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Stefano rushed through the vast, half-shadowed entrance hall, across a thick carpet that muffled his steps. Well, it probably muffled his steps. He didn’t have to keep quiet, the ringing alarm was loud enough to drown any sounds apart from shouting and shooting – neither of which could be heard yet. Soon though, soon. They would find the woman, they would retrieve the sacred Dagger she had stolen. They would avenge Marco’s death!
The dark corners were making him nervous though. She had killed so many, they were the remnants, the last hope of Fiamma Nera…. Yes, that’s why they couldn’t fail.
Running into a corridor ahead, he glanced at a passage to his left. It seemed to be a kitchen, judging by the tiles and the shadowy outlines of a table with some chairs. Better check there before continuing forward, there was nothing to hint as to how many people lived in this house.
He ran in, his gun at the ready, and when a flicke r of movement appeared in the corner of his eye, he was shooting before he could think.
Then he looked.
It had been … an old man. Q uite a short, old man, and from the way his body lay, hands slack around the sides of a metal tray, he must have tried to use it to shield himself. Stefano allowed himself a moment to feel bad. This grandpa hardly deserved such a death. From the black and white formal clothes he seemed to have been some sort of a servant.
A t least he wouldn’t have to look for a new job at such an advanced age, once Fiamma Nera deal t with the lady of the house.
Stefano turned away. He hurried on, to a large, empty room. Despite two crystal chandeliers offering some light, most of the space was shrouded in darkness, black shadows shifting with every glance. The omnipresent ringing now wasn’t only masking his presence, it was also hiding any auditory warnings from him. A shuffle here, a cl a tter there, was he only imagining them or were they real? He kept himself to the wall, continuing slowly, and soon was at another entrance. There were a few steps leading downwards, overlooking a swimming pool.
Shots came from further away. Stefano gripped his gun tighter. Where?! Upstairs, maybe? Turning on his heel, he started making his way back. He didn’t pay attention to the creaks and bumps around, his ears playing tricks on him again. He knew where the real target was now.
As if through a premonition, Stefano froze halfway through the large room.
Shuffling in the shadows. Steady, growing louder. This… this was no trick of his mind, was it? The shadows at the far end of the room moved. No, not shadows, a figure. Quite short, slow, getting closer. The faint light gave a glimpse at the formal black and white clothes. With a metal tray in his hands, walking towards him was the old man.
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” whispered Stefano, cold gripping his guts.
In answer, the man stopped, let go of the tray with one hand and brushed off his shoulder, as if a bit of dust had been the worst of it.
Fear clenching his heart, Stefano aimed and shot. Again. And again. The man’s grunts stopped as he sprawled on the carpet.
Stefano was breathing hard, his chest heaving and face sweaty, as he stared at the corpse. Maybe he just hadn’t shot properly the first time and it had only grazed hi-
The man started groaning. And moving. He stood up. And brushed off his shoulder again, before turning to Stefano with a placid expression.
Stefano ran out of the house screaming.