author's note
The rewrite. Original posting date October 4th.
A R A G O S T A
It was a beautiful night; the moon was oddly aesthetically pleasing to the human eyes, beaming upon the inhabitants of Milan like a ghostly blue spotlight in a great expanse of black sky, dotted with tiny white stars and little cloud coverage. An abrupt change from what the regional residents had been seeing for the past three weeks — brumal nights signaled the coming of a bleak month and snow-covered ground for all, yet nobody was especially pleased about this. Indeed, the people of Milan enjoyed temperate weather, and none were at all very inclined to go out into the harsh coldness.
Thus, the restaurant of tonight's fratello was relatively unoccupied. All the more better, Alessandro mused, leaning back in the baroque wooden chair and tucking his arms behind his head almost unworriedly, when his blue-gray eyes fell upon the female companion sitting across the table from him. Unlike his tux, Petrushka's dress was rented for the evening — silky, and a sparse light red color, chosen scrupulously so it did not clash horrifically with her hair. With the eminent redness her cheeks were burning with, it looked almost like she was wearing a complete headdress. He chuckled.
"What's so funny?" she inquired, green eyes darting around the vicinity wearily.
"Nothing," Alessandro replied jollily, grinning. "Just, I almost wish this wasn't a mission." Petrushka gave a compendious laugh. It was her duty to be brusque and unassuming in public.
Tonight, her target was a man named Agapito Pozzi. One of Padania's well-known higher-ups and nearly inexplicably rich; he owned several places of residence all over Italy, each mansion more bigly than the next. Petrushka thought him to be a tad unorthodox. At his table, not far from their own, he was surrounded by men dressed in black tuxes akin to her supervisor's. Pozzi himself was unreasonably vast and wearing an intimidating dark Armani pinstripe suit, which seemed all-too diminutive for a man of his stature. Although she knew she was far strong enough to take on both the massive giant and his thinning guards, it frightened Petrushka fatuously so. She seemed to visibly shrink whenever her target shifted slightly in his seat.
"Relax," Alessandro muttered, "we've got everything under control. He'll stop at the blockade we set up on the road to his house and we'll have him where we need him, all right?"
"Yes," she nodded, returning her gaze to her meal. Lobster, she had found, was greatly to her liking; there was nothing of it left on her plate but remnants of the butter margarine she'd used on it.
Eventually, Pozzi rose from his seat, his cronies following suit. They stood around him like watchdogs, some dipping their hands inside their suave jackets as if threatening to pull out a handgun. Petrushka grasped the handle of her Amati, staring Pozzi down with an insinuating glare, and pulled the violin case into her lap, when Alessandro held up a hand to stop her.
"Give it a moment. We don't want to seem suspicious," he muttered. Petrushka nodded wordlessly and lowered the case back down to the floor, as Pozzi strolled past her, followed by his men.
The booming man ceased his stride not far from her and turned. The guards moved out of his way, watching him with puzzled expressions as he stopped next to Petrushka and looked down at her. She was reminded somewhat of an imposing turret, although the expression he wore was of the kindly sort as he inquired, "Have you enjoyed yourself this evening?"
She stuttered briefly, rapidly looking between Pozzi and Alessandro, the latter of which did nothing but focus his eyes upon the man, still reclining back in his chair casually. "I...yes. I have enjoyed myself here. The lobster was lovely."
"You're not from here, are you?"
"N-no."
"Hmm... Well, I do hope you find Italy to your liking, my dear, and have a wonderful night. You...and your date." He nodded at Alessandro, and finally departed, the henchman in his wake. Petrushka did not watch him leave. She stared into her empty plate where the lobster once lay, her cheeks pinkish. Alessandro smiled good-naturedly and sat up in his chair, sipping the wine from his glass. "You handled that well."
"Y-you think so...?" Petrushka asked, almost hopeful. Alessandro cleared his throat and stood, dusting himself off smartly and extracting a wallet from his jacket. Petrushka, taking this as a signal, hopped up and grabbed her Amati case in one fluid movement, holding it snugly to her chest with both arms. They did not linger for too long and hurried quickly out the doors, where Pozzi was nowhere in sight.
"Damnit, we'll have to wait for them to get here," swore Alessandro, lighting a cigarette nearby. Petrushka curled her fingers tightly over her exposed arms, shivering in the chilly night draft, while Alessandro puffed smoke into the wind. She glanced around. The sight of the lavish restaurant name, spelled in large, detailed cursive over the front glass window, transfixed her, and she stared for several moments when a truck came rolling up the street, bearing the name 'Menoto & Pizza' on its doors.
Alessandro took a last-minute drag from his cigarette and dropped it onto the pavement, crushing it with the sole of his leather shoe. Petrushka made a beeline for the truck with her supervisor following in shortly after, slamming the door shut as the truck began to speed down the deserted highway. Alessandro leaned back in his seat, lazily holding a CZ-85 in his hands as he loaded the pistol. Petrushka opened her own violin case. The moon flashed overhead, illuminating her Spectre M4 like a linked, blue-tinted film. Delicately, she lifted the submachine gun and assembled it at breakneck speed, finally finishing with the clip round inside, and held it up to the spectral light. Alessandro watched her from the corner of his eye.
"'Ay, we'll arrive soon, eh?" came the rough-and-tumble voice of the driver. Petrushka noticed then that they had already reached a pleasant, suburban area of Milan, clearly occupied by rich inhabitants; the lawns were nicely mown and all visible cars kept immaculate and flawless in exterior. Whatever flowerbeds may be there were kept untarnished, yet most had retreated into buds for the season.
Petrushka turned to Alessandro. "Where is everyone?"
"The Agency had them all removed temporarily through connections," he responded. "The police called for an evacuation, and plus, most of everyone is on vacation anyway. You don't think the rich enjoy taking trips, when they have enough money to fund them?" She nodded silently.
The truck took a U-turn around a medium and parked by a copse. Petrushka edged her hand slowly towards the door handle, her other arm holding the Spectre M4 securely against her side. For several minutes, all that could be heard was silence in the truck confines. The residents of 'Rich People Street' showed no signs of movement or life inside their homes and all porch lights were safely unlit.
Then, coming up along the street beside them was a sleek black limousine rolling leisurely past, unaware of their imminent death perched so close by, poised and ready to take anyone and anything out.
"On the count of three," Alessandro whispered, "one...two..."
Petrushka grasped the door handle and burst out of it with a bang, only managing to hear her supervisor's hurried "three!" with the proceeding commotion. She ran at the limousine, firing expertly into the blackout window and shattering the glass. The car jerked abruptly and veered off onto the sidewalk, slamming into a light post with cacophonous force. At the front of the limousine, the driver's side door opened and a bloodied body fell out.
"Petra!"
She whirled around in time to catch a clip thrown to her by Alessandro, reloaded her gun, and turn back to her target. Dozens of Pozzi's men tumbled out, wielding their own firearms. Petrushka dodged enemy fire and hid behind a decorative bush on the medium, panting, and her eyes narrowed forcefully. Several more gunshots rang into the starry night. She peered charily over the hedge and saw her handler take out two guards with carefully aimed bullets and taking off for cover elsewhere.
She tumbled out from her perch and sent a barrage of bullets flying at the rest of the henchmen, taking out four of them until there were only the two whom remained standing, staring at her wide-eyed and in disbelief. Petrushka got to her feet, no longer firing, and attempted to evade their bullets until the one caught her directly in her exposed shoulder. Simultaneously, the heel of her shoe broke; she fell with a pronounced shriek and hit the pavement hard. The Spectre lay inches away from her fingertips as she struggled to get back up to her feet, now sporting a bloody nose in addition to a ruined rent dress.
Nearby, somebody began to chuckle heartily at her. The redhead froze when Pozzi crept upon her, holding her at gunpoint with a Beretta pistol. His mirthless laugh filled the soundless air around her — his bodyguards had stopped shooting moments ago.
"I thought you seemed fishy," he said, low-voiced. "Believe me, I've heard of this 'Social Welfare Agency' and what they're doing, using young children like you for assassins. Unfortunately, I'm not a very noble believer of Padania's goals, so I'll have no problem shooting your brains out right here on the sidewalk." His pistol clicked ominously. "Shall I be doing that now? What do you think, you painted-up tra—?"
He was cut off instantaneously by a vociferous bang. Petrushka only managed to see his enormous form topple to the ground and the dark blood that ensued upon it, magnified by the moon's rays. A second bang followed it and a henchman fell in the same manner as his employer, now dead. The remaining man looked positively horrified and recoiled so far back than he hit the limousine with a light thud. Alessandro came barreling out from his hiding place over to Petrushka; he offered his hand and helped her up. She stumbled on the heel of her shoe and had to hold onto her handler for support as she slid both high-heels off her feet.
"Wow, the ground's cold," she muttered. "Anyway, umm..." Walking over to the sidewalk gingerly, she dipped down and made to pick up her submachine gun, when a bullet narrowly missed her fingers. She straightened up to see who it was.
"D-don't you touch that!" the terrified voice of the remaining guard came. The henchman took two steps towards her and tripped over the dead body of his fellow companion, shrieked in imminent shock, and rolled around on the pavement haphazardly to distance himself from it. Glaring back to Petrushka, he added, "I'm warning you!"
Alessandro snorted. The guard turned to him roughly, cried, "What's so funny?!" before being sharply taken out by a single round from Petrushka's Spectre. He dropped to the ground, dead.
She held the 'M4 with both hands. Alessandro holstered his CZ-85 and seconds later had lit another cigarette, eyeing the illuminated bloodshed with contempt from his and Petrushka's stance.
"Hmm. At least that's over with, wouldn't you say so?"