beneath my foot with a forceful stomp. I plunged my hands into the depths of my pockets, my right hand tightly gripping the handle of my knife, ready for swift and lethal action. In my left hand, I poised myself to deliver an uppercut to Luca's chin, ensuring that he wouldn't impede my path as I dealt with Angelo. Head bowed low, my gaze fixed on my feet as they propelled me forward. I trudged relentlessly towards Angelo, who engaged in what appeared to be a friendly conversation with Luca.

As I finally closed the distance between us, both Russo and Luca directed me a scornful glare, their expressions brimming with disbelief at my audacity to intrude. Without a moment's hesitation, I swiftly executed a well practiced maneuver, sweeping my leg behind Russo, toppling him onto his rear. His sunglasses tumbled from his head, clattering to the ground, and he emitted a groan of pain as he instinctively cradled the back of his head in his palm.

I seized Luca by the collar of his shirt, hoisting him above the edge of the railing. With a calculated motion, I discarded my sunglasses and hat onto the nearby railing, freeing my face from their concealment. Luca's desperation materialized in frantic scratches against my arm, his futile attempt to dislodge my firm grip. Little did he realize, his resistance only intensified his predicament. Without a shred of remorse, I relinquished my hold on his shirt, and he plummeted into the waters below.

My gaze shifted towards my primary target, who sat perched on the dock with an air of nonchalance, his legs casually extended before him. His attention was fixated on the crimson-stained palm of his hand, a sight that evoked a subtle wrinkle of disgust on his nose, a raised eyebrow, and widened eyes. As his gaze met mine, a wave of fury and confusion surged within his shimmering hazel eyes. Yet, within the span of a mere instant, the expression etched upon his face transformed into one of recognition.

"The Scarlet Serpent, huh? I thought your bloodline had been wiped out, Camila Vega, but it seems I was gravely mistaken. You're still the same bloodthirsty bitch you always were. First things first, that little stunt of knocking me on my ass hurt like hell. Second, I'm well aware of your intentions; you plan on using that knife in your pocket to put an end to me. Well, good luck with that. And thirdly, here's a fun fact for you: Luca can't swim, and you just sent him plunging into a lake that's fifteen feet deep."

As I knelt down beside Russo, my cold gaze locked onto his, never wavering for even a second. With calculated precision, I pressed the razor sharp edge of my knife against his throat, exerting just enough pressure to send a chilling message. He, in turn, remained seated, leaning back, his arms propping him up, seemingly unfazed by the dire predicament he found himself in. Blood trickled down the back of his neck, a testament to the delicate balance between life and death that rested in my hands.

"Who the fuck do you think you're calling a bitch, Russo? Better not be me, unless you want your throat slit right here, right now. So, spill it, Russo. Who's the bitch in this situation? And let me commend you on your intelligence, you little shit. You've accurately deduced that your demise will come at my hands. Oh, and don't worry, I'm well aware that your precious bodyguard can't swim. That's precisely why he's thrashing about in the depths of that lake, drowning as we speak."

"You know, Camila, there's one word that encapsulates you perfectly," he started, and I could sense the impending drivel he was about to spew. I couldn't care less about what he had to say, but I couldn't resist the entertainment that awaited me. It was bound to be a pitiful attempt to strike a chord of remorse within me, a feeble effort to make me feel something I had long discarded. "Believe me, I don't throw this word around lightly. You're nothing short of pure evil. It's evident that my words mean little to you, but it doesn't change the undeniable truth. You're a cold-blooded murderer, a hardened criminal, a monstrous presence. And what's even more disturbing is that you revel in it."

"You got it right, Russo. I am the embodiment of pure evil, and you're damn right about something else too. I take pride in it. I'm a cold-blooded murderer, a seasoned criminal, and an undeniable monster. And you know what? I'm perfectly okay with that. It's the way I was raised, unlike those normal little girls in New York with their fluffy dreams and a multitude of friends. I'm not the girl aiming for valedictorian or swinging a bat at a tiny yellow ball. No, I grew up in the company of killers, Russo. I was raised amidst monsters. So, my way of life? It's normal for me, even if it horrifies others," I stated to Russo, my voice dripping with a cold indifference. I allowed a brief pause to hang in the air, deliberating on my next words. "But Russo, let me make something clear. You come at me like I'm the worst person to ever walk this earth, yet you, my dear mafia boss, are no saint. You're a killer too, don't you dare deny it. You have 276 victims under your belt, and that's no small number. Sure, I may have taken more lives than you, but does it really matter? We're both branded as murderers, aren't we?"

"820 people, Camila! Let that sink in. Have you ever truly grasped the magnitude of your bloody tally? Or are you simply too soulless to give a damn?"

"Allow me to cut you off right there," I raised my hand, cutting off Russo's words. Surprisingly, he fell silent, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. "Yes, you're spot on. I'm utterly devoid of a soul, incapable of giving a damn. And let's get the numbers right, shall we? It's not just 820, it's 823 victims now. I added three more to my tally just last night, courtesy of a trio of bullies tormenting an innocent teenager. But here's the thing, Russo. I have to wonder about your motives. Are you killing for sadistic pleasure or is there some twisted sense of protection behind your actions? Because every life I've taken has been a response to heinous acts against humanity. As for you, well, it remains a mystery whether you're simply a cold-blooded killer or a self-proclaimed defender of others."

"Camila, let's face the brutal reality. No one in this wretched generation truly deserves protection, as there isn't a single soul without their own share of darkness. I kill because I hold the power of a mafia boss, I kill because there are those who deserve nothing less than death. As for protection, I reserve that privilege solely for Luca. The rest of this twisted world can fend for themselves."

"Ah, Russo, here lies the stark contrast between us. You kill because you believe the entire world is filled with nothing but scumbags. And to some extent, you're not entirely off the mark. There's no denying that everyone carries a dark side within them. However, not everyone possesses the capacity to empathize, to genuinely care for others. Those rare individuals who can extend compassion, I don't lay a finger on them; I protect them. But those who revel in shaming, bullying, and spreading hatred, they deserve nothing less than death at my hands."

"You're overthinking, Camila. And when you let your mind wander too far, you become nothing but a fool who fails to grasp the reality around her. And let me remind you, when weakness engulfs you, it only invites danger from others. From me."

In a blink of an eye, Russo lunged at me with lightning speed, catching me off guard. I attempted to evade his strike, but my efforts were futile. Before I could react, a sharp object pierced the side of my neck, sending a jolt of pain coursing through my body. My hand instinctively shot to the site of the injury as I gasped in disbelief, staring at Russo with a mixture of shock and self-realization. I had brought this upon myself. Engaging in my usual habit of talking too much, especially when faced with disagreement, had cost me my focus.

In a mere matter of seconds, my body began to sway uncontrollably, as if I had become weightless, losing all command over my own limbs. My eyelids fluttered rapidly, struggling to maintain focus as my vision blurred into a haze. Amidst the disorientation, Russo's face remained the sole point of clarity, adorned with a wicked smirk that resembled that of a witch. With a sudden collapse, I tumbled to the ground from my previous position. Darkness encroached upon my senses, closing in like a suffocating shroud, yet my gaze remained fixed on Russo, my eyes blinking feebly as I teetered on the precipice of consciousness. And then, as if surrendering to the inevitable, the sedative's grip tightened, plunging me into an abyss of profound darkness, where consciousness and awareness were totally consumed.