Distance makes things grow, they say.Desire, for another. Longing. A fondness brewed, when you couldn’t see them. So your heart curated them into something more. Whatever word you wanted to pick (love? lust? Or just* want*) amplified, because it wasn’t tangible.Because you always wanted what you didn’t have.Prosciutto was pretending he was going to cook tonight, thinking about what was not in his fridge when he got the message, his flip phone vibrating between his feet, propped on the worn coffee table, where pieces of his gun lay, uncleaned.‘Ris’ blinked on the blue display.

Phone thrown back down on the sofa, he ignored the several buzzes of messages (a call) that followed, time passing, as he pretended that he was too busy, about to clean his revolver, while he kept watching the television.Those blue letters, on a black screen, was all Risotto had been to him lately. Mistyped words. Sporadic updates. Questions about his day.(did they mean something, or was everyone else in this rag-tag gang getting them too?)

Sometimes, he replied something meaningless. A word. A lie.Sometimes, he just read them over, and over. Stuck, with what to say back. Some of the responses could be so simple, but monumental. Loaded.So in the end, Prosciutto said nothing. And waited for Risotto’s next message, wondering if he’d look the same the next time he saw him.

Solitude was an assassin’s company.It was something they’d all learned. Either early, or quickly. It wasn’t a choice, but an expectation and need of this life and work. Sometimes, they worked together in teams when learning, when something was riskier, when a job called for more than one pair of hands to bloody. But even then, it often felt like working alone, together. What married was their skillset, then stand, rather than the person.For Risotto, being alone was comfortable. Something he sought out, even.But not lately. It made him restless. Wandering thoughts he didn’t need; a persistent look here, to find someone that wasn’t there.Sometimes he thought it might be a self imposed isolation, accepting jobs he should have delegated to his team, so he was occupied away from base, from home, ever moving, a constant shadow, licking clean the edge of his knife, because he didn’t even have time to stop.But he always made time for Prosciutto. He hadn’t realised, until he received a message from the boss about an important assignment (that word really meant business) out of town, and he was to take Prosciutto.It felt like he’d paused for the first time in weeks, as he sat down on a nearby bench, hand to hat as he pulled it off, letting the night air cool sweat damp hair as he messaged Prosciutto. But not before scrolling through the messages he’d been sending, as if unaware he’d typed them at all.

An immediate ‘Busy’ followed.So Risotto just stood, sheathing his knife back into his palm, red with Metallica, and turned right up the hill, where he’d tucked away his motorcycle.

He’d read it. But Risotto didn’t need to know that.Milan, then.Money, music; culture lining the roads to walls, to exquisite cuisine every second door; beauty and bourgeois in bloom; and a golden brick road of prospects to almost anything you wanted.This wasn’t a holiday. Although it could be. Target to tail, put in their sights, and take out. That, was the priority. But a week together-(Prosciutto was still staring at two shirts he hadn’t worn in over a year, wondering if this was time to dust them off. He still looked good in purple, right?)-close confines, the only familiarity, each other. Essentially, undercover as tourists. Locals might work. No. Risotto was still not good enough at keeping that Sicilian accent tucked away all the time, even if he barely talked. Anger made the end of a word shift back South, a stretch across the sea. And it was time for blood.Prosciutto was better at talking when it was lying. Being someone else.(he tucked in some of his expensive underwear; picked out his favourite shoes; that suit Risotto complimented once)He looked at the clock, the window with curtains never quite fully closed. It was almost morning, and he’d been packing all night, ever since he’d read the email. The change in routine making him restless, unable to be anything but the anticipation for whatever this week was going to be. A crossroads; bad, good, or just a change, they couldn’t (would never want to) look back from.(which necktie? Several? He could buy many more in Milan, he pondered, pulling a red one between fingers, saturated in memories, moments)A knock pulled Prosciutto to his feet, and there were only really a handful of people it could be. And one of maybe three who would knock at this time of night.“Yes I read it,” Prosciutto said before Risotto even opened his mouth, stretching an arm on the door frame as he leaned against it.“Just making sure.” Risotto’s hat was off. Hair rain damp, windswept from his bike ride. Prosciutto would chide him for not wearing a helmet. But he wouldn’t wear one either. “This one’s an important one. I think we’ll get paid well, depending on discretion, and extra information acquired.”“He always says that.”“You’re just greedy.”Prosciutto smirked with a shrug. “Anyway, you could have told me all this with a text. Email.”An echo, of the way Prosciutto stood. But broader, blotting out the hallway light; relaxed, not lazy. “But I didn’t.”And they didn’t say anything for a while.“We taking the train? Flying?” Prosciutto frowned, disliking his next word. “Driving?”“Just meet me tomorrow at our usual when it opens,” said Risotto, adjusting his position against the doorframe, slouched, head ducked enough.“The cafe?”“Not many bars open at dawn.” And stared at the pendant hung around Prosciutto’s neck, despite the fact he was just in underwear and shirt. Risotto wondered if there was ever a reason he took it off (or if he could give him one). Sometimes it felt like it worked as a distraction for Prosciutto. So eyes followed the cord, to the gaudy gold, away from what they should be looking at instead. Risotto smirked. It was working as intended. He almost reached out to touch it. His hand moving from his side, brushing against the doorframe. And he wondered if Prosciutto noticed.(he had)“Anything else, boss?”He withdrew his hand, and stepped back over the threshold, but pressed his forehead against the top of the frame, fingers hooking the wood. “We’re equals on this mission. I won't be your boss there, Prosciutto.”Risotto turned, and left. Steps too light and practiced to be heard down the corridor.Prosciutto watched him leave, wood biting his back as he leaned against frame, arms crossed, wondering what he would be instead.Distance makes things grow, they say, but what will a week of nothing but each other, the anticipation of a kill and a thrill, grow--when what you want, is right there.