The air in Sicily was too sweet. It tasted of citrus and I inhaled it deeply while my mind ran in different directions.
I sat in the back of the black sedan as it wound through the mountain passes, the folded photograph of Amaya Vancouver neatly in my breast pocket.
Her father, Victor Vancouver, unfortunately for her was a pathetic creature.
A man who had once commanded legions, now reduced to selling his daughter’s life in a damp basement.
He talked about "currency" and "legacy," but all I saw was a coward trying to hide behind my shadow while I handled the dirty work he was too afraid to.
"He’s desperate,Don Roman," my driver, Elias, said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
Elias had been with me since before the exile. He was the only one who knew where the bodies were bu
