The tapping of feet. The flip of a newspaper page. The crack of a knuckle.

Francesco took that all in, his ears hearing, absorbing every sound. He wrapped his hands around his coffee and took a long, slow sip. He kept his eyes darting about in all directions, surveying the people around him carefully.

He looked at his watch. Just a few more hours, and he would be safe, smuggled out of the country. He only had to keep his head for what little time remained, and he would be fine. Francesco felt the heaviness of fatigue weighing on his eyelids, but refused even a moment’s respite. He needed to concentrate, to observe.

Francesco studied the crowds out in the street, and the people in the coffeehouse. Somehow he felt someone was watching him, and being unable to shrug off that feeling no matter how hard he tried, he continued his scrutiny.

Eventually Francesco could stand it no longer. He got up from his seat and walked off. Rubbing his hands to create some sense of warmth in them, Francesco looked hard at the many faces that swept by him along the road. Not one of them seemed familiar, or out of place, for that matter.

Perhaps he was thinking too much, Francesco thought. But no, they’d never let him off that easily. Francesco felt the bulge of his gun in his overcoat, and heaved a breath of relief. It assured him that his life was in his own hands for the time being, at least.

Francesco walked into the Hotel Marriot, eager to escape the sight of any prying eyes quickly. He made his way to the elevator, and pressed the number of his room floor. He leaned back, and closed his eyes. He had left the hotel in the hope of clearing his mind, which didn’t work, of course. He had to leave this place; his life depended on that. Only when he was out of here would he regain any semblance of his sanity. He forced himself to keep calm, wiping the beads of sweat off his brow.

Francesco headed for his room, and closed the door behind him upon entering. He shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in a futile attempt to shrug off the terrible throbbing in his head. Then he paused. Something wasn’t right. Someone was in there!

Francesco’s eyes flicked open and he drew out his pistol. He was right; a man in a black sweatshirt rushed towards him, the glint off his gun barrel caught by Francesco’s eyes. Francesco moved to pull the trigger, but the man was faster, pivoting and kicking the gun out of his hands. Francesco yelled in pain, but quickly got up and crashed into the man, bringing his elbow up on the man’s chin as he came closer. The man fell to the floor, his hands clutching his smashed jaw, but lashed out his leg at Francesco. The ground rushed up to meet him very suddenly.

Francesco got up in an instant and looked up, but it was too late. He stared down the ugly orifice of the man’s pistol.

“I am afraid your crimes have finally caught up with you, dear friend. You didn’t think for once that you’d elude the Don just like that, now did you?” the man said in a deep baritone, with a thick Italian accent.

“Pagliacci!” Francesco cried out. He knew the man. “Pagliacci, I beg you, listen to me. It was that man Tremonti! I swear by the…”

“You’re making this unnecessarily painful, my friend,” Pagliacci cut off. “What the Don I orders, I execute. Surely you of all people must know that.”

Francesco saw the emotionless mask on Pagliacci’s face, and seeing no chance of escape or mercy, fell down to his knees and brought his hands to his face, in silent prayer. He heard the cock of a pistol, and felt the cold touch of steel at the back of his head.

“The Lord have mercy on your soul, dear brother,” Pagliacci said softly.

Francesco made no move to resist. He only prayed that the end would come swiftly and painlessly. The gunshot rang shrill in his ears.

Pagliacci sat on the pew of the church, staring ahead at the crucifix in the centre quietly, his hands clasped together. A man in a brown overcoat soon came over, and sat beside him.

“The Don sends his regards. He is grateful for all you’ve done in his service,” he said.

“Anything for the Don,” Pagliacci said, blankly.

Sensing there was more to this meeting than mere words of thanks, Pagliacci broke the silence after a while.

“Another, I assume?”

The man pulled out a cream-coloured envelope from his overcoat, and handed it to Pagliacci. He took it.

Opening the envelope, Pagliacci took out the papers inside it, and studied them. He put them back in after some time.

“Are you up to it?” the man asked.

“Consider it done,” Pagliacci replied, his voice thick and brooding.

Pagliacci got up, crossed himself before the crucifix, and left without a word.

The man couldn’t help but smile to himself. Pagliacci was one unpleasant person to associate with, but perfect for the job, he thought. Vincenzo Tremonti stood up, and crossed himself before the cross on which his beloved Saviour lay, before leaving the church shortly after. He reminded himself to keep poor Francesco Rossi in prayer.