disclaimer: not mine. too lazy to add anything more. :)
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Between the Arno River and the Palazzo Vecchio stands the Palazzo degli Ufizzi. It was designed by Giorgio Vasari and built in the late 16th century. This fortress like building used to house government offices and law courts, but now it is famous for its museum, the Uffizi gallery, which boasts an unsurpassed collection of the works of Raphael, Titian, and Sandro Boticelli.
Clarice, Dominique and Angelus had spent the entire day just roaming around Florence. Although Angelus worked at the Della Misericordia, she had very little time and did not seem to find it worth the effort to actually explore Florence. Dominique was just visiting from Spain, and was staying at the Castillo Tejada, so the both of them were somewhat ignorant to the city's ancient beauty, despite Angelus' familiarity with the smaller and less known museums. She deemed the more prominent ones a waste of time, and Clarice was out to prove her wrong.
Clarice delighted in showing them the places Hannibal had taken her to. Angelus in particular seemed to enjoy the art galleries the most and spent a lot of time just staring at the paintings whilst offering side comments and a brief history of some of the pieces and sculptures.
The nearby Ponte Vecchio is lined with goldsmiths' and jewellers' shops. Built in 1350, it was the only bridge to be spared in the war when the Germans bombed all the bridges on the Arno. It bridges the river to lead to the Palazzo Pitti on the left bank, another art gallery, such as the Uffizi.
By now, the sun had retreated behind dark clouds, and electricity crackled in the air. The wind was at a virtual standstill. This is the calm that comes before a storm. They decided to call it a day and went into a posh restaurant in the Piazza Della Signoria, beside the Loggia dell'Orcagna, an open-air sculpture museum with three distinctive arches. Donatello's famous sculpture of Judith cutting off the head of Holofernes was once placed under one these.
They ordered dinner, which Angelus offered to pay for, and a bottle of 1945 Chateau Petrus claret, costing 11,600 pounds or 37,321,739 lire. The coolness in the manner Angelus' disposed of such a large sum of money surprised even Clarice, whom Hannibal had lavished riches upon. Another surprise came in the form of payment. Instead of waiting for the food to be served and consumed before paying, Angelus called for the manager, a tall too thin man who seemed to regard her as a regular patron. He swiped the credit card on the little machine himself, and when the receipt came out, she signed it with a delicate copperplate script. It was the first time Clarice had ever seen her handwriting.
Outside it was already raining. The water fell like miniature missiles, exploding on impact on the old hewn stones of the Piazza. It was deserted now; pedestrians had sought the warmth and comfort of their own homes as opposed to the chill of the rain. Even the pigeons that frequented it daily had gone home to roost. Angelus' cellular phone chose this moment to ring.
The pleasant and affable expression on her face had vanished immediately upon hearing the voice on the other end. She glanced over at a portly gentleman seated at the next table with a young blonde. He had to be at least sixty, belly bulging despite the best efforts of his expensive clothes that did not fit properly. They were too tight. He had his hand on the girl's thigh under the table and was slowly rubbing the inside of it. She could not have been more than fifteen.
Angelus' expression remained expressionless as whoever was at the other end continued to talk. She had not said anything during the entire call. Dominique and Clarice continued to talk as if nothing was happening, but Clarice was watching Angelus out of the corner of her eye. Angelus was still looking at the man who had stood up to leave, taking with him a long cigar. Finally, she said one word before ending the conversation and politely excusing herself from their table: "Yes," in a flat, emotionless tone. Before she goes, however, she takes one last sip from her glass of Chateau Petrus, leaving it half full. Angelus saw it as half empty.
Rolland DeSilva was a child pornographer. He loved Florence, where it was relatively easy to find a child who was perfectly willing to do an hour's work in exchange for a pittance that he or she would undoubtedly spend on drugs. This young one was no exception. Licking his lips, he remembered the way she felt as he rode her last night, the all-seeing red eye of the camera blinking in the darkness. He took out a cigar clipper and cut off one end of the cigar he held before lighting it. He was getting worried these days, though. He still owed several people a lot of money, and rumour was that one of them had taken out a contract on his life. He didn't care about that. What really bothered him was that somehow he had engaged the ire of Miguel De La Roche, who was closely acquainted with the infamous and influential Angelus Antoine, a doctor-billionaire who allegedly had a penchant for murder. He has never seen Angelus Antoine. Shrugging his shoulders, he steps into the dark alleyway where there is a little shelter from the rain before taking a puff of his cigar.
A dark figure materializes from the shadows behind Rolland DeSilva. If he had turned around, he would have seen fierce demonic eyes-red sparks pinwheeling into blackness deep as the night-embedded into a pale face that could only be found on an angel. The wind makes her trenchcoat flap dramatically, and when it does, you can see long fingers curled around the grips of two gold-plated guns, pulling them out of their holsters, the whisper of metal rubbing against leather being drowned out by the rain.
When Angelus Antoine kills, it is as if time moves in slow motion. The drops of the rain are falling languorously, each patter resounding like tiny firecrackers in her ear. They go plop…plop…plop. The smoke coming from the cigar wafts lazily into the air, and it is as if she can see the individual particles as they dissolve into the void. The guns are brought slowly together in front of her, silencers in place as she cocks them; the simultaneous clicks making DeSilva turn around in horror. It is too late for him. The two guns go off at the same time, the force of the bullets' ejection from their chambers making the guns jump back in recoil. Angelus sees the bullets leave the barrel. Sees them as if they move through water, the little trail they make in the cold air, and the smoke that surrounds the gun, where the heat of the gunpowder igniting warms the cold night air. She sees them slice through Rolland DeSilva's suit, tearing into flesh and bone, before finally exploding, causing enough internal damage that his heart gives out.
As he crumples to the ground, the large red stain of blood is rapidly spreading across the front and back of his white suit. The bullets have even splattered some blood on the brick walls and on his face. Some of it trickles down into little streams, being washed away by the rain, mixing with the dirt. Across the Piazza, two men are getting out of a black Mercedes, carrying a folded body bag. They are the cleanup team provided by De La Roche. They take DeSilva's body away. Angelus nods to them before checking herself for any bloodstains. Her maroon eyes flash into the night. She needn't have bothered. Her dark suit would hide any marks of her activities. Twenty yards behind her, another pair of maroon eyes flash. The shadowy figure had watched her with rapt interest as she killed. He might have even been impressed by her style. Quick, clean, and efficient. She turns around just as Hannibal Lecter materializes from the darkness.
They look at each other, father and daughter, neither one knowing about each other. Two generations of aristocracy, two doctors, two mass murderers, two pairs of maroon eyes burning into the night. Who knows which one is the more dangerous? Which one is to fear? Perhaps both. Angelus sees the glint of a harpy in the man's scarred left hand. She knows it all too well, identifying it easily due to the distinctly curved talon-like shape of its blade. It is the same one she has in her right pocket. They look at each other, unblinking, in the silence broken only by the gentle patter of the rain.
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okey-dokey, people, just one more chapter to go, then the epilogue. thanx for even bothering to read the darn thing. ta ta now, Tailgunner
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Between the Arno River and the Palazzo Vecchio stands the Palazzo degli Ufizzi. It was designed by Giorgio Vasari and built in the late 16th century. This fortress like building used to house government offices and law courts, but now it is famous for its museum, the Uffizi gallery, which boasts an unsurpassed collection of the works of Raphael, Titian, and Sandro Boticelli.
Clarice, Dominique and Angelus had spent the entire day just roaming around Florence. Although Angelus worked at the Della Misericordia, she had very little time and did not seem to find it worth the effort to actually explore Florence. Dominique was just visiting from Spain, and was staying at the Castillo Tejada, so the both of them were somewhat ignorant to the city's ancient beauty, despite Angelus' familiarity with the smaller and less known museums. She deemed the more prominent ones a waste of time, and Clarice was out to prove her wrong.
Clarice delighted in showing them the places Hannibal had taken her to. Angelus in particular seemed to enjoy the art galleries the most and spent a lot of time just staring at the paintings whilst offering side comments and a brief history of some of the pieces and sculptures.
The nearby Ponte Vecchio is lined with goldsmiths' and jewellers' shops. Built in 1350, it was the only bridge to be spared in the war when the Germans bombed all the bridges on the Arno. It bridges the river to lead to the Palazzo Pitti on the left bank, another art gallery, such as the Uffizi.
By now, the sun had retreated behind dark clouds, and electricity crackled in the air. The wind was at a virtual standstill. This is the calm that comes before a storm. They decided to call it a day and went into a posh restaurant in the Piazza Della Signoria, beside the Loggia dell'Orcagna, an open-air sculpture museum with three distinctive arches. Donatello's famous sculpture of Judith cutting off the head of Holofernes was once placed under one these.
They ordered dinner, which Angelus offered to pay for, and a bottle of 1945 Chateau Petrus claret, costing 11,600 pounds or 37,321,739 lire. The coolness in the manner Angelus' disposed of such a large sum of money surprised even Clarice, whom Hannibal had lavished riches upon. Another surprise came in the form of payment. Instead of waiting for the food to be served and consumed before paying, Angelus called for the manager, a tall too thin man who seemed to regard her as a regular patron. He swiped the credit card on the little machine himself, and when the receipt came out, she signed it with a delicate copperplate script. It was the first time Clarice had ever seen her handwriting.
Outside it was already raining. The water fell like miniature missiles, exploding on impact on the old hewn stones of the Piazza. It was deserted now; pedestrians had sought the warmth and comfort of their own homes as opposed to the chill of the rain. Even the pigeons that frequented it daily had gone home to roost. Angelus' cellular phone chose this moment to ring.
The pleasant and affable expression on her face had vanished immediately upon hearing the voice on the other end. She glanced over at a portly gentleman seated at the next table with a young blonde. He had to be at least sixty, belly bulging despite the best efforts of his expensive clothes that did not fit properly. They were too tight. He had his hand on the girl's thigh under the table and was slowly rubbing the inside of it. She could not have been more than fifteen.
Angelus' expression remained expressionless as whoever was at the other end continued to talk. She had not said anything during the entire call. Dominique and Clarice continued to talk as if nothing was happening, but Clarice was watching Angelus out of the corner of her eye. Angelus was still looking at the man who had stood up to leave, taking with him a long cigar. Finally, she said one word before ending the conversation and politely excusing herself from their table: "Yes," in a flat, emotionless tone. Before she goes, however, she takes one last sip from her glass of Chateau Petrus, leaving it half full. Angelus saw it as half empty.
Rolland DeSilva was a child pornographer. He loved Florence, where it was relatively easy to find a child who was perfectly willing to do an hour's work in exchange for a pittance that he or she would undoubtedly spend on drugs. This young one was no exception. Licking his lips, he remembered the way she felt as he rode her last night, the all-seeing red eye of the camera blinking in the darkness. He took out a cigar clipper and cut off one end of the cigar he held before lighting it. He was getting worried these days, though. He still owed several people a lot of money, and rumour was that one of them had taken out a contract on his life. He didn't care about that. What really bothered him was that somehow he had engaged the ire of Miguel De La Roche, who was closely acquainted with the infamous and influential Angelus Antoine, a doctor-billionaire who allegedly had a penchant for murder. He has never seen Angelus Antoine. Shrugging his shoulders, he steps into the dark alleyway where there is a little shelter from the rain before taking a puff of his cigar.
A dark figure materializes from the shadows behind Rolland DeSilva. If he had turned around, he would have seen fierce demonic eyes-red sparks pinwheeling into blackness deep as the night-embedded into a pale face that could only be found on an angel. The wind makes her trenchcoat flap dramatically, and when it does, you can see long fingers curled around the grips of two gold-plated guns, pulling them out of their holsters, the whisper of metal rubbing against leather being drowned out by the rain.
When Angelus Antoine kills, it is as if time moves in slow motion. The drops of the rain are falling languorously, each patter resounding like tiny firecrackers in her ear. They go plop…plop…plop. The smoke coming from the cigar wafts lazily into the air, and it is as if she can see the individual particles as they dissolve into the void. The guns are brought slowly together in front of her, silencers in place as she cocks them; the simultaneous clicks making DeSilva turn around in horror. It is too late for him. The two guns go off at the same time, the force of the bullets' ejection from their chambers making the guns jump back in recoil. Angelus sees the bullets leave the barrel. Sees them as if they move through water, the little trail they make in the cold air, and the smoke that surrounds the gun, where the heat of the gunpowder igniting warms the cold night air. She sees them slice through Rolland DeSilva's suit, tearing into flesh and bone, before finally exploding, causing enough internal damage that his heart gives out.
As he crumples to the ground, the large red stain of blood is rapidly spreading across the front and back of his white suit. The bullets have even splattered some blood on the brick walls and on his face. Some of it trickles down into little streams, being washed away by the rain, mixing with the dirt. Across the Piazza, two men are getting out of a black Mercedes, carrying a folded body bag. They are the cleanup team provided by De La Roche. They take DeSilva's body away. Angelus nods to them before checking herself for any bloodstains. Her maroon eyes flash into the night. She needn't have bothered. Her dark suit would hide any marks of her activities. Twenty yards behind her, another pair of maroon eyes flash. The shadowy figure had watched her with rapt interest as she killed. He might have even been impressed by her style. Quick, clean, and efficient. She turns around just as Hannibal Lecter materializes from the darkness.
They look at each other, father and daughter, neither one knowing about each other. Two generations of aristocracy, two doctors, two mass murderers, two pairs of maroon eyes burning into the night. Who knows which one is the more dangerous? Which one is to fear? Perhaps both. Angelus sees the glint of a harpy in the man's scarred left hand. She knows it all too well, identifying it easily due to the distinctly curved talon-like shape of its blade. It is the same one she has in her right pocket. They look at each other, unblinking, in the silence broken only by the gentle patter of the rain.
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okey-dokey, people, just one more chapter to go, then the epilogue. thanx for even bothering to read the darn thing. ta ta now, Tailgunner