A Twist in Totoria

Following orders was no easy task when those orders involved inflicting harm. Many nations' governments regarded Elizabeth as a ruthless hitman, a faceless harbinger of revenge. Elizabeth herself considered her position to be the same as any other job. She clocked in, she clocked out. She compartmentalized the same way a doctor would. Much like a doctor, her knowledge was useful both inside and outside of her working hours. At the end of the day, the few lines separating a hitman and Elizabeth were the people who employed them.

Her involvement inside the government was not discussed, though. She was not given a title, nor an office. She was not trained beyond her preexisting capabilities. She worked as if she were a freelancer, but the tasks that she was paid for were no material for office gossip.

It was secretive. She had been informed early on that she would be her successor's first target, should she ever let a word slip. When asked what she did for a living, Elizabeth would simply reply that she was a security guard. People were not interested in a security guard's work.

Despite the questionable morality of her job and the lies she weaved into her life, Elizabeth considered herself an sympathetic woman. She used the nature of her schedule to her advantage, attending her target's funerals. Dressed in black and navy blue formal wear, she never stood out from the crowds. She likely knew as much about the deceased as the distant relatives accompanying her in the back row. They shared one thing in common — they were all there for appearances, one way or another.

The first time she had chosen to pull such a stunt, it had kept her awake for several hours. Even to her it seemed hypocritical to pay respects to the folks she had disposed of. She had never decided whether the fact she did it for money, rather than pleasure, made it any less morbid. It was a question that she was convinced would bother her until her own death.

This question was firmly nestled in some crevice of her mind, unable to touch her that day on the beach. Overseas gigs were not uncommon, nor was her tendency to request more days than necessary. She always took the opportunity to steal some semblance of a vacation. The picturesque town of Totoria, Italy had views she would never tire of. The beach was her favorite part of it all — raised in a farming town in the Midwestern United States, a beach of any kind was a rather exotic sight.

As Elizabeth walked back towards her hotel, she contemplated how lucky she was. Sure, her job was somewhat unusual. But unlike the kids she had known in her childhood, it sent her wonderful places, most of the time with no expense to her.

Of course the first few years were rocky, back when she was not as skilled at compartmentalizing. The first hit she made, the first time she had visited Italy, was a personal disaster. She had been too anxious to enjoy the dazzling sights at her fingertips, let alone say goodbye to her target. She had struggled for a short time with whether she would accept a second mission. Now, Elizabeth had near mastered the subtle of art of controlling such feelings. Worrying was for when she got called into the boss's office, not for when she was working.

Working, she thought, smiling to herself. She turned at the corner before her hotel and decided to explore, wandering down a row of market stalls. The sun was hot, but not yet beating down on the streets. Children of fellow tourists ran around, disrupting the crowds. An old woman or two smiled at her from their stalls, inviting her to come buy something. It hardly felt as if she completed another job twenty-four hours ago. She felt no different from the people around her, enjoying their days.

A little boy bumped into her side. She glanced down, finding him smiling up at her. Guessing he could only be five or six, she politely offered one back. She was about to ask where his parents were, when a man's voice caught her attention.

"I'm sorry, miss." He spoke with a thick accent, scooping up the small child up and setting him on his hip. He fixed the boy's collar affectionately, talking more to him than Elizabeth. "Serg is rowdy today."

The scene in front of her was warm, a happy young man with his son. He was even kind enough to apologize for something that had not bothered her.

Elizabeth could not find it in herself to smile, though. Her blood ran cold when she saw his face, the exact face that she had been thinking of only moments before. The beige V-neck, showing off...

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright?" He asked. His son looked at her, big brown eyes full of curiosity.

Elizabeth snapped out of her daze. "I'm sorry. You've got an adorable boy there," she complimented, hoping it would distract from the panic growing inside her stomach.

The man's concern faded into a smile. His thank you fell on deaf ears. She made an abrupt turn and marched down the street, leaving behind a confused Basilio Salvatici. Her steps felt controlled by anxiety. The sun no longer felt so warm. The crowds' noise growing to a deafening roar as it mingled with the blood rushing through her ears.

She was angry with herself. She was astonished with that man. Elizabeth made the silent decision to keep this encounter to herself. She could not imagine the amount of paperwork that would need filled out if she did not. That man—

That man... he had a scar from the bullet she put in a man ten years ago, the neckline of his t-shirt revealing the circular indent. Elizabeth tried to reason with herself, tried to tell herself it was nothing but a coincidence. She knew all her targets were dead.

All but one.

Ten years ago, Elizabeth had completed her first mission.

Ten years ago, she had been too fraught with emotion to attend the funeral.