Padua, present day The black-haired man watched them enter the grounds in the hired car and drove on to park a hundred metres along the lane. His head throbbed still from the blow he had sustained the previous night. And deep inside him seethed a vengeful anger.
By the time he reached a copse of trees opposite the entrance, the three of them had disappeared inside. He circled the house, watching as two teenage boys entered through one of the back doors. A few minutes later, the boys re-emerged with the girl.
The pounding in his head was clouding his judgement. He closed his eyes and went through some of the mental exercises he had been taught in Special Forces. Clearing his mind he took deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, everything seemed clearer.
Moving silently through the trees, he reached another vantage point, some way from the house, in an area of rough grass and shrubbery. The three youngsters were chatting animatedly beside a pair of scramble bikes.
Having put on their helmets, the two boys showed the girl how it was done. They shot off on a circular route over mounds and skidded around tight bends. Part of the course followed a muddy path just a few feet from where he stood, but he knew they would not see him.
He had absolutely no qualms. Killing was what he did for a living. He did not need to hate his targets. Indeed, he felt nothing for any of them. His instructions were to acquire every scrap of information possible. Whatever the cost. His client was paying generously. So, he planned to dispatch the boys, take the girl and swap her – dead or alive – for that most precious commodity: information.
One of the brothers came tearing round the nearest bend spraying a plume of mud around him. Revving the bike, he roared over a mound, flew through the air and landed elegantly. Raising his pistol, the assassin steadied his arm with his free hand. The boy rushed towards him, skidded and sprayed more mud high into the air. The bike twisted and spun out of control. The boy picked himself up and rode back to the others. The moment had passed. The second boy started his ride with an impressive wheelie before roaring away; but as he approached the first mound, the back wheel lost its grip. He flew over the handlebars and landed hard in the mud.
Standing, legs parted, knees slightly bent, the assassin swung the gun, aiming it at the head of the kid clambering back on to the bike. He started to squeeze the trigger. 'Guys?'
Quickly, he lowered the gun and took a step back into the trees as a short, plump woman with pink spiky hair came into view.
Filippo straightened up in the saddle, killed the engine and climbed off, letting the bike fall to the wet ground.
'Sorry to spoil your fun,' the man heard the woman say. 'Cook's made tea and cake.'
Francesco rolled his eyes. 'What now? We've just got started.'
'Take it or leave it guys, but the chocolate cake's something else.'
'This is our tutor, Matilda,' Francesco explained to Rose. 'Matilda is from America and she takes food very seriously.'
'As you can tell,' Filippo added behind his hand, making Rose and his brother laugh.
The gunman watched from the shadows as the four of them turned to walk back to the house.