Codename: Aconite

Time and Place

I have been buzzing with a sense of accomplishment this week. Roughly a year ago I managed to obtain Hippomane mancinella seeds and have been cultivating them ever since. This particular fruit tree is native to Mesoamerica and the Caribbean Sea Islands and so it’s taken time to create the perfect environment for it to flourish in, and after months of hard work, the tree is finally bearing fruit!

Now, it’s not the fruit from this tree that is of interest to me. The manchineel tree is also known as the Tree of Death or the Chamomile of Death. While the fruit smells heavenly and has the appearance of a mini apple, the tree is highly toxic. It’s actually considered the most dangerous tree in the world. The tree itself produces a milky sap that contains phorbol, an organic compound that when exposed to the skin can feel like someone is setting your skin on fire, to the point it can even cause blisters and eruptions in the epidermis. However, if the sap is ingested it will lead to severe vomiting and diarrhoea that may lead to death. It’s unfortunate for me just how many poisons lead to explosive gastrointestinal problems. I should probably invest in a hazmat suit.

Another fun fact about this tree is that burning the tree is just as harmful since the smoke it produces can lead to temporary blindness and severe respiratory problems. All of this is a fancy and scientific way of saying that I have a multitude of ways to utilise this plant for future assignments. I’m already concocting a plan where I could easily mix a concentrated dose of the sap into a target's body products or lace their food or milk with it and just let nature take its course. Utilising the smoke benefits would be more complex and time-consuming, but that’s not to say there will never be a time and place to use it, and I love having that option. In fact, my greenhouse is filled with endless options.

My greenhouse is my favourite place in the whole entire world. Every plant in it has been planted and nurtured by me. I even have some crossbreeds that I have spent painstaking hours – if not years – growing, with each crossbreed being the first of their species. I love my plants. There’s something so poetic in knowing that it’s often the most beautiful things around us that are the deadliest, and yet it’s these things we are drawn to most. After all, it’s the captivating scent of the Venus flytrap that lures its prey to its death. Just as much as this Earth is full of things that can naturally sustain us, there is an equal amount of things that can naturally kill us, and that duality fascinates me.

My lifestyle has been very good to me, which has made it possible for me to own one of the best apartments in all of Athens. The ten-story apartment building has no association with the Drakos family, and I like to keep it that way. I live on the top floor and have private rooftop access, which is where I keep my greenhouse. I would love to spend all day running some experiments on some of my new babies, but it’s a Monday, which means I am off to the post office.

I make my way to the parking garage, slip on my sunglasses, and walk over to my new Mazda MX-5 Miata; its sleek glossy red exterior calling to me across the parking garage. What can I say? Sometimes a woman just likes to have nice things, and this puppy is all sorts of nice.

I unlock the door, toss my bag into the passenger side, and slide in. I drop the top down and take off out of the garage heading towards the post office on the other side of town. For the sake of convenience, it would be better to use a post office closer to my apartment, but my mother always taught me to keep my professional life far out of reach from my personal life, and that’s advice I continue to follow. For anyone who seeks my professional services, I have a PO box that I use for getting in contact with me. Handing out my private contact information is just not an option. Like with most things, it has no ties to my real identity.

After a brief drive, I park outside the post office and fix my now wind-blown hair in the rearview mirror. Once satisfied, I get out, slide my sunglasses on top of my head, and head inside just as the last customer exits.

“Dasha!” Cheers the older gentleman behind the counter, his arms stretched wide in welcome.

I give him a broad smile, “Geia Cyril.”

Cyril races around the counter – or at least tries to – and embraces me in a strong hug that I happily return. Doesn’t matter how often I come here; he gives me the same greeting. Cyril is 68 and used to be a more hands-on member of the Drakos family, so I’ve known him all my life. He semi-retired a few years back, which really means no more hands-on tasks within the family anymore. Instead, he runs this post office, which also doubles as a drop point for a lot of Drakos family business, which made it the perfect place to keep my PO box. If anyone were to come snooping for it or my identity, Cyril would inform me in a heartbeat, and I would probably arrive to find a corpse in the back room. He may be getting on in years, but he’s still diligent and thorough.

“How are you, my dear? Looking more and more like your mother every day, and just as lethal I hear,” he says with a wicked smile.

I chuckle and kiss his stubbly cheek, “Ever the charmer. How are you? How’s the family?” I ask, taking his hands in mine.

“The wife is good, the kids are good, but those grandkids of mine are a bunch of snot-nosed brats. Kids have no respect for their elders anymore,” he says with strong disapproval.

“Not everyone can be as wonderful as you, Cyril,” I say, giving his hands a squeeze.

“If my grandchildren could grow to be anything like you, I would consider myself very blessed,” he says wistfully.

“I take it you hope they enter the family business then?”

He waves his hand and walks back behind the counter, “Not at all, but look at you, Dasha. Graduated early, top of her class with very impressive degrees. You come from money and power and yet it didn’t make you lazy. You still worked hard to have everything you do, and I still see how hard you work. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I just wish my grandchildren could grow to even have a bit of what you have. I could sleep easier if that were the case.”

“Cyril, they’re just children. I’m sure in time they’ll grow and mature and take life more seriously, but at their age, I’m sure I was an absolute nightmare for my parents,” I say as I walk over to the wall of PO boxes.

“Now that I just can’t picture,” he says in amusement.

“Just you ask them. I’m sure they have plenty of horror stories to regale you with that might have you thinking your grandchildren are little angels,” I chuckle.

“Speaking of, how are your parents?”

“They are good, thank you. Still busy as always, but still making time for each other,” I smile over at him. My parents have the strongest relationship of anyone I know, and it always brings a smile to my face to think of how happy and in love they are. I can only hope to have one day what they have, but I’m not actively seeking it out. If it’s meant to be, it will be.

“That’s good. I heard about that business with Zephyr the other week,” he says, shaking his head and tsking in disgust, “Betraying the family like that, he got what he deserved, and I’m glad you were the one to give it to him. For what those monsters did to that sweet girl, I have a right mind to revive him just so I can torture the bastard myself,” he spits. No, he actually spits on the ground, his disgust and outrage so prominent he can’t contain it.

There are very few lines men of the mafia will not cross. For most men, women are mere commodities or forms of currency. Only useful for goods and services. Uncle Dimitris, however, has his own moral code that he strongly stands by and has happily killed any in the family who has gone against his code. He has no issues with abduction, torture, or murder, but he draws the line at human trafficking and the s****l abuse/torture of anyone. Last time he learned one of his men had raped one of the women they had abducted, he was sure to have that man killed by impaling him slowly on a spike through his ass. It was graphic and brutal, yet incredibly satisfying.

Knowing that his daughter was subjected to this kind of torture is bad enough, but knowing it was orchestrated by one of his own men, knowing full well how he feels about the matter, has left him feeling utterly betrayed. Right now he doesn’t know who he can trust – apart from my father – and has had me doing extra reconnaissance on all of his men. Thankfully, I haven’t found anything damning so far. Just a few instances of some of the men skimming off the top, which will probably result in a beating or maybe a severed digit, but so far no clear signs of betrayal like in Zephyr’s case.

“Aren’t you meant to be retired?” I tease Cyril as I unlock my PO box, withdraw a couple of letters from inside, and lock it back up.

“Semi-retired. I’m not too old to still get my hands dirty every once in a while,” he says, crossing his arms looking affronted.

I smile in amusement, “My apologies. I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to give him hell, but I can promise you it was slow and painful, just like for all the others.”

He nods in satisfaction, “Good, that’s how it should be.”

“I best be going, but give my love to Korinna,” I smile at him as I exit the small establishment.

“Don’t be a stranger!” He waves.

I wave back, make my way to my car, and get in. I sort through the letters I retrieved with one in particular garnering the most attention from me. Unlike the other letters, the envelope for this one feels high quality and has more of a creamy colour. I turn it around and note no writing on the envelope whatsoever. Just a wax seal on the back. The seal is a gorgeous cobalt blue with a print of a set of angel wings with a halo held in place by the tip of the wings. Could be a coat of arms or an organisation’s crest, but it’s not one I have seen before.

I break the seal and open the envelope only to find a single polaroid picture inside. I examine the polaroid curiously and immediately recognise it to be of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. The image of the tower has been circled in red marker. I turn the polaroid over only to find nothing more than a date and time. The polaroid says 01:00 19/05. Whoever sent this is someone of very few words. This could be a trap, or it could be someone who wants to do business and is just very big on the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Either way, it looks like I’m off to Paris. Just need to go home and pack a few things, including some precautionary measures. If this is a trap, I’m not going in unarmed.

I’m not sure what awaits me in Paris, but I am incredibly curious. Let’s just hope my curiosity doesn’t get me killed.