The Shadow Assassin: The Price of Revenge

Silence was the last thing Vincenzo would remember of that night. Before it, hell came. At eight years old, he was hiding under the pool table in the opulent game room, a paradise of polished wood and velvet, decorated with hunting trophies and paintings worth more than he could imagine. This was his secret place, his perfect hideout for nighttime reading, lit only by the dim light of the crystal chandelier, which now flickered incessantly.What preceded it, however, was a symphony of terror that would never leave his memory. First, the muffled sounds coming from outside, from the mansion's perimeter. Hoarse screams, the desperate barking of dogs, followed by a metallic sound of dry impacts and the snapping of branches, as if a wild storm were approaching. The seconds dragged on like hours. Then, the alarms. Not a single alarm, but a chaotic orchestra of high-pitched electronic horns that began and died abruptly, cut off at the root, one after the other. This meant the security points were falling, one by one.He heard the security guards' tense voices on radios that crackled before falling silent. Then, the dull thud of something heavy falling in the entrance hall, followed by a quick hiss of air, like an agonized sigh. Sounds of struggle, scratches, blows that sounded soft, like punches to flesh. And the smell, that was unforgettable. A metallic, acrid aroma that tore through the luxurious air, mixed with the sweet, suffocating scent of the orchids that adorned the sideboard. He had heard the screams, the crashes, the sound of shattering glass, a crescendo of terror that culminated in the sepulchral silence that now enveloped him. His small fingers, with the soft skin of someone who had never known a day's work, were clenched around a comic book, crumpling the pages. He didn't dare move, his heart pounding like an uncontrolled drum against his ribs.The door to the game room creaked slowly, revealing the darkness of the hallway. Vincenzo squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shrink even further, wishing he were invisible. Through the narrow gap between the tabletop and the floor, he saw shoes. Dark, polished leather shoes with elegant, pointed toes, very different from the heavy boots his father's bodyguards wore. Those shoes stopped just a few feet from the table. Vincenzo's breath caught in his throat. He could feel the presence, the weight of that silence that would haunt him for the rest of his life.A drop fell to the floor. And another. And another. The wet sound echoed through the playroom, each drop a blow to Vincenzo's childish brain. He couldn't see the face, but he felt the gaze, a cold, malevolent presence that seemed to probe every corner of the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the shoes moved, the sound fading until it disappeared again.The game room returned to its deathly silence. Vincenzo waited. For hours, perhaps. He didn't know. Time didn't exist here, only fear. When he finally crawled out of his hiding place, his legs shaking, the scene that awaited him was a nightmare painted in blood.But before he reached his family, Vincenzo dragged himself forward, driven by morbid curiosity and a primal instinct. The entrance hall, once a work of art with its marble floor and imposing staircase, was now in ruins. A Chinese porcelain vase lay in a thousand pieces on the marble. A giant ornamental plant his father had adored was overturned, its dark soil spread like a wound on the floor. There, one of his father's bodyguards, a man named Jorge who used to give him mints, lay slumped. Jorge's head rested against the polished marble wall, a dark, viscous stain spreading like a halo behind him. His eyes, once so full of an almost childlike kindness, were dull, fixed on a distant point. The radio on his belt, normally so loud, was dead, its cord cut. A carved wooden chair, once beside the door, was broken in half, a sign of desperate struggle. There were no bullet holes, which was even more intriguing. The icy precision of the scene was almost more terrifying than the chaos.Further ahead, at the checkpoint near the service door, another guard lay beside the main security panel. The monitor blinked a steady red, with no one to see. The man lay facedown, a thin, dark-bladed knife precisely embedded in the base of his neck, severing his spinal cord. His body was unmoving. It was as if a machine had been switched off. A metal table that served as a support was overturned, and a filing cabinet had its door ripped off. There was no struggle, just a cold, calculated execution. Those who did this were professionals, faceless ghosts who moved like the wind, leaving only death in their wake. The smell of metal and orchids seemed to clung to his nostrils. The silence of the mansion was a roar in his ears.Vincenzo continued his macabre path, each step a silent pain, his heart pounding wildly. In the living room, his older brother, Marco, twelve, lay slumped beside the grand piano, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling, a dark hole staining his silk shirt. His sister, Sofia, six, lay near the fireplace, her teddy bear still clutched to her chest. There were no visible marks, only the pallor of death. Vincenzo's grief wasn't a scream, but a tight knot in his stomach. He realized that the family's deaths, unlike the security guards, weren't explosive. They were silent, almost reverent.The worst came in his parents' bedroom. The luxurious canopy of the bed was torn, the silk curtains thrown to the floor. His father lay beside the bed, his eyes wide, his body contorted in an unnatural position. His mother, always so elegant and vibrant, stood over him, as if trying to protect him, with a deep wound in her neck. The blood, now congealed and dark, united them in a final image of terror and lost love. Vincenzo couldn't scream. He only felt the world turn upside down, the luxury of his childhood crumbling into a house of rotten cards.As he stood there, frozen in horror, the voice. A cold, guttural voice, seemingly from the depths of a nightmare, echoed through the room, piercing the silence. "The price of invisibility, boy. When the shadow exposes itself too much, it becomes a target." The phrase wasn't directed at him, but it seemed to penetrate directly to his soul. Vincenzo didn't see the face, only the silhouette of a man walking away from his parents' room, his walk unhurried, almost ceremonial. The darkness of the hallway swallowed the figure, leaving only the echo of those words that would be etched into his memory, a macabre motto for the rest of his life.