Bad Blood

BAD BLOOD ACID VANILLA BOOK 8 MATTHEW HATTERSLEY BOOM BOOM PRESS GET YOUR FREE BOOK Discover how Acid Vanilla transformed from a typical London teenager into the world’s deadliest female assassin. Get the Acid Vanilla Prequel Novel: Making a Killer available FREE at: www.matthewhattersley.com/mak CHAPTER 1 Perched atop one of Rome’s seven ancient hills, the Parco Savello is an ancient sight of beauty and grandeur. Known by locals as the Orange Garden, it is home to a plethora of fragrant bitter orange trees that fill the air with the smell of ripe citrus during spring. Constructed in 1932 by architect Raffaele De Vico, the public park offers breathtaking views across the city. Below lies St Peter’s dome; on either side, the domes, basilicas and pinnacles of San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane and Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri. The area is said to have been favoured by Roman aristocrats who had their mansions built here so they could watch over the city, though now it is enjoyed by visitors from all over the world. Flowers and fountains criss-cross like a spider’s web across lawns dotted with sculptures and benches for relaxed contemplation. Steep terraces lined with cypress trees slope down from the hilltop to meet intertwining paths. Legend has it that Saint Dominic himself planted the first orange tree here in the thirteenth century, and his tree, now eight hundred years old and bearing fruit to this day, stands humbly on the grounds of Saint Sabina Basilica. The pinnacle of the garden, however, is the ornately designed viewing terrace located at the very top of the hillside. Flanked by rows of the most impressive orange and pine trees, the symmetrical terrace looks out over the expansive cityscape and offers picture-perfect views of the Eternal City. If you are lucky enough to be standing at the end of the terrace at sunset, you will see the sky turn a magnificent burnt-orange colour. Surrounded by such natural beauty and with the spires and domes of Rome at your feet, it’s hard not to feel like a king. Or, indeed, an emperor. A man stood alone on the stone border that ran around the edge of the terrace, gazing out on the city beneath him and embracing his new world. With eyes closed, he rocked back onto his heels and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the warm late-April air. He felt good. He felt powerful. A passing onlooker might have described the man as thin and of average height, but this estimation would not take into account the layers of sinewy muscle and single-digit body fat underneath his clothes. Many months of a strict gym regime, along with a fastidiously followed plant-based diet, had made him lean and strong, lithe and athletic – ready for whatever his new life might throw at him. He was wearing black jeans that hugged his thighs and gripped at his ankles above his Cuban-heeled Chelsea boots. The boots had been recently commissioned from a local artisan shoemaker and were made of the best Tuscan leather money could buy. Despite the warm evening, he wore a long black overcoat with the collar raised, casting a shadow over his strong jawline, fine nose and dark, intense eyes. He dropped his arms and allowed himself a solitary moment to appreciate all he had achieved over the last month. He was now not only physically standing on the precipice of greatness, but also metaphorically. Soon the last pieces of his operation would be put into place and his goal would be complete. It felt good. It felt right. He did this. All of it. Because the Orange Gardens and the terrace were located within a gated complex closed to the public after dusk, the man was the only person there at this time of day. The old groundskeeper had let him in and, as long as he kept his mouth shut about what happened here tonight, he would be safe from harm and remunerated for his troubles. He was another pawn, bought and paid for and ready to look the other way when the guest of honour arrived shortly. The man knew there would be many others over the years who would look the other way. There would be even more who’d be paid for their silence and for what they could offer him. He flicked out his arm to reveal his new Bulgari Octo timepiece. He’d bought the watch just last week after the final payment from his first big assignment had landed in his Cayman Islands bank account. Seeing it was already a few minutes after seven and time to meet his guest, he tore himself away from the view and stepped down onto the terrace. The area in front of him, a delightful expanse of rich green space, was arguably one of the most romantic settings the already romantic city of Rome had to offer. Suitors looking for a suitable location to propose to their loved ones placed the Orange Gardens high on their list of places to pop the question. Tonight, however, these glorious gardens would be the setting for a different kind of proposal. And a different kind of union. The man allowed a smile to spread across his face as he saw a stout figure ambling down the central avenue towards him. He had come alone, as instructed, and as he got closer he squinted up at him, illuminated in the orange glow from the last sliver of the day’s sun before it disappeared below the horizon. He was a rotund man, who appeared uncomfortable in his own body. His dyed black hair was plastered back with pomade, but failed to cover entirely a tanned cranium that was almost a perfect half-sphere. A thick black moustache that was possibly the result of more dye hung down over his thin lips and danced as he spoke. “Ciao, Signor Duke.” His eyes flitted up and down the taller man’s frame. “So… I am