Villa Caruso, Sapienza – Late Afternoon

The knife — a sharp Bowie with an edge sharper than diamond — made contact with a crack, sinking deep into the base of Caruso’s skull. His eyes rolled back before his body even registered death. He collapsed into the leather armchair like a marionette with its strings cut—head tilted, limbs slack, the handle jutting out awkwardly like a morbid paperweight.

Agent 47 stepped forward, impassive. The room was quiet now, save for the steady tick of a gilded wall clock and the faint breeze rustling the terrace curtains. Outside, the Mediterranean glittered like glass. Inside, the stench of blood was beginning to bloom, sharp and metallic beneath the lighter smell of cologne and wine.

He crouched and gripped the knife handle, giving it a short, clean tug. It didn’t budge.

His brow twitched.

47 braced the man’s head with one hand and pulled harder. The blade stayed wedged in place, caught on bone and... whatever the hell else was inside a human skull. With a sigh, he planted his boot against Caruso’s shoulder and yanked again—harder this time. Still stuck.

He adjusted his grip for a third attempt—

The door opened.

Softly. A casual household creak.

His head turned.

She was framed in the light, a laundry basket balanced on one hip. She was humming something under her breath, quiet and tuneless. Her hair bounced as she stepped in, a few strands sticking to the sweat on her neck from the Italian summer heat.

Shite.

Now there was a witness.

And she screamed. Loud.

47 winced — the sound was shrill, making him tense. He was used to working in silence. No witnesses, no distractions, no... pests.

She barely had time to flinch before he was on her—lightning-quick, brutally efficient. His gloved hand clamped around her throat, the other bracing her shoulder as he drove her back against the cold stone wall. The thud echoed.

He loomed over her—a solid six feet and four inches of sculpted muscle and silence, every inch forged for death. His expression was unreadable. Blank. Like marble. No fear, no anger. Just calculated purpose.

His fingers flexed around her throat.

And yet—he didn’t tighten them.

Something held him.

She wasn’t fighting. Just trembling. Her eyes—big, glassy, framed by doll-like lashes—were wide with terror, locked onto his face like she was just waiting for him to end her right then and there. Like an assassin was supposed to do. Like he should’ve.

But her skin — God, her skin — was pale and fine like porcelain, a dusting of freckles visible across the bridge of her nose. A little nose—small, delicate, twitching faintly as she breathed. It reminded him, absurdly, of a rabbit.

Her hair brushed against his knuckles—soft. Silky. Not done up like the other staff, just loose and curling from the humidity like she hadn’t expected to be seen. She smelled faintly of something floral. Lillies, maybe. Or honeysuckle. Sweet. Innocent.

Her pulse thudded beneath his hand. Not strong. Not defiant. Just... afraid.

He stared at her.

And for the first time in a long time—he hesitated. Finally, he spoke.

“Who are you?”