date: january 15, 2013. status: closed for @ofcastoraā. location: late afternoon, the third floor of a montague-owned penthouse.
Death, Boris thinks, makes his brain rewire itself. All other thoughts shift an inch out of place to instead focus at the task at hand: heās always been better with words, and heās a decent shot, but there have been so many mishaps and mercy-killings and blood stains to clean up over the years that when Damiano specifies that he wants someone erased from the world of the living entirely, well... he canāt help the nervous buzz. Itās one of his many fatal flaws: give him a crowd, and heāll write them all poetry. Give him a gun? He can muster together a sonnet, but itās not quite as flowery as his other works.
Itās with this sense of thrumming anxiety that he waits for the initiate heās been assigned to babysit: not in the most official capacity, obviously, but the verbiageĀ had more or less been keep an eye on her. Castora Aguilar is eighteen, wary to the ways of the Montagues but not disinterested in their methods, and seems to have a few notions spinning around in her head as to just how quickly sheāll rise through the ranks. Heās waiting on her now to arrive from the lobby with the keys to the flat, perpetually unoccupied. When they open the door theyāll find nothing but a rifle left behind by some other lackey, some bottles of water, and a camera to confirm when the deed is done. This afternoon, heāll be wielding the camera.Ā He cannot help but feel grateful for it. Taking a life is no small burden, besides.
There, across the street from the window of the flat Boris is waiting outside, sitting in the lobby and enjoying his early cup of espresso, is the man Castora is going to kill today. Boris might not like her much for the sake of her tendency to chatter, but if heās intent on ensuring anything this morning, itās that sheāll succeed. It flatters them both to do well, especially on tasks like this, when Damiano has insisted that the death be public and gruesome.Ā Carleo -- no first name given, tall and reedy with a beard that looks like itās been glued to his chin -- will have his brains splattered on the floor of that little cafe he so greatly adores before noon. The crowd will exit, and his little mob of buffoons that trail after him like hounds will find their leading man dead, effectively crushing whatever rebellion theyād been trying to incite among the ranks of the Montagues in a matter of moments. Boris checks his watch. They have a little over an hour to see this through. The elevator bell rings, and he lifts his head to see Castora step out. No one exits with her. Itās just the two of them in the hallway. He nods at her, only speaking once sheās close enough that he doesnāt have to shout:Ā āDid you get the keys?ā
That had been her first task of the day. Not nearly as daunting as the second, Boris supposes.














