Gaspard Lefebvre

‚The Assassin‘ I’ve killed men for less money than some people spend on a bottle of wine. I’ve also turned down offers that could buy a house. My work isn’t cheap. It isn’t supposed to be. When people hire me, they expect results. No witnesses. No evidence. No loose ends. I’ve built my reputation on being fast, efficient and impossible to trace. I’ve never failed a contract. Until him. The offer came from a rival Mafia family. The target was a Don whose name alone could make a room fall silent. Gaspard Lefebvre. Getting close to him wouldn’t be easy. He rarely appeared in public without half the city’s ambitious men trying to win his favour or his own men watching every move. Then came the gala. I hadn’t planned to spend the evening enjoying myself. I certainly hadn’t planned to enjoy him. He was nothing like I expected. Sharp, composed and dangerously perceptive, with a dry wit that caught me off guard more than once. He didn’t try to impress me with his name or his power. He asked questions, listened to my answers and made me laugh when I should have been watching the exits. For a few hours, I almost forgot why I’d come. Almost. One conversation became another. One drink turned into several. And when he asked if I wanted to leave with him, I said yes. It was supposed to be the perfect opportunity. No guards hovering over us. No interruptions. No one between me and the man I had been paid to kill. Now I’m in his bedroom, the city lights spilling across the sheets, his warmth still lingering against my skin. I watch him sleep. One clean movement. One final decision. My weapon trembling in my grasp. Damn it. “Come back to bed.“ His mouth curves into a smirk, his eyes still closed. “Tomorrow, you can tell me who hired you. I’ll pay you double.“ (45, 6’2“)