A muffled scream was swallowed by the darkness.
The man struggled beneath the weight of the dark figure, one hand clawing desperately at the arm pressed against his chest.
The blade moved across his throat.
His body jerked once.
Then went still.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain hitting the roof of the parked car.
The figure waited.
Then checked his pulse.
Nothing.
A gloved hand reached into the pocket of a black coat and pulled out a small cartoon cat sticker. It looked almost childish against the dark clothing.
The figure placed it carefully on the dead man's jaw, just above the wound.
Then the car door opened.
Cold air rushed inside.
The figure stepped out and disappeared into the rain.
By morning, Florence had another dead politician.
Sir Edward Whitmore, a former Member of Parliament and one of the city's most respected businessmen, was found inside his car near the Arno.
The first officer at the scene thought it was a robbery.
It wasn't.
His wallet was still there.
So was his watch.
His phone was missing, but everything else of value had been left untouched.
Then they found the document.
It was lying neatly on the passenger seat.
Six pages.
Whitmore's name was written at the top.
Underneath was a list of crimes.
Bribery.
Fraud.
Money laundering.
Abuse of office.
Illegal land deals.
Witness intimidation.
The disappearance of a government investigator.
There were dates beside the accusations. Bank records. Photographs. Names of people who had never spoken publicly about him.
Some of the evidence was so detailed that the police immediately knew whoever had written the document had been watching Whitmore for a very long time.
At the bottom of the final page were four words.
GUILTY. CHARGED WITH DEATH.
Beneath them was the little cartoon cat.
By eight that morning, the photograph of Whitmore's body had reached the newspapers.
By nine, the story had spread across the country.
And by midday, Florence had chosen a name for the person responsible.
The Legalized Assassin.
Nobody knew whether the killer was a man or a woman.
Nobody knew how the victims were chosen.
Nobody knew where the evidence came from.
But there had been four killings before Whitmore.
And every victim had been accused of something.
The strange part was that the accusations were usually true.
That was why people were divided.
Politicians called the killer a terrorist.
The police called the murders executions.
Lawyers called them a dangerous attack on the justice system.
But ordinary people had started calling them something else.
Justice.
Some even celebrated when another name appeared on the list.
That morning, someone had left flowers outside the building where Whitmore had once worked.
Nobody knew whether they were for the dead man.
Probably not.
Judge Amara Vale arrived at court just before nine.
She walked through the marble entrance of the Palazzo di Giustizia with a file tucked beneath her arm, acknowledging the court staff as she passed.
The television mounted in the reception area was showing the morning news.
Whitmore's photograph appeared on the screen.
Amara slowed for half a second.
Then continued walking.
"Judge Vale."
She turned.
Judge Eleanor Hart was coming towards her, holding two cups of coffee.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"I have coffee."
"That makes you useful."
Eleanor smiled and handed her one.
"You're welcome."
They continued towards the courtroom.
Outside, journalists were gathered around the entrance, still trying to get comments about Whitmore's death.
One of them spotted Amara.
"Judge Vale! Do you believe the killer is a threat to the courts?"
Amara kept walking.
Another journalist shouted.
"Do you think the Legalized Assassin is a hero?"
She didn't stop.
Inside Courtroom Seven, the noise disappeared.
The room was already full.
Today's case was much less dramatic.
A twenty-six-year-old man named Thomas Reed was accused of stealing money from the company where he worked.
He had admitted taking it.
His lawyer argued that he had been desperate and had intended to return everything.
The prosecutor disagreed.
Amara listened to both sides without interruption.
She asked a few questions.
Read through the evidence.
Then she looked at Thomas.
"You have admitted to taking the money."
"Yes, Your Honour."
"How much?"
"Thirty-two thousand euros."
"And you returned it?"
Thomas swallowed.
"Not all of it."
Amara glanced at the file.
"Your employer trusted you with access to their accounts."
"Yes."
"You abused that trust."
Thomas lowered his head.
Amara was silent for a moment.
Then she delivered the sentence.
"Two years' imprisonment."
Thomas closed his eyes.
His mother began crying quietly behind him.
Amara waited until the courtroom settled.
"This court recognizes that desperation may explain a person's actions," she said. "It does not excuse them."
She struck the gavel once.
"Court is adjourned."
Later that afternoon, Amara sat in her office with Eleanor.
The windows were open.
Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.
Eleanor was scrolling through her phone.
"They're calling her a hero now."
Amara looked up from the judgment she was reading.
"Who?"
Eleanor stared at her.
"The assassin."
"Oh."
"There are thousands of comments."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Eleanor placed her phone on the desk.
"Whitmore's death has people divided. Half the country wants whoever did it arrested. The other half thinks the police should leave her alone."
"Her?"
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
"So you think it's a woman?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said her."
Amara looked back at her papers.
Eleanor laughed.
"You're impossible."
Amara smiled.
"That's what I've been told."
Eleanor picked up the newspaper beside her.
"The evidence is what bothers me."
"Why?"
"Whoever did this knew everything about Whitmore. Things the police didn't know. Things the press didn't know."
Amara turned another page.
"Maybe someone close to him gave them the information."
"Then why kill him?"
"Because they wanted him dead."
Eleanor stared at her.
"You make murder sound very simple."
"Murder usually is."
Eleanor shook her head.
"What do you think she is?"
Amara finally looked up.
"The Legalized Assassin?"
"Yes."
Amara considered the question.
Then she closed the file.
"She isn't a hero."
Eleanor waited.
"She isn't justice either."
"So what is she?"
Amara looked towards the window.
The streets of Florence were glowing beneath the late afternoon sun.
"A murderer."
Eleanor sighed.
"And yet people are celebrating."
Amara said nothing.
On her desk, beneath the stack of court files, lay a small white object.
Only the edge of it was visible.
A tiny pink ear.
Neither woman noticed it.
Or, at least, Eleanor didn't.