le Parole MorbideMature

She should have known better than to let a young woman wander alone in Italy. Italy, of all places. Amateur.

That day I did nearly everything someone would expect a woman like me to do: I visited a small gallery, browsed through some shops, and ate a picnic lunch in the town square. In this, however, I erred. Yes, I did. Not Juliet Italiano, but me.

How did I err, you ask? It was a simple lack of foresight, a flaw in my personality. You see, I ate that lunch alone. Or, at least, I started alone. I was an assassin, remember? Trust no-one, work with no-one, and all that? I’d extended that rule into my personal life, just as most all the other Juliets had: be with no-one.

No-one, that is, with the exception of Amon.

He had spotted me, I guess, from across the square. I wasn’t trying to hide, though, so don’t go along spreading lies about my inability to stalk and spy. You, too, would find it more than a little difficult to prance about unseen in the middle of a town square at noon.

Anyways, Amon came across me and offered to take lunch with me. Of course I obliged, but only because I had to remain inconspicuous. It didn’t hurt that this man was the very essence of what European men aspired to be. Or so I thought. Better, at the very least, than the American variety.

Mon petit chou,” is what he cooed to me. Something that, when translated, was hardly romantic at all. Mais en Français, well, suffice to say I flushed at the words. That was my second failure of the day: I never thought to question his use of French. Obviously he had seen through my disguise, noticed that my Italian wasn’t as flawless as the other Juliet had said. Somehow, I had spoken my Italian with a touch of a French accent.

At that point I should have known it was a set-up.

The End

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