I could be called lucky or successful; either way the Antillius name has anchored itself deeply within the politics of Italy. We have transcended from extreme poverty in the streets of Rome, to becoming politicians wealthy and regally dressed. My wardrobe is crafted from the finest silk and embroidered only by golden thread and many people ask me of how I am able to dress so nicely and still possess a large amount of wealth. It is simply because of the Arabians. I have always been of the personable kind and being an Antillius means I am a great orator and very persuasive. My family has long mastered the art of speech craft and with my advanced knowledge of Arabic my dealings with them are always quick and lucrative. Being Anton Antillius III the Arabians know the rich history that my family possesses, it is how we came out of poverty and into wealth. My great grandfather conducted trades with the Sultan and they have long been friends of our family and see us as godly patrons. I know the economic success of Italy depends on open trade with the Sultan however the old windbag Vicci Vamoré disagrees with me entirely.
His family has always been rich and powerful he is out of touch with reality and refuses to see the advantage of trading with the Sultan. We have had many discussions and he is afraid of foreign dependency on the Arabians, the fact of the matter is Vamoré believes all Italians are superior and sees others as inferiors. Recently he bought an entire family from Vladivostok to slave away at Bella Villa, he says he sold the parents and now he only has the son. I believe they were the Yakolevsky family, the name holds no acclaim, but that is why they are slaves. I know Vamoré is a sly old man, he cannot be up to any good and if I am to gain influence in the Senate I must see to it that he loses his seat as quickly as possible. I am meeting with an Arabian who goes by the name of Saladin; he will be my shovel in the unearthing of Vamoré’s wrongdoings.
“Greetings Antillius, I am Saladin a noble merchant from the Eastern lands, I come from Medina at the request of the Sultan.” I hear a voice echo as an image appears in the distance, covered by the shadows of the night. It was a tan man with an orange feathered turban; he is riding a camel stashed with many goods.
“Saladin, I appreciate you meeting me out here in the countryside at this time of night, I wanted our dealings to be discrete,” Saladin dismounts his camel, he is clothed in a white garb and holstered at his side was a golden handled scimitar.
“I understand your need of secrecy certainly the Sultan backs your family in gaining a political advantage. With me I have a fine Arabian carpet made by our finest tailors at the Royal Palace. We can use this as a gift of good intentions at your dinner party,” Saladin says smiling a cheeky grin.
“Vamoré is a kind man for inviting me and allowing me to bring a guest, but that does not change the fact that he is a weasel and we will find him out,” I say feeling slightly conflicted.
“We offer him the carpet you two talk politics and I search around for any, how do you Europeans say it, skeletons in the closet?” Saladin releases a slight chuckle.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he had any, the man is a snake. Please Saladin reserve the foreign charm for the culturally intolerant noble,” with that final notion Saladin and I reserved a spot at a nearby inn.
The owner was too drunk to know who we were, he was obviously an Irishman. That night we slept soundly. I awoke to the sound of livestock around the inn rustling about, Saladin looked at them and then at me. We were both hungry but I assured him to wait until the party. In the following hours we reviewed our plan and affirmed that digging up the dirt on Vamoré would be to everyone’s benefit. It would bring the Sultan and Italy more wealth while also creating an alliance. I rode my dark Italian steed alongside his bulky camel, slightly envious at how more efficient the camel was at transporting cargo. Finally we arrived at Bella Villa, just a little early. We tied our mounts up in the stable and made sure they were well fed should the dinner take longer than expected.
A woman emerged from the manor, “ciao,” she exclaimed welcoming us to Bella Villa. She was a tall pale woman, much younger than Vicci her hair was golden blonde and her eyes an enchanting green. Her name was Valentina, wife of Vicci Vamoré; she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Suddenly I felt my intentions of dealing with Vamoré become more sinister, I felt an instantaneous need to be with this woman. She is the Helen of Italy no doubt, and I will take her away to be with me, a true king. Of course I had to keep this knowledge from Saladin, if he knew I sought to desecrate the sanctity of marriage my head would be on the floor. We walked into Bella Villa, and it was breathtaking. The halls were decorated with marble busts of all the Roman emperors-how envious I am of this Vicci Vamoré! Valentina turned to us,
“Vicci is upstairs he will be down soon,” she said formally.
“What of this Yakolevsky child, where is he?” Saladin asked inquisitively.
“Dmitry is in the kitchen fixing dinner, please do not bother him,” she replied.
She turned and walked up the stairs and with anger I turned to Saladin.
“You cannot start searching for skeletons so quickly, you’ll blow our cover! Now go get the carpet I believe Vamoré will be down soon,” my face was red with anger as I watched Saladin exit the manor. I saw Valentina above on the second floor; quickly I rushed up the twisted and elegant staircase after her. I yelled her name in a hushed tone and touched her shoulder. I turned her around and she looked at me, as we deeply gazed into each other’s eyes. We kissed passionately, and then she led me into the nearby room, one of many vacant guest rooms at Bella Villa. I followed her as she closed the door behind me. I walked behind her placing my hands on her hips as she quickly turned around with a dagger at my throat.
“Listen Antillius, I’ve been stuck with this old sap for far too long. I need him gone, his wealth was nice but it won’t be long until your family usurps the Vamoré’s influence in the Senate, so be a man,” she commanded as she shoved the silver dagger handle first into my hand. She proceeded to walk out of the room and leave me standing there, flabbergasted. I knew now that the situation demanded murder, and yet Saladin would never condone that, it would destroy the already feeble relationship between Italy and the Sultan. I am an Antillius, I can pull this off. I can murder Vicci Vamoré. I concealed the dagger within my black silk finery as I opened the door.
“Anton, I see you are exploring the guest rooms at Bella Villa,” a man said to me as I came face to face with him.
“Vicci Vamoré, it’s been too long, thank you for having me over…” I was cut off.
“All guests are to remain on the first floor, if you don’t mind please stay away from the second floor unless I authorize you to explore it,” Vamoré said in an authoritative tone.
“Yes I understand, I am sorry, I am your guest after all,” Vamoré nodded at my apology as he followed me down the stairs to the main hall below where only his throne like chair resided. The dinner room was in the East Wing of the manor, but we would go there later. Vamoré sat like a king on his red velvet laced chair while Valentina stood to his side. Saladin finally arrived with the carpet; I do not know what took him so long.
“Anton, who is this foreigner, why is he in my house?” Vamoré asked ignorantly.
“This is Saladin, a merchant from Medina,” I reply whole heartedly.
“When I said you could bring a guest I assumed it would’ve been a lady, not a sand genie,” Vamoré said sardonically. Saladin rolled his eyes at the comment.
“He brings you a gift, on our behalf, a fine Arabian carpet made by the tailors at the Royal Palace of the Sultan,” I told Vamoré as Saladin rolled it out in front of him.
“Magnifico, he can stay!” Vamoré paused, “for dinner,” he said finishing his statement.
Saladin backed to the side of the carpet; I could tell he was seething with frustration. I nodded to Saladin, pretending that our original plan was still in effect and I engaged Vamoré in idle conversation. Saladin snuck upstairs without anyone noticing. I continued to engage Vamoré in compelling, trivial conversation as Valentina stood by looking at me as if her eyes were telling me to do it now. The pressure was building, and Saladin was away upstairs still giving me the perfect opportunity. I commented on how beautiful his chair was and how I admired it. He began telling a very long story of how he got the chair, lost in his own hubris I slowly walked around the side of his chair and felt the back. Thin fabric, this was perfect. I placed my hand on the handle of the dagger when suddenly a dirty Russian boy emerged from the kitchen. It had to be the Yakolevsky kid. He looked like your typical indentured servant, but there was something in his blue eyes. I sensed a latent hatred for Vamoré and I immediately became aware of the name Yakolevsky. They were criminals. The government seized their property after the successful assassination of a member in the Russian Duma, because they were so stealthy the government did not have enough evidence to kill them or send them to the frozen wastes of Siberia. Did the Yakolevsky kid know his parents were murderers? The news certainly spread around Europe quickly. They must’ve hid it from him, brainwashing him with the perceived pride that the name Yakolevsky held, but why did Vamoré want them? He knew of them, and he bid highly on them for what purpose?
The Yakolevsky child looked grim as he sat a silver platter in front of Vamoré, Verdicchio white wine and Gorgonzola, predictable. Vamoré thanked him quickly, as if it was a burden to talk to the poor boy as the Russian returned to the kitchen. Saladin slunk back to the first floor looking at me from afar as I was now directly behind Vamoré’s red chair. I placed the fine tip point of the dagger against the thin fabric and pushed in. Vamoré fell to the ground more lifeless than a Siberian prisoner. The Yakolevsky kid ran out of the kitchen, Saladin began to yell at me as if he knew of my intentions from the beginning. Valentina began to cry, trying to play innocent when she had the biggest stake in this murder. I look again at Vamoré’s body as it was sprawled on the Arabian carpet. My eyes directed to his platter, his Verdicchio and Gorgonzola were never touched.

It’s never easy for a girl these days, ever since I was a child mother told me I had to be the prettiest in all of Italy if I was to live well. I was told rich noblemen only wanted the thin women who plastered their face with make-up and adorn themselves with the finest jewelry. My family was not well off, many families were not and only the select few could be lucky enough to wed into a noble family with all the riches in the world. Some may call me greedy, but I’m just doing as mother taught me, and when has it ever been a sin to listen to your mother? Growing up in the outskirts of Verona was terrible, the lack of food was persistent and every day I felt my stomach shrink as the pain of hunger ached throughout my body. Mother told me this was good because I’d be the thinnest in all of Italy and surely a nobleman would marry me. Every bit of money we raised through begging my mother spent on cheap make-up that she would slap on my face. Father never talked much, he was a reserved man and I often wondered if he cared that mother was turning me into this living mannequin. They say mother knows best and surely one day we heard that the Vamorés would be parading through Verona. They were perhaps the most prestigious name in all of Italy; mother spent all day on my make-up and fed me a single cracker so I didn’t act starved in front of the noble Vamoré family. When the sun hit the highest point in the sky the Vamoré’s black steeds clacked their way down the streets. I was shoved by my mother through the crowd in front of the leading black steed. The horse neighed as the man on top yanked it back to a halt, and that’s when I saw him. Count Vicci Vamoré, he was older than me but he was handsome, his silver hair complimented his dark eyes perfectly. Knowing that if I didn’t act upon this chemistry I’d be back on the street, I immediately muttered out my name. He smiled at me. He thought Valentina was the prettiest name.

We were soon wed in a wondrous chapel in Rome; I remember seeing all the members of his regal family fill the benches, their faces shocked knowing that I was a girl from the streets. My parents were not allowed into the wedding, but I knew mom understood, I knew she was happy just to have me wed away to a better life. Vicci moved us into his manor Bella Villa; it was built long ago by his family. It was the most beautiful house I had ever seen with vivacious gardens and a single marble stone fountain that poured out tranquil water. I immediately fell in love with the garden and even now I spend the most of my time tending to the plants and strolling between the hedge bushes. The door to the kitchen was nearby the fountain and every so often I’d walk in and talk to his servants. It was a nice life for about five years, until Vicci began cutting back on his servant’s food supplies to save money. He never told me much about his work but apparently he refused to conduct open trade with the Arabians and due to Antillius’ push for trade the Senate fined Vicci for refusing to comply. If Antillius had more influence in the Senate the government could even seize Vicci’s prized Bella Villa if he continued to resist the change. I know the servants then quit and left Bella Villa, I am sure the authorities had them arrested for fleeing their master but Vicci never brought it up again.
The month of December issued a new bit of revenue for Vicci and I, we had money come in from an unknown source, Vicci assured me it was a patron of his politics. On the 21st we went to Vladivostok, the Russian air was frigid so Vicci bought me a coat made from the pelts of Siberian wolves to keep me warm from a local skinner named Ivan. Vicci bet a high amount of money on a family of poor Russians named the Yakolevskys; a family is a good purchase when your manor is unattended. The trader did mention something about a criminal record and this made Vicci his lower his bid on them. After the successful transaction, we made them comfortable in our carriage steered by fine black Italian steeds and we took off back to Bella Villa. The look in the eyes of the Yakolevskys was one of pure astonishment, especially in the blue eyes of the tan blonde haired younger one. He looked as if he was around 18 years of age but yet he seemed like he was lacking so much. We gave them a home in the cellar where we set up cots made from bales of hay and dirty cloth. They were grateful and were immediately instructed on how to do things, they did not know Italian however quickly picked up on it when Vicci threatened them. He always took a liking to the young one and was always more lenient with him. I later found at why after confronting Vicci about his close relationship with the young Yakolevsky.
“Vicci, why are you getting so close with the Russian boy? You act as if you don’t even want me to bear your children,” I yelled at him in the confines of our master bedroom.
“Watch your tone with me woman or I will have you back on the streets!” Vicci’s voice was commanding and I obeyed. I took a seat on a nearby chair as he paced over to the nearby window and looked out at his single marble fountain. Vicci turned to me, a single tear rolled down his wrinkled face, I knew what he meant. I rushed to hug him but he pushed me away,
“Now you understand,” as he said placing his hand on the emerald knob, walking out of the door and into the hallway.
Vicci became less and less appealing to me as I realized he was a man spiraling downwards towards his own destruction. Being a woman I wanted to have children, my mother expected it of me and though her whereabouts are unknown to me I will always strive to make her proud. The following night manners escalated even more, I was touring the gardens late at night when I saw Vicci digging into the ground with a shovel. He was patting down dirt firmly, letting out soft sighs of exhaustion. He looked at me and explained to me that Dmitry committed murder and that he would fix the boy by taking him under his wing. I realized the kid killed his own parents, but Vicci assured me the kid would stay and that as a result of losing more servants I would have to take over their daily chores. I began to feel more of a housewife than a wife of a noble and my frustration with Vicci grew more and more every day. He became more reserved; he barely talked to Dmitry and hardly ever to me. He stopped coming to bed, and he would sit in the main lobby in his fine velvet red chair for hours, staring silently at nothing. He seemed fueled only by his glass of Verdicchio and Gorgonzola which he had to have every day as if his life depended on it. The next words to come out of his mouth were simply “grande cena,” he was planning a grand feast.
The night before the dinner I was tending to the plants in the garden and next to the vegetables plants I noticed something, nightshade and mandrake. I quickly harvested them without a second thought in my mind; I knew I now was corrupted by murderous intent. Yes, I wanted the old man dead, just like our marriage and just like my role as a wife. I snuck around to the kitchen door where Dmitry usually worked; he was asleep in the cellar nearby so the kitchen was empty of people. I opened the door quietly and snuck into the kitchen placing the poisonous plants nearby Vicci’s stash of Verdicchio wine. Should I leave these here? Would Dmitry take a hint? These questions ran through my mind and I felt conflicted, I panicked and left the kitchen, leaving the plants behind. The next day I immediately started on my busy work, cleaning and dusting while Dmitry stirred the broth of the Minestrone in the kitchen. Vicci was locked up in the master bedroom, for once he spent the night in there. I went to the East Wing to set the dinner table when out of the window I noticed two men, one on a black Italian horse and another on a camel. I set down the forks in my hand and walked out to greet them. After introducing myself I welcomed the men into the manor, one was Anton Antillius III a very handsome young senator who was giving my husband a run for his political power. He was younger with dark hair and dark eyes and the man he was with was obviously an Arab. He was tall and tan, wearing an orange feathered turban and garbed in white. I led them in and the Arabian began questioning about Dmitry, I was taken off guard and felt strangely suspicious as to the intentions of these two men. I told him Dmitry was in the kitchen but emphasized that he was not to be bothered, I could not have the news of Vicci burying his parents get out.
I walked up the staircase to get Vicci and inform him that the guests had I arrived. I was not far from the master bedroom door when I heard my name and felt a hand on my shoulder. I was turned around and my eyes met Anton’s, he pulled me forward and kissed me passionately. I knew I was not supposed to, I was a married woman, but I felt a spark with this man, I felt like a new and better future for me rested in his hands. After the kiss I led him into the nearby guest room. He followed me in and placed his hands around my hips, my hands were on a wooden drawer in front of me, one he could not see. I opened the drawer and pulled out a dagger and placed the fine steel against his throat. I gave Anton an ultimatum; he needed to kill my husband. Certainly I would be too conflicted to do so, and honestly if anything went wrong I could play the clueless and grief stricken wife role. I rushed back down the stairs leaving Anton in the room. I stood next to Vicci’s velvet red chair and waited, anticipating his arrival. Anton came down to the stairs, Vicci behind with an aura of slight dominance. Anton stood across from me on the other side of the chair. The Arab came into the manor; I hadn’t even noticed he left. In his arms was a fine carpet rolled up in his arms. After my husband made some racist remarks the Arab proceeded to unfold the carpet in front of him. Vicci was amazed and the Arab stood aside. I noticed Anton nodded at the Arab and he snuck upstairs, but I paid no mind to him as my intentions were completely filled with the thought of murder.
Anton began talking to my husband about his chair, the perfect distraction for a man with such an inflated ego. I gave Anton a cold stare urging him to quickly kill Vicci. He walked behind the chair as I noticed he wrapped his hand around the handle of the dagger. Suddenly the kitchen doors opened and Dmitry arrived with a silver platter of Verdicchio and Gorgonzola. I noticed the glass of wine was bubbling-the plants! I left them in the kitchen and that Russian boy did it, he actually had the guts to poison Vicci. Rightfully so, Vicci continued to pay no mind to the poor boy as he thanked him half-heartedly. Dmitry retreated back to the kitchen. I noticed the Arab reappeared stealthily beside me, however now I was not the time to interrogate him. The suspense in the air was intense; seemingly everybody knew that the death of Vicci was inevitable. Suddenly Anton shoved the dagger through the back of the chair-what have I done!? Vicci fell on the floor, sprawled on the Arabian carpet and lifeless. Dmitry rushed out of the kitchen in shock and the Arab began yelling at Anton. I fell to my knees and began to cry, wiping my tears I looked up at the chair, the fabric in the back was free of any puncture.

Arid, dry and blazing the desert took and never gave back. I was a child of the sand and a newborn of the Prophet. Ever since I was young my parents educated me in the arts of bartering and trade, surely we viewed it as the road to unlimited wealth. The Sultan was always in need of talented traders and if I landed a job with the Sultan I would bring honor to my family. I was born Saladin Rashid, in the bustling trade center of the Middle East known as Medina. Life in Medina was very community based and constantly the community would unite to try to raise more money than the neighboring town of Damascus. The city that raised the most profit for the Sultan and his Kingdom would gain his favor and the favor of God. Everyone viewed this as the ultimate goal and because of this rivalry I was raised to hate the Arabs from Damascus.
When I was twelve I met a young boy named Harun, we played together in the desert very often and he helped me care for the camels I was tasked to do every day. The work was arduous, Harun always helped me and my parents never knew I was cheating on my chores. One night when the moon was over the desert, I snuck out and talked to Harun about philosophy. He was a very intelligent boy and he would equally say the same about me, but then he opened up to me. He told me he was from Damascus but he snuck to Medina because he despised his parents and their crazy push for competition with Medina. I stood up with shock; I was conflicted because I knew I could not befriend an Arab from Damascus. I stood behind him and gazed at the moon and the stars. I was lost in thought but my hands reached for the rope cord that acted as a belt to my tattered garb. Harun was talking about how he wished he was from Medina, when I withdrew the cord and wrapped it around his neck. In a second I snapped his neck, the young boy fell lifeless in front of me in the sand. I knelt down and prayed for him and then I rose to return to Medina. The Sultan’s guards patrolled the next day after Harun’s parents appealed to the Sultan on the case of their missing son. I knew for the sake of retaining my holiness I had to confess. I told my parents of my sins. They castigated me and disowned me, saying I disgraced the last name Rashid. I was taken by the Sultan’s guards and thrown in the prison. I worked in the palace as a slave boy for most of my life but my skill at bartering was becoming apparent to the Sultan. When I turned seventeen years of age the Sultan offered me a position as an apprentice barterer for the court. I agreed to under the condition that I could legally rid myself of the last name of Rashid. The Sultan made it so and I began handling minor transactions for the Sultan’s court. Years passed I slowly began to accrue a cult following of the Sultan’s viziers. They noticed my skill and attempted to convince the Sultan that I needed to become the Royal Mahir. Mahir is Arabic for “expert,” to us Arabians experts were viewed as successful merchants and hagglers.
The Sultan was completely in favor of the current Mahir and refused to promote me and rid the palace of him. The viziers knew that if I held the title of Mahir that wealth would flow into the country. The Sultan had a somewhat lucrative trade with the Antillius family in Italy; however I knew this trade route could be more open and even more lucrative than he had originally perceived. I also believed that the trade with other nations had to be expanded; Italy could not be our only source of profit in all of Europe. The viziers framed the current Mahir, making it seem like he had relations with one of the Sultan’s mistresses. The night before the viziers threatened to condemn the mistress and have her stoned to death for a fabricated crime if she did not play along. The next day the viziers reported the crime to the Sultan. In a fit of rage the Sultan ordered for the Mahir to be executed publically and during that execution I was announced as Saladin the Royal Mahir of the Sayyid, referring to my allegiance towards the Sultan. I was gifted a golden handled scimitar and an orange feathered turban that signaled my new position. I remember my first day where I was put quickly on assignment.
“Saladin, you must meet with Anton Antillius III in the Italian countryside at this desired location,” the Sultan ordered as a guard handed me a note.
“It will be done Sayyid,” I replied bowing down upon his beautiful granite floor.
“You will accompany him to the manor of Count Vicci Vamoré, there you will unearth information that will cause him to lose political power in the Senate so we can have a fully open trade route with Italy,” the Sultan explained. I bowed in acknowledgement. I was approached by an elderly woman who handed me a fine carpet.
“I spent many years crafting this carpet, and from my work I have now lost the majority of my eyesight. Use this well, no man European or otherwise can resist the fine fabrics of the Middle East,” she muttered weakly. I kissed her forehead and left the palace to make my journey to Italy. I packed my camel with water and topped with the heavy Arabian carpet. I had no room for food and so I had to go hungry for quite some time, however with God in my heart I rode in the blazing heat.
I had no time for stops or for obstacles and by midnight I had reached the green grasses of Italy, this land seemed so strange but it was God’s will that I was placed here. With the cover of the shadows I approached a middle aged man; I could see his dark eyes from a distance. I introduced myself as Saladin from Medina and we quickly engaged in conversation essential to our plan on infiltrating the Count. He discussed with me the Count’s sketchy purchase of a Russian family in Vladivostok by the name of Yakolevsky, and how he sold the parents but kept the kid. I could sense the Count was hiding something with this, and I believe Anton felt the same. I jokingly assured him I would find skeletons in the Count’s closet. We then decided to spend the night in a nearby inn as the dinner was the next day; the innkeeper was drunk and rambling. Certainly I had never seen such outright barbarism, the man was a slob. I had seen his kind before, they came from a place he called Ireland. While my mind focused on this trivial thought I realized that I would not have much time to sleep as the journey to the Count’s manor began early. Anton and I slept on separate mats on a wooden floor on the second floor of the inn. We awoke to the sound of noisy livestock outside of our window and in hunger I glared at them. Back in Medina they could roast a pig so fine the fumes could reach Heaven. I looked back at Anton and he urged me to wait until we arrived at Bella Villa to feast. Again I went without food and in a starved haste I packed my camel and mounted it swiftly. Anton climbed atop his black steed and we were off towards Bella Villa, I made sure the carpet was tied tightly to my camel. Riding beside the majestic black steed made me slightly envious; his horse had a certain flair that my camel did not. I never vocalized this thought mainly because we were approaching the luxurious estate of Bella Villa. No Arabian architect could match the pure beauty of this manor, it was so monumental and I could tell the history that the stonework possessed.
We entered the main yard and tied our beasts outside making sure they had enough to feed to last them through a lengthy dinner. We were greeted by a pale European woman, immediately I could tell Anton was struck by her. Part of me could sense his lust towards her and knowing that I am a devout follower of God I could not allow him to violate her marriage. All Europeans assumed us Arabs were highly religious, and in this case they would be correct. The Middle East does not have to deal with blasphemous secularist movements in our politics and this makes our people more holy in the eyes of God. When we walked into the main hallway I noticed marble busts of people I assumed to be prestigious leaders of Italy, Anton seemed absolutely enthralled by them. I was here on business however, so I quickly asked the woman what she knew of the Yakolevsky child that Anton and I discussed the night before. She told me he was in the kitchen and he could not be bothered as he cooking dinner. The woman walked up the staircase as Anton turned to and verbally reprimanded within the sacred manor of Bella Villa. He told me I would blow our cover and he ordered that I go retrieve the carpet from the camel as the Count would be down soon. I walked out of the main entrance and closed the door and looked at the stable-my camel was missing! I ran and tore my hands through the grass so I could see his hoof prints in the dirt, I began to track them. I followed them behind the manor and into the gardens where I spotted him eating tomatoes out of the Count’s personal vegetable collection. I whispered at my camel but he would not come. I walked towards him and noticed his bag of feed was empty, I should have known to pack more for the beast. Then in the back of the garden I noticed to soft mounds of dirt side by side. Knowing I had to unearth secrets of the Count I began using my hands to dig and see what I could find. My nails scraped through the dirt until they scratched something solid and lifted my hand and to my surprise I found bones. As I continued to unearth them I found a whole intact skeleton and turning it over I noticed a fracture in the back where it appeared a blade pierced the bone. I looked closer at the bone and it appeared as if the side of the dagger rubbed fiercely against it as it fractured the spine. It appeared that the force was so great that letters inscribed on the dagger rubbed off on the bone, inscribing it as well. I analyzed it carefully and found that it spelled “Vamoré,” he was a murderer. I had no conclusive evidence but it was time for me to find some and so I walked my camel back around and tied him to the stables. I then grabbed the carpet and arrived back into the manor. Anton introduced the Count; he was an elderly man who looked like he had endured years of paranormal hauntings. The Count did not appreciate the fact that my kind stepped foot into his manor, he made this clear by labeling me as a sand genie. I did not take kindly to his blatant racism and I boiled inside with a passion hotter than one thousand deserts, I despised this man.
Still keeping my manners intact I unveiled the Arabian carpet before him. He seemed rather impressed and allowed me to stay for dinner. I could tell the looks between Anton and the woman were getting fiercer and I could sense it, a powerful envy radiating from Anton as he wished to possess his wife. That goal could only be achieved by murder, which as a man of God, I do not condone. Anton quickly nodded to me as he distracted the Count with idle chit-chat. I slunk up the stairs hoping nobody noticed me, mainly the count. I snuck down the hallway on the second floor when I came to a door with an emerald knob. This had to be the master bedroom. Luckily the door was unlocked due to the fact that the Count’s ego led him to believe that he could keep the guests from the second floor. I opened the door and crept in, closing slowly and quietly behind me. I walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. There I saw it. The dagger inscribed “Vamoré,” he was a murderer and this proved it. I took the dagger from the drawer and under it saw a note. A letter wrote in ink on dated parchment, I unfolded it and read it silently to myself.
“To whomever it may concern,

I Count Vicci Vamoré patriarch of the prestigious Vamoré family of Italy write this letter to confess for all of my sins. I was raised a man of God and certainly God could not condone what I have done; perhaps this is why he cursed me with the inability to produce offspring. My irrational politics caused me to suffer a fine I was well aware of in the Italian Senate, and so I deprived my servants of food so I could hold on to my immense wealth and the manor of Bella Villa. I told my wife they escaped, when in reality I tricked them. I told them they were gaining their freedom and offered them a dinner with me in the cellar where they resided. I prepared a simple soup meal myself, however I laced theirs with a large amount of cyanide that I attained illegally through trading with the Russians, I also paid them a hefty sum to very quietly dispose of the bodies and so they buried them under the cellar. The younger servants I sparred and sold into prostitution to be trafficked around Europe, I received my profits for that transaction in the month of December. I am a very paranoid man and so I had to keep a stockpile of cyanide on me at all times. The reason I could not allow Italy to conduct fully open trades with the Sultan is due to the mandatory background checks the Senate would conduct on every politician due to a new policy being enacted. If they shuffled through my ledgers they would find many inconsistencies where I traded illegally with the Russians and I would surely lose everything.
The Vladivostok slave trade was my opening; I knew I had to rid the Senate of Anton Antillius so I would no longer have to take these extreme measures to keep what I own. The Yakolevskys were credited as stealthy assassins that took down an official in the Russian Duma, I knew I needed them. When we arrived I offered I high bid, and when the trader told me they had I son I threw even more money his way. The trader announced they had a criminal record and I told my wife because of this I lowered my bid, when in fact it remained exactly the same. Knowing the Yakolevskys had a son made me realize he would be the one who could murder Antillius for me, the parents surely lived past their prime. I corrupted his young mind with false senses of power and entitlement and he fell for it, bending to my will. I convinced him to murder his parents and he did exactly as I said, I took my family dagger with my name inscribed, from him and wiped it clean. It now resides in this drawer and will never see the light of day. Since I did not have the time or the money to once again pay the Russians, I disposed of the bodies myself and I told my wife the boy went berserk and that I could save him. To finally enact my plan I had to have Anton in this house where the murder could be pulled off perfectly by the Russian boy. I hatched the idea of having a grand dinner at Bella Villa and told Anton he could bring one guest so it did not seem suspicious that only he was coming. The more the time that passed the more I felt the shame and guilt pile up. I was no longer holy or pure, I was a monster. I became a recluse, and even in this comatose state I still urged my wife to continue with this dinner that she heard of last minute. I could not even approach the Russian anymore, I was too ashamed and I could not even attempt to cajole him into murdering my political enemy. So with these final words I decree that I have forever tainted the name Vamoré, and that my life is forfeit. I have displeased God and for my sins I must be reprimanded the only way I know possibly.
Sincerely,

Count Vicci Vamoré”
Shocked by the letter I folded it up into my pocket and looked on top of the nightstand. There I saw an empty bottle of cyanide. I knew what he had done but yet I related to him on a spiritual level and I approved of his self-reprimand. Surely the Hydra could have fallen faster if it dismembered itself, only if it realized the unholy abomination that it was, a fierce spawn of the Underworld. The Count was a monster and his undoing is his final appeal to God as he knows His judgment would be much worse. For this I appreciate the Count and so I prayed at his bedside. Calmly I snuck back down stairs and saw the Yakolevsky child deliver wine and cheese to the morbid Count. The Count’s eyes were an icy blue as he dismissed the boy. The Russian disappeared into the kitchen and Anton moved behind the Count’s chair-Heaven’s no! Anton pushed the dagger into the chair and the Count fell. God would now condemn Anton and the Count, and even my holiness has been tainted by this foul plot. I began shouting at Anton as the Yakolevsky child burst from the kitchen. The European woman fell to the ground crying, during this I noticed no stab wounds on the Count’s body and his food and drink were untouched. With that notion I knew that God’s will had been done.