𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓪𝓽𝓮

Italy, Autumn, 1995

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My name is Dervig Ingannamorte.

And at the moment, I'm lying on the floor of my apartment, dead.

Charming, isn't it?

The carpet beneath me is ruined, my telephone has been ringing for the past ten minutes, and someone has been knocking on my front door for nearly as long. Whoever it is, they have terrible timing. Although, to be fair, I suppose I do too.

If you're wondering how a dead man intends to tell you his story, I suggest you keep reading. I have a feeling you'll find the answer more interesting than the circumstances of my death.

Besides, you've already come this far.And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the truth is rarely what it seems. But I suppose you'll find that out soon enough.

Now, where was I?

Ah, yes. The beginning.

Italy, 1995. Autumn had settled over the city of Milan, burying it beneath a sky that rarely seemed to know the meaning of blue. The streets were damp, the buildings stained with age, and the faces passing by carried a pallor that made everyone look as though they had spent years underground. If I had to give this city a colour, I would have chosen grey. Grey skies, grey walls, grey faces. Even the rain seemed tired of falling.

There was something lifeless about the place, something that lingered in the narrow streets and followed you home. Perhaps it was the city itself, or perhaps I had simply grown too accustomed to seeing the world that way.

Either way, I could hardly tell the difference anymore.

Not between the living and the dead. Not even between them and myself.

I was a killer. A professional one, if you prefer the prettier term. I killed people for money, and I was good at it. There was no guilt, no hesitation, no particular pleasure either. It was simply a job, and every job deserved a decent salary.

Though, mine had a rather high turnover rate.

I wasn't born a monster. I wasn't born anything particularly interesting, as far as I know. I was an orphan, which meant I spent most of my childhood being passed around by people who were either unwilling or unable to keep me.

At thirteen, I tried to steal a man's wallet.

Unfortunately, the man noticed.

Fortunately, he didn't break my fingers.

That man was Matteo Acerbo.

He took me in, gave me a home, and eventually offered me work. Looking back, I suspect he regretted at least two of those decisions. Probably all three.

Matteo was tall, with dark brown eyes and the sort of expensive clothes that suggested he had money to spare. His personal appearance, however, told a different story. His dark hair was perpetually untidy, his beard looked as though it had lost an argument with a razor, and his moustache was the only thing he maintained with any real dedication.

I never understood the logic.

A man could look like he'd slept in a ditch for three consecutive nights, yet his moustache would be ready for a formal dinner.

He also had a thin scar above his left eyebrow, which he habitually tried to hide beneath his hair. I never asked him about it.

Matteo was a man with connections to the Italian underworld. When I was a child, he gave me small jobs, mostly following people and keeping an eye on them. My first assignments were simple: deliveries, errands, and watching people who didn't want to be watched. The sort of work that sounds perfectly innocent until you notice how often Matteo tells you to stay away from the police.

As I grew older, the jobs became more complicated. Eventually, watching people turned into killing them, and Matteo began paying me accordingly.

Well....he began giving me names of people he wanted found, followed, frightened, or, in certain cases, removed permanently.

One by one, I crossed them off.

I killed my first man. Then another. And another.

At some point, I stopped counting.

Their faces became harder to remember than their deaths, and I discovered that the human mind is remarkably good at making terrible things feel ordinary.

Some of those men deserved what happened to them. Others probably didn't.

I stopped pretending I was qualified to tell the difference.

You might be wondering whether I felt guilty.

That's a reasonable question.

Unfortunately, I've always had a talent for disappointing people.

I kept going long after I'd forgotten why I'd started. The money accumulated, my reputation grew, and the jobs became more dangerous. People began whispering about a professional who could make a man disappear without leaving anything useful behind.

One particularly imaginative fellow claimed I was already dead and had returned to punish the living.

I found that rather insulting.

If I were dead, I'd certainly expect better working conditions. I had become something of a rumor. The police had a collection of unsolved cases, the newspapers had their frightening headlines, and criminals who once laughed at the idea of being afraid had started checking their locks twice.

Meanwhile, I carried on with my life.

I bought groceries. I complained about the weather. I occasionally lost money at cards to men who cheated considerably worse than they believed.

I went home to an apartment that was too quiet, poured wine I rarely finished, and waited for the next morning to give me something to do.

I wasn't particularly sad about it.

Sadness requires enthusiasm.

I was simply empty.

Money stopped being exciting. Danger became routine. Another man's fear was no more interesting than the weather, and I had never been particularly fond of discussing the weather.

I worked because I was good at it.

I killed because it was what my life had become.

And if that sounds depressing, I assure you that it was considerably worse to live through.

Once, a man told me I had the soul of a dead fish.

I told him that was unfair to the fish. At least they had the decency to stay quiet.

He didn't appreciate that.

He appreciated even less what happened afterward.

But I digress.

There was one name I hadn't yet encountered, one assignment I hadn't yet received, and one woman who would eventually make my carefully uneventful life considerably more complicated.

Maria Nerezza.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

My story gets considerably more interesting.

And considerably more expensive.

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The evening everything began to unravel started with a telephone call.

I was sitting at my desk, attempting to finish a glass of wine that tasted suspiciously like vinegar, when the telephone rang.

I looked at it.

It rang again.

"Persistent little bastard, aren't you?"

I picked up the receiver.

"What?"

"Charming as ever," Matteo Acerbo said.

"You're calling at an inconvenient hour."

"It's eight o'clock."

"Exactly. Some of us have important things to do."

"Such as?"

"Complaining about telephone calls."

"Come to my office."

I leaned back in my chair.

"Have I done something wrong?"

A pause.

"Dervig."

"Right. So that's a yes."

"Come here. Now."

He hung up.

I stared at the receiver.

Then I stared at my wine.

"Well," I muttered, "at least one of us is having a miserable evening."

I finished the glass, regretted it immediately, and put on my coat.

Matteo's office was on the second floor of an old building near the city center. The stairwell smelled of damp plaster and cigarette smoke. A single bulb flickered above the landing, giving the impression that the building was haunted by someone who couldn't afford proper electricity.

I knocked once and entered without waiting.

Matteo stood behind his desk, reading a document. His dark hair was combed back, with silver beginning to show at his temples. The thin scar above his left eyebrow looked paler beneath the yellow desk lamp.

He glanced up.

"You're late."

"Good evening to you too."

"You're three minutes late."

"Then I suggest you use those three minutes to recover."

"Sit down."

I noticed a sword lying across his desk. He must have brought it in recently and hadn't decided where to put it yet. It was black, so dark that even the light from the window couldn't make it shine.It seemed familiar to me.

Strange thing to keep in an office. I wondered about its history, though not enough to ask Matteo.

Perhaps I'd learn its secrets someday.

Little did I know just how well I'd come to know that sword.

Naturally, I picked it up.

Matteo looked at me.

"Put that down."

I examined the blade. "New?"

"No."

"Shame. I was going to congratulate you on your taste."

I said nonchalantly

"Dervig."

"Yes, yes."

I turned the sword slightly, admiring the craftsmanship.

"Beautiful weapon. Terrible placement, though. Someone could get hurt."

"Someone is about to."

I returned the sword to the desk and sat down.

Matteo ignored me. He pushed a folder across the desk.

I opened it.

Inside was a name, an address, and a handful of notes.

Maria Bianchi.

I turned the page.

Then the next.

There was no photograph. No detailed history. No explanation of why Matteo wanted information about her. Just a few brief notes and a sum of money large enough to make me suspicious.

I looked up.

"Who's she?"

"Maria Nerezza."

"Wonderful. I was worried the folder contained someone else."

"She's an elderly woman."

"How elderly?"

"Old enough that I don't see why it matters."

"I like to know what I'm dealing with. A woman in her eighties is one thing. A woman in her eighties who can throw me through a window is another."

"She's not going to throw you through a window."

"That's reassuring. Windows are expensive."

Matteo folded his arms.

"I need you to look into her."

I glanced down at the papers again.

"Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

"Ah. Of course. How foolish of me to expect a conversation."

"Dervig."

"What? I'm trying to develop my professional skills. Asking questions is important."

"Not all questions need answers."

"That's a wonderful philosophy. I'll remember it next time the police ask me where I've been."

His expression hardened slightly.

I stopped smiling.

Matteo wasn't an easy man to read, but I'd known him long enough to recognize when something was bothering him.

And something was bothering him.

I tapped the folder.

"There's barely any information here. No photograph, no background, nothing useful. You usually give me more than this."

"This time, I want you to find the information yourself."

"How exciting. A treasure hunt without the treasure."

"Be discreet. Find out where she goes, who she speaks to, and whether anyone has been visiting her."

"Should I ask her what she had for breakfast while I'm at it?"

"If you think it'll help."

"Wonderful. I'll bring a notebook. Perhaps she'll invite me to stay for lunch."

Matteo sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

I had always considered that gesture one of my greatest accomplishments.

Few people could make Matteo Acerbo look so tired without doing anything particularly strenuous.

I studied the folder again.

"Why me?"

"Because you're good at finding things.Lost keys, missing money, the occasional criminal with terrible judgment. I'm versatile.Because you know when to keep your mouth shut."

I looked at him.

"That's a vicious rumor."

"And because I trust you to handle this without making a spectacle of yourself."

"Now that one is simply unreasonable."

For a moment, I thought he might smile.

He didn't.

Instead, he pulled a cigarette from the packet on his desk and lit it.

"There's something else."

I waited.

"Don't approach her immediately. Watch her first. I want to know who's around her before she knows you're interested."

I frowned.

"You think someone's watching her?"

"I think it's better to be cautious."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

I leaned back in my chair.

There it was again. That unpleasant feeling that Matteo knew something he wasn't telling me.

Normally, I didn't mind being kept in the dark. It saved me the trouble of pretending to understand things.

But there was a difference between being uninformed and being deliberately sent into a situation without knowing what I was walking into.

I tapped the folder against my knee.

"Let me see if I've understood this correctly. You want me to investigate an elderly woman whose name I have never heard, using a folder that contains practically nothing, for a payment that could buy me a small house."

"Yes."

"Do I get to know why?"

"No."

"Do I get to know who's paying?"

"No."

"Do I get a photograph?"

"No."

I nodded thoughtfully.

"Excellent. A perfectly ordinary assignment. I'll be sure to tell my grandchildren about it."

"You don't have grandchildren."

"Not with that attitude."

Matteo took a slow drag of his cigarette.

"Are you going to do the job?"

I looked at the folder again.

The money was tempting, certainly. But it wasn't the money that interested me. It was Matteo's reluctance to explain himself.

He'd taken me in when I was thirteen. He'd taught me how to survive, how to recognize a lie, and how to tell when a man was reaching for a weapon beneath the table.

Most importantly, he'd taught me that when someone like him refused to answer a question, it usually meant the question was worth asking.

I closed the folder.

"All right. I'll look into her."

"Good."

"But if she turns out to be a witch, I'm charging extra."

"Dervig."

"What? Magical services are expensive."

He pointed towards the door.

"Get out."

"Always a pleasure."

I stood, tucked the folder beneath my coat, and reached for the door.

"Dervig."

I stopped.

Matteo had put out his cigarette. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite place.

"Be careful."

I turned around.

It wasn't the words themselves that caught my attention. Matteo had told me to be careful hundreds of times. Usually while I was doing something that deserved a lecture.

It was the way he said them now.

Quietly. Almost reluctantly.

I studied him.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

He looked away for a moment.

"Just do the job."

"That isn't what I asked."

"I know."

We stared at each other.

For a man who spent his life telling me not to ask unnecessary questions, Matteo had a remarkable talent for making me want to ask more of them.

Finally, I sighed.

"Fine. I'll investigate your grandma.....I don't know why you hired me for this, but whatever.”

"She's not my grandmother."

"Not with that attitude either."

I opened the door.

"And Matteo?"

"What?"

"If I disappear, I expect you to water my plants."

"You don't have any plants."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

I left before he could respond.

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Outside, the city was wrapped in fog. Streetlights glowed through it like weak candles, and the distant sound of a siren drifted between the buildings.

I tucked the folder deeper inside my coat and started walking.

Maria Bianchi.

No photograph. Almost no information. A suspiciously large payment. And Matteo refusing to explain himself.

At last, something interesting.

I smiled to myself.

Perhaps my luck was finally changing.

Then again, my luck had always been rather like a cheap umbrella. It worked just long enough to make you trust it before collapsing in the rain.

I turned onto the next street.

A man stood beneath the awning of a closed shop, smoking a cigarette. He didn't look particularly suspicious. Then again, neither did most suspicious men. If criminals wore signs announcing their intentions, my profession would have been considerably less profitable.

I passed him without a second glance.

A few steps later, I heard footsteps behind me.

I stopped.

The footsteps stopped too.

I turned around.

The street was nearly empty. The man beneath the awning was still smoking, staring at something across the road.

I watched him for a moment.

Then I continued walking.

Perhaps I was being paranoid.

It happened occasionally.

Usually when someone had given me a folder full of secrets and expected me not to notice.

I reached the corner and slipped the folder out of my coat just enough to check the address.

Tomorrow, I'd find Maria Bianchi.

Tomorrow, I'd discover why Matteo Acerbo had suddenly become so interested in an old woman.

And if someone really was following me, I'd find out who they were before they had the chance to become a nuisance.

I had no idea how badly that plan would age.

Somewhere behind me, a telephone was ringing in an empty office.

Somewhere ahead, an old woman was waiting behind a locked door.

And somewhere in the city, a man had begun to realize that the disappearances were not random.

He was going to ask questions.

He was going to search for answers.

And eventually, he was going to come looking for me.

He just didn't know it yet.

Neither did I.

Not then.

But I suppose that's enough about the past. After all, you didn't come here to listen to a dead man ramble.

Though, if you're wondering where I am now, let's just say it's a place I never imagined I'd end up in.

Funny how life works, isn't it?

Or, well... whatever it is I'm living now.

Anyway, we'd better leave it there. Some stories are better told when the time is right.

And mine?

It's only just beginning......