The Order

03

The wind caressed my face as I bent down and cleared the debris from the cold tombstone. Like always, a bouquet of fresh sunflowers rested in front of the grave. The flowers were wrapped in twine and covered with delicate white wrapping. Weeds covered the writing engraved on the stone, and I couldn't help the guilt I felt for allowing her grave to reach this terrible condition. One by one, I grabbed the weeds and yanked them back, breaking them from their tangled roots and tossing them carelessly to the side, making the writing legible once more before standing up and examining her resting place in front of me.

Maria Cruz

1995 – 2020

I stood there for a few moments, or minutes, I couldn't really tell. Time just seemed to blur whenever I was here. My mind seems to wander into nothingness, and I'm left to feel how empty it is without her presence. It's been an entire year since I last saw her smile or heard her laugh. An entire year without my one and only sister. A year that I've spent mindlessly numbing myself to the grief that threatened to consume me.

She always loved Italy. It was one of her favorite places. She'd constantly talk about how she loved the culture, the art, the food, the people, the violence, and how she was going to retire here one day. She came here as often as she could, and even owned a few properties here. Maria would often be found in plazas, enjoying art galleries, and dining at different hole-in-the-wall restaurants every night. She was like a light that lit up every room she entered. Always the best dressed, the most charming and charismatic, the woman would make friends anywhere she went. She would always say that Italy was unlike anywhere else in the world, and I felt a small piece of comfort knowing that she was laid to rest here.

My body tensed slightly as I heard the faint sound of a twig snapping behind me. I quickly pivoted my feet and brought my left hand up to my neck, grabbing the handle of a knife before the blade touched my skin.

"That's a little close, don't you think?" Monroe's familiar voice said with amusement as I looked at him with a small smirk.

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" I said before I raised my eyebrow.

"Barely." He said as he quickly thrust the blade forward so the tip was grazing my carotid artery. He quickly moved his hand, sliding the tip of the blade against my neck and grazing the skin. It was enough pressure to draw blood, but not enough to cause any kind of serious injury. My face was emotionless as I felt a small bit of blood begin the drip down towards my shoulder blade.

His black hair began to have specks of white peer through, and his new mid-life crisis goatee was neatly trimmed and kept. A much-needed change from his previous mustache. His features were sharp, and his square jawline was chiseled. The bridge of his nose was slightly crooked from being broken so many times. The tip of his nose was round, and slightly upturned. He was older, but even though he just celebrated his fifty-third birthday a few months ago, he was most likely in the best shape of his life. His round, brown eyes looked at me with curiosity as he finally pulled his arm back, twirling the blade gracefully within his hand before sheathing it.

Alex Monroe was known in the world of organized crime as one of the most successful assassins in the world. His short temper and colorful choice of words were almost as infamous as his reputation. Everyone who met Monroe acted as if they were walking on eggshells whenever they spoke to him, and rightfully so. One wrong word and Monroe could fly off the handle. I once saw him break his barber's arm because his hair wasn't cut the way he liked it. Luckily for me, Monroe wasn't just one of the most dangerous men on the planet, he was also my mentor, the man who taught me everything I know.