Rites and Wrongs of Passage

It had taken a full week to create David, the man I was now pretending to be. Every detail, from his fabricated military record to his penchant for precision kills, was engineered to pass the scrutiny of Stiff’s organization. Mindy had worked tirelessly alongside me, pulling information from the blackest corners of the internet, while M ensured every digital breadcrumb we planted held up under analysis.

David wasn’t just a name. He was a ghost, a phantom assassin, and now my best shot at getting close to Stiff.

But earning a seat at the table wasn’t as simple as filling out an application. Stiff’s men didn’t hand out membership cards—they handed out tests. And mine came in the form of an assassination.

“You want in? Prove it,” the recruiter had said, tossing a manila envelope onto the table in front of me.

Inside was a dossier—a middle-aged Italian man with slicked-back hair, an expensive suit, and a rap sheet that stretched across two continents. The name beneath his photo read Giovanni Costanzo.

“He’s a mafia boss,” the recruiter said, lighting a cigarette. “Owns half of Little Palermo in New York. Stiff wants him gone. You pull this off, you’re in. Simple as that.”

Simple. Indeed, I thought with not a little sarcasm.

*

The plan came together in a rented motel room two blocks from Costanzo’s favorite restaurant. The greasy light filtering through the window cast long shadows over the blueprints I’d managed to acquire of the building.

“I’m telling you, Clarke,” Mindy said from the other end of the burner phone. “This is insane. You’re talking about taking out a mafia boss.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I muttered, studying the schematics. The restaurant had a single entrance, two exits, and more armed guards than I cared to count.

“Then maybe don’t do it,” she shot back. “There’s gotta be another way to get into Stiff’s crew.”

“There isn’t.”

M’s voice chimed in my head, as sharp and clinical as ever. “While I share Mindy’s concerns regarding your safety, I’ve calculated an 82% probability that completing this task will secure your place in Stiff’s organization. For the record, however, I find the term ‘simple’ highly misleading.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Noted.”

The plan, such as it was, involved sneaking into the restaurant under the cover of a delivery service. Costanzo liked his wine imported, and the latest shipment had just arrived. The van would get me inside. From there, it was a matter of getting close enough to the target and pulling the trigger.

“Of course,” M said as I loaded a silenced pistol, “there’s also the matter of escaping alive. Shall I calculate the odds?”

“Don’t bother,” I muttered, holstering the weapon.

*

The wine delivery arrived at exactly 7:00 PM. The driver, an older man with a thick accent, barely glanced at me as I slipped into the van. My mask had done its job once again, transforming me into an unremarkable worker in coveralls.

The guards at the restaurant door were less dismissive. They inspected the crates thoroughly, their eyes lingering on me for a fraction too long.

“New guy?” one of them asked, his tone gruff.

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice low and my expression bored. “They needed an extra pair of hands for the shipment.”

He grunted, waving me through.

The restaurant was a study in opulence—white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, and patrons who exuded wealth and power. Costanzo sat at a corner table, flanked by two bodyguards.

“Target acquired,” M said in my head. “Distance: 15 meters. Line of sight: partially obstructed. Suggested approach: distraction followed by elimination.”

I scanned the room, my mind racing. A distraction could work, but it had to be something big enough to draw attention away from me without causing a full-scale panic.

My eyes landed on the fire alarm.

“Not subtle,” I muttered under my breath.

“But effective,” M replied.

The plan unfolded in seconds. I made my way to the kitchen under the guise of retrieving another crate, then slipped into the back hallway where the fire alarm was mounted. A quick surge of miniscule destructive use of my Power of Morphreversion to damage some mechanism of the device and the alarm blared to life, red lights flashing and sprinklers spraying water over the dining room.

The chaos was immediate. Patrons scrambled for the exits, waitstaff yelled over the noise, and the bodyguards rushed to shield Costanzo.

In the confusion, I slipped through the panicked crowd, pulling the silenced pistol from my holster.

“Five meters,” M said. “Four. Three.”

Costanzo turned, his eyes widening as he saw me.

“Time’s up,” I whispered, pulling the trigger.

The sound was little more than a whisper, but the effect was devastating. Costanzo crumpled to the floor, his bodyguards shouting in alarm as they searched for the source of the shot.

I didn’t stick around to watch the fallout.

The escape was as chaotic as the entry. I shoved my way through the panicked crowd, my heart pounding as the bodyguards’ shouts echoed behind me.

“Left,” M instructed. “There’s an alley two meters ahead.”

I ducked into the alley, stripping off the coveralls and mask as I ran. Beneath them, I wore a nondescript hoodie and jeans, blending seamlessly into the throngs of pedestrians on the main street.

“You should hurry,” M said. “The bodyguards will likely pursue.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I muttered, flagging down a cab.

The driver barely glanced at me as I climbed into the backseat, my breathing ragged and my pulse hammering in my ears.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Anywhere but here,” I said.

*

The motel room felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the hit. I sank onto the bed, my hands trembling as the adrenaline ebbed away.

“Well,” Mindy said over the burner phone, “are you alive?”

“Barely,” I muttered.

“And Costanzo?”

“Dead.”

There was a pause. “Clarke, this is getting too real. You need to be careful.”

“I know,” I said, running a hand through my hair.

“Do you?” she pressed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re throwing yourself into the lion’s den without a plan for getting back out.”

“I have a plan,” I said, though the words felt hollow.

M, ever the pragmatist, chose that moment to chime in. “Your survival probability has increased to 53%. While still precarious, it’s an improvement.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Good to know.”

The next morning, I reported back to the recruiter.

“Well?” he asked, his tone sharp.

“It’s done,” I said, tossing a flash drive onto the table. “There’s the proof.”

He plugged it into his laptop, watching the grainy footage from the restaurant’s security cameras. The moment the fire alarm went off, the camera switched to Costanzo’s corner table, capturing the chaos and the kill.

“Not bad,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Stiff’s gonna like you.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

The recruiter leaned back in his chair, studying me. “You’ve got guts, David. Most guys wouldn’t have pulled that off.”

“Good thing I’m not most guys.”

His smirk widened. “Welcome to the team.”