Plelius Cheering, known as Widesmile, had been an assassin for twenty-two years. He was fifteen the first time he had stuck a stiletto into a man's ribs for money. Not that he lacked the skills to earn a living in any other way, nor the opportunities, but Plelius loved the easy life and the rich merchant's request seemed like a good opportunity to pocket a few coins without breaking a sweat.

Since then, time and blood had passed between his hands, and many lessons had been learned, one above all: a man who is about to die screams like a pig at slaughter. Plelius had been very impressed, the first few times, by those cries, which more than blood nailed him to the suffering and consequences of his actions. But it was the gold coins that erased all qualms and made him ingenious in order to avoid that each time his victim vomited screams of pain for those few minutes of agony.

Thus Plelius had become a Master Cutthroat, famous for the wide and deadly smiles he used to carve into the carotids of his victims, going as far as the vocal cords; effective, immediate and above all silent.

In those twenty-two years he had honed the technique that had made him one of the most sought-after assassins in the Empire and, of course, one of the highest paid. That evening, however, he would have to put his dagger aside. The client had been clear: no bloodshed. Clean jobs weren't really his thing, but if they paid well enough he wasn't squeamish. And this time, it was not only a well-paid job, but also a simple one. It was the usual question of money, and after all, there were always only three reasons why they hired him—money, power and cheating. This time, a nephew who was tired of waiting wanted to anticipate the inheritance of his old aunt.

He didn't even have to go to the trouble of picking a lock; the nephew had left the most accessible window in the building open for him before leaving. And even finding the woman's bedroom was easier than he had expected. He only had to follow the donkey's braying that the aunt emitted during her sleep. She snored so loudly that he didn't even have to worry about moving silently.

As he entered the room, he was astonished at the lack of grace of a venerable lady who looked so elegant even in her sleep. But he went no further in his considerations, to stop and speculate about the victim was the first step towards the end of any murderer's career. So, without delay, he grabbed a cushion at the foot of the canopy and with measured violence pressed it against the woman's face.

He felt the old woman's body stiffen under his grip, in a vain attempt to produce a sufficient thrust to push him away. Her hands began to whirl uncontrollably, trying blindly to cling to life, while a gasp for help came muffled from under the fabric. Plelius smiled that cynical grin of someone who, with little effort, gained much, and mentally counted to thirty. At that point the oxygen would start to run out and the victim's resistance would become less convinced.

But the aunt seemed to grow more and more furious. He went up to sixty, and the woman still showed no signs of giving in. He passed the hundred mark and the old woman's arms began to whirl more precisely, even scratching his face.

He increased the pressure, the smile now gone from his face. Two hundred and the more tired of the two seemed to be him.

It was at the threshold of three hundred that the aunt's clenched hand came to collide, fortuitously but energetically, with his right eye, causing him to hesitate more than enough to lose his grip and leave the field open to the granny.

That there was something out of tune about the situation was obvious, but the murderer was too focused on his work to stop and think. The woman was about to scream and he couldn't afford it. Drawing on many years of experience, he pushed aside the client's instructions and grabbed his knife. The target was stationary, his throat unprotected; all it would take was a lunge, a circular gesture from left to right, and it would all be over. And the gesture came, precise and very fast. The blade, newly sharpened a few hours earlier, penetrated the flesh and went through half its length, then slid quickly in a sure and merciless longitudinal movement.

The old woman's gaze crossed it in horror as her hands ran to her throat and the dagger already fled. Death would have reached her in a moment, but undaunted, her mouth opened in a cry anyway. And to everyone's amazement her voice took the form of a desperate, angry scream.

Plelius was even more surprised when the woman removed her hands from the throat and not a scratch splintered her neck.

The vague awareness that he had failed for the first time in twenty years touched him, a fleeting thought that became a dive out of the window and a leap over a couple of rooftops to the street.

But it was not his lucky night. Just then a gendarme was making his rounds in the alley. He hated killing out of contract, but his knife was always ready to handle the unexpected. Without even slowing down, he lunged at the man and plunged his dagger into his jugular. But instead of falling to the ground, the man tore the knife from his throat and stared at it in disbelief. Plelius was also incredulous; not a single drop of blood came out of the wound. He screamed and ran with all the energy of fear. It seemed that people refused to die that night.