The moon's gentle rays poured through the window and fell upon the knife, illuminating the object like a flame on a deserted street. I eyed it with suspicion, like a suspicious man who suspects a trap. “Sofia,” I called, “would you come here please?”

It took the old gal ten minutes to climb the stairs, like a terminal goat on a ten minute voyage. “What do you want?” she asked curtly.

“Could you kindly tear that note from its tether?”

“You mean the knife?”

“Christ, woman!” I roared like an enraged bear. “We're trying to run a business! Is it too much to ask for a bit of class?”

She sighed heavily, impregnating the room with the scent of cheap wine, “Why don't you do it?”

“Don't question my logic – GO!”

She ambled to the desk as I plugged my ears and cowered in the hallway, awaiting the inevitable explosion.

“What now?” I heard a shrill voice inquire.

I peered through squinted eyes at an unharmed woman who had mastered the art of looking both bored and confused at the same time. “Gimme that!” I asked, ripping the note from her fingers like a child from the womb. “This is important crap – stop meddling.” I gagged on her second sigh then watched her stampede to the stairs like an elephant, fully intent on hitting the bottle.

The note was written in an enigmatic code that I had seen many moons ago. I instinctively held it to a mirror and watched the letters reflect into place. It read:

Dear Ricardo Merducci Giovanni Dijorno Da Vinci (Ricky),
I am a man on a mission, one with which I pray you do not interfere. I am not in Florence for the lives of the innocent – I am no murderer, Ricky – but I do seek the blood of the unjust. I am not one to be tampered with – but perhaps you could help with my quest. Together, we could rid the city of its fiends and bring about its fullest glory. If you accept my proposal, meet me at the Duomo tomorrow at dawn. To prove my sincerity, I have murdered the madman I found hiding in your office whilst delivering this note.

I gazed to the far corner of the office, where my former assistant slouched against the wall like a deflated balloon. I had once called him George because he was a deaf-mute, but looked like a George. “George,” I cried, racing to the lifeless body, “NO!” Life, our most precious gift, can be taken as easily as a hooker's virginity, but without warning – except for the knife-wielding assassin who just ransacked your place of business. “You dumb bastard,” I cried, the tears pressing against my eyelids, “you were supposed to yell if you saw anything...”

This vigilante would rue the day that he messed with Ricky.