John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
How to Ensure That Writing Daily Is Actually Writing Daily: A Guide to Building a Sustainable Habit
If you’ve ever set a goal to write every day only to falter by day three, you’re not alone. Consistency in writing can feel like a mountain to climb—especially when motivation wanes, life gets busy, or the blank page feels more intimidating than a challenge. The good news? You don’t need superhuman discipline to write daily. You just need strategy, structure, and a plan that works for you. Let’s break it down.
1. Define “Writing Daily” According to Your Needs
The phrase “write daily” can mean different things to different people:
Creative writing (a novel, poems, short stories).
Journaling (personal reflections or gratitude entries).
Content creation (blog posts, emails, social media captions).
Freewriting (stream-of-consciousness to clear your mind).
Start by clarifying your purpose. Are you building discipline, working toward a project, or simply expressing yourself? Define what “counted” as a writing day for you. For example:
Write 500 words every day.
Spend 15 minutes freewriting.
Draft one paragraph of a larger project.
Clarity removes ambiguity and makes the habit feel achievable.
2. Schedule It Like a Priority
Procrastination thrives in uncertainty. To beat it, treat writing like a non-negotiable appointment.
Block time in your calendar (e.g., 7–8 a.m. daily) and protect it as you would a doctor’s appointment.
Use the “Two-Minute Rule”: If you think you’ll write for 15 minutes but never feel “ready,” commit to writing for just two minutes. Often, those two minutes turn into 15.
Set reminders (phone alarms, sticky notes, voice-to-text prompts).
Pro tip: Writing at the same time and place daily (your favourite coffee spot, a corner of your desk) builds a neural connection: “This is when/where I write.”
3. Overcome the “Wait for Inspiration” Trap
Inspiration is overrated when it comes to consistency. Most of us wait for the “perfect moment” to write, but daily writing becomes its own kind of inspiration.
Start with a prompt. Use apps like 750words, The Daily Post by Automattic, or even a random object (e.g., “Describe the chair you’re sitting in”).
Freewrite without judgment. If you’re stuck, write the first thing that comes to mind—even if it’s “I don’t know what to write.” Often, the act of writing leads you to ideas.
Embrace “done is better than perfect.” Aim for progress, not brilliance. You can revise tomorrow.
4. Simplify Your Process
Overcomplicated write-then-edit cycles can kill momentum. For daily writing:
Use a low-stakes tool. A voice recorder, a napkin, your phone’s Notes app—anything that gets words down without friction.
Batch-edit later. Save revisions for the next day or week. Right now, focus on moving.
Track progress visually. Apps like Habitica, Streaks, or even a simple calendar can create a sense of accomplishment with each checkmark.
5. Make It Accountable
Accountability is the secret sauce for habit formation.
Share your goal publicly. Tell a friend, post on social media, or join a writing challenge (like NaNoWriMo’s NanoWrimo Daily Prompt).
Join a community. Online groups or local writing circles can keep you motivated.
Find a writing buddy. Check in weekly to share progress and encourage each other.
6. Be Kind to Yourself—But Stay Curious
Missed a day? Don’t quit. Here’s how to navigate setback:
Reflect without judgment. Ask, “What got in the way?” Was it a busy week, burnout, or unclear expectations? Adjust accordingly.
Reframe the pause. A single missed day doesn’t erase your progress. Just pick up where you left off.
Celebrate small wins. Finished 200 words? That’s still a win.
7. Reconnect to Why You’re Doing This
Why does writing matter to you? Keep that vision alive by:
Writing a purpose statement (e.g., “I write to stay grounded, grow, or share my voice”).
Revisiting early work to see how far you’ve come.
Allowing writing to evolve with you—your habits might shift, but the core practice remains.
Final Thoughts: Daily Writing Is a Practice, Not a Performance
The goal isn’t to mimic perfection but to build a habit that sticks. Over time, daily writing becomes a muscle you can flex even when it’s hard. It’s not about writing every day—it’s about writing daily enough to notice the difference.
So start small. Let go of the pressure. One day at a time, your daily writing habit will grow—and so will you.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
While waiting for Carlo and Chiara to return with the villagers, and taking some time to consider the plan that had almost formed in my mind, I went back to my room, which, I was guessing was once used for wine storage, because now that I had taken a moment to stop and consider my surroundings, I could smell the aroma of spilled wine.
With a little more light, I could see the arches within which the bottles would be stacked. I’d also noticed while I’d been outside, that there were vines everywhere, albeit in bad shape as the people who tended them had either left, or been taken away, or shot.
Red grapes if I was not mistaken, though I had no idea what the variety might be.
If the war dragged on much longer, it would do a lot of damage to the wine-growing districts, and I doubted, when the Germans were here, they had any interest in tending the vines, but just drink the wine, and then probably not with the appreciation it deserved.
That had certainly been the case up at the castle before fate turned against me. Perhaps that was where all of the wine from this cellar had been taken for safekeeping, once the locals thought the Germans had gone forever. Maybe that was the reason why Leonardo spent so much of his time at the castle, the free wine.
Jack had returned from what I assumed was an inspection of our new quarters and was sitting on the ground next to me. I wondered what he made of everything he had seen. It was certainly not a dog’s life being caught in the middle of a war.
“It’s a fine mess we’re in,” I said to him, and he looked back with uncomprehending eyes. I would have to brush up on my German. Or maybe Italian. It only just occurred to me that he was probably someone’s dog from around here. We’d only run into each other a few miles away.
“Yes, and I’m sure if you spoke English you could tell me a thing or two. But, alas, you can’t, so a piece of advice. Try to keep out of trouble, and by that, next time I go out, you might want to stay here.”
I shrugged. Things must be bad; I’m talking to a dog.
Martina stopped outside the entrance. “I heard voices. Who are you talking to?”
“The dog. He’s the only one who’s making any sense at the moment.”
“Are you sure he’s not a German spy. Or, in fact, it’s a he?”
“You probably know as much as I do. Anything happening?”
“Carlo’s back with a dozen or so of those who want to stay alive. Chiara has a few more. The rest have other places to hide if they need to. We’ve told them to expect a raid. Leonardo and a few of his men have been out looking for you and told everyone that you are a German spy and that he’ll pay them a lot of money for information about where you are or who’s hiding you. He doesn’t understand everyone hates him, they always have.”
“Good to know if I run into him, he won’t be happy to see me.”
“This plan of yours?”
“Wallace will be getting edgy about the men he sent out, those men we ambushed at Chiara’s place. It depends on who he sends, and where they go, but I was thinking we could prepare another ambush at Chiara’s. All we have to do is wait because I’m sure they’ll get there eventually.”
“And if I know Leonardo, he’ll send them straight to my farm. He knows that both Carlo and I, and the other two you’ve met were the other four who refused to join him in going up to the castle to make peace. It seems he’s made a bad choice.”
“Wallace didn’t. He needs someone like Leonardo to find us. You’re probably right. I was thinking Carlo and I could go. No sense sending all of us, and if anything happens, there will be someone left to carry on.”
“You don’t sound too confident. You are a soldier, aren’t you?”
“In a manner of speaking. But I was not trained to be a commando, and not necessarily on the front line, or in this case behind enemy lines.”
“You’re not one of those rich kids whose father bought a commission, so you didn’t have to fight?”
Interesting the ideas foreigners had about elements of the army. I was not sure if that was done anymore, at least not in this war.
“I have poor parents, that is if they have survived the bombs falling on London. Refused to give in to Hitler’s aggression.”
I tried to convince them to go to the countryside, just to be safe, but one of the places they thought of going, had also been bombed, so as far as they were concerned, nowhere in England was safe.
“But yes, they did teach me how to shoot, and I know my way around several different types of gun.” My mind flicked to the sniper rifle and the damage that could do.
I’d be definitely taking that with me.
I saw her turn her head, and then heard the sound of new arrivals. Chiara had returned.
“Time’s up for planning.”
I told the dog to stay, but as usual, he ignored me. We went back into the main cavern where a dozen more people were settling in various places along one wall. They looked as though they’d packed for a reasonably long stay.
But what worried me was the way they looked at me. Those rumors Leonardo spread, I was hoping no one believed him. Above the sound of voices, I could hear Marina speaking to them in Italian, hopefully, to tell them I was not a threat.
I found Carlo.
“I have a small job to do. After our last exercise at Chiara’s my old commander will no doubt send someone down to the village to seek answers, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me so we can convince them of the error of their ways.”
He smiled. There was no mirth in it, and I knew I didn’t have to say anything more.
I saw movement coming from a group of people, and among them the boy I’d met earlier, Enrico. He had jumped up off the floor when he saw me and came over.
“What are we going to do now. I mean, we’re not going to sit here and do nothing.”
Boyish enthusiasm. He had not been shot at yet, and to him, it was all a bit of a game. I remembered back to the start of the war, and the number of boys who lied about their age, hardly waiting for the war to be declared. They had no idea what a real war was, and if they had known, they would not have been so recklessly enthusiastic.
“You’re going to stay here and protect your family and all the others here.”
“No. I want to be useful, fight the bastards.”
Carlo gave him one of his dark stares. “You will stay here and help others if anything goes wrong. Out there,” he pointed towards the entrance, “out there, if you’re not careful, you will die.”
Martina had seen him talking to us and came over.
“Enrico, we’ve talked about this. Go back to your family.”
A last pleading look in case we changed our minds, then he reluctantly returned to his group.
Carlo handed me the sniper rifle and a pistol, a luger, probably captured from a German earlier, when they were in occupation.
Watching the body language of both husband and wife, it was hard to tell who was in charge, but if I had to make a guess, Angelina was in front by a nose.
Who had the most clout in that room, that was Angelina, via her father, Benito? He might have retired and passed the reins onto his eldest son, but in terms of respect, he had it from all the crime families and syndicates, and was, for all intents and purposes, still a force to be reckoned with.
That was even after he and his eldest son, the heir apparent, decided to go straight. It was a surprising turn of events for a crime family that had been notorious in its heyday. Now the family were more involved in banks, shopping malls, casinos, and bearer bonds.
As for their illegal activities, those were shared out among the other three major crime syndicates equally so as to avoid a turf war. It also led to the marriage of convenience between Fabio Latanzio and Benito’s eldest daughter Angelina, mutually profitable for both sides.
At that time, Fabio had just been promoted to understudy his father, the heir apparent for that syndicate. Fabio was ambitious but respectful, until his father was killed in a suspected hit, which led to a few months of tit for tat killings until Benito brokered an uneasy peace.
That meant Fabio became head of the family, and instead of sitting back and letting others do the work for him, he chose to be hands on. And three suspicious murders later this he had privately said was to avenge the death of his father, here he was, on the brink of a long jail sentence.
And the fact that he had allowed himself to be broken free of custody was a tell take sign that he knew he was both guilty of the crime, and that he was looking at a long sentence in jail.
Then there was the other undeniable fact, he had sent in a team to kill me. If he was innocent, why would he bother?
Amy had been watching the family reunion with interest. She too, saw the signs of a rift which she could use against him.
She sat down when they went onto silence each on a separate side of the room, the air between them could be cut with a knife. Benito, no doubt would be very angry at the turn of events, and of Fabio’s behaviour. It was common knowledge that Benito thought him too big for his boots.
“Happy families, eh,” I said.
“That’s the trouble with absolute power, you tend to think after a while that you are untouchable. He’s about to find just how wrong he is. And, if we’re lucky we might yet get to find out who his high-level police contact is.”
That of course was something else I learned very quickly that a few, a very few cops were corrupt, and one in particular, the one that ratted me out.
It was a bit of a shock to discover that your safety really couldn’t be guaranteed, particularly when a high-profile criminal was involved, like Latanzio.
It was a can of worms she really didn’t want to open, but those who had helped Fabio stay free as long as he had, it was her intention to find out who it was and make sure they were punished.
It was determination I had seen only intensify since the attacking the hotel, and an escape after seeing several colleagues either killed or injured.
To me, sitting there watching the man who had ordered a hit on me and very nearly succeeded, and being able to observe the whole operation around his capture was, to say the least, fascinating.
It would be interesting to see how Latanzio reacted.
The least expected reaction was a steady pounding on the door, accompanied by yelling, Latanzio wanted to speak to the person in charge.
We watched him for a few minutes, and it looked like Amy wanted him angry, very angry, before she had him taken to an interview room.
She was expecting trouble, because he was not cuffed now, with two men collecting him, and two in the shadows with instructions to shoot a tranquilizer dart into him if he misbehaved.
The passageway was also set up so we could watch him, and there was definite proof he was seriously considering tackling the escort and making a break for it. Amy could see the signs, but watching his escort, there were very aware of what he might do.
But in the end, he didn’t try to escape.
Not yet.
He was sent into the room, one guard outside, the other inside the door. He kept what looked like a truncheon visible so the Latanzio would think twice about considering his odds against one rather than two.
For me, I might get past the first but not the second. Any sensible person could see the odds stacked against them.
Amy stood up. “Time to have a first pass at him. Wish me luck.”
She didn’t need luck. So far her plan was working.
Two minutes, perhaps three, passed before I saw her enter the room. Latanzio has stopped pacing and had finally sat. I could see him evaluation the possibility of using her as leverage to escape.
Whatever happened, the guards were instructed to kill him, irrespective of hostages. It was a hard call, but everyone in the team chose to be there.
She sat but did not speak. It was up to him to make the first move.
It didn’t take long.
“Just what exactly is going on here? Who organised this?”
She took a moment to look him up and down, the sort of look that could make another, more ordinary person, squirm. Latanzio was unmoved.
“The who, as I said before, is irrelevant. The what is because we are putting the rest of your journey together, and it’s taking some time. With one person it’s easy, with four it is more difficult.”
“Then forget about the family. They’re safe. No one will dare touch them. I should be your most pressing case.”
Interesting that, if politely put, the rat thinks only of himself.
“You should realise that your wife and children will suffer the consequences of your actions if you leave them behind, so according to my instructions, you all go, or no one goes.”
“What does that mean?”
I thought it was obvious, but I was beginning to think Latanzio was not as clever as I thought he was.
“You don’t want to find out.”
“Is Benito behind this? This smells like something he would do. More about saving his daughter than worrying about me. He needs me.”
From what Amy’s sources had learned in the last few hours, the opposite was true. Benito had put a contract out on him. It hadn’t helped Fabio’s cause that she had leaked the fact Fabio was cheating on his daughter.
“Not since he was told about Gabrielle. It is why we had to bring her in, too. So, Benito is not your benefactor, he had, in fact, put a contract out on your head. You should be thankful we got you out of jail, or you’d be dead by now.”
I could see his mind working, taking in what she had just told him and processing it.
Amy decided to add another variable. “You have to decide who you want to go with you, Angelina or Gabrielle. It can’t be both.”
There were a few seconds delay like a conversation being conducted from the earth to the moon
The he said, ” What will happen to those left behind?”
“I’m sure you know exactly what will happen. The problem is, if you hadn’t shot that fool in the street in front of a witness, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“That witness is dead. There is no witness.”
She shook her head. ” No, Mr Latanzio, he is not dead. You had to take on a very resourceful man, not your average Joe, nor by a long shot. Special forces, or marines, or something I’m told, and he hasn’t taken it very well that you sent in a team to kill him. It’s another mess were going to have to clean up. All in all, you were given a simple job to do, and instead, let your ego and stupidity get us to this point. You should realise my first instruction was to get you out and then put a bullet in your head. I might still do it. My people have been instructed to shoot you if you try anything. That also means if you die, so does Angelina, Gabrielle, and your children. My instructions are very clear.”
She stood, signalling the interview was at an end.
“You now have to make a decision. Who would you like to see now?”
“Gabrielle.”
Angelina was going to be very impressed with her husband when Amy told her.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
A body and a whole bunch of questions.
A full minute passed, with only one car passing, the rest of the time there was a strange sort of silence.
The man on the ground didn’t move. Whoever shot him had shot to kill. I took the few steps to stand beside him and could see the hole and the bloodstain of the wound. Shot in the heart, instant death.
Usually, if it was a sniper, it was a head shot. Less chance of missing a vital organ and leaving the target alive.
Odd too that it was just before he told me where some ‘evidence’ was located. And who the hell was this Alfred Nobbin?
I heard a car turn into the alley and come towards me. Halfway, it stopped, the engine switched off, and the doors opened.
Two men. Maury, my handler, and Severin, the instructor. Neither was carrying a gun, so neither had shot him. That meant someone else was still in play.
I said, “I had him, but someone shot him.”
Stating the obvious, Maury’s expression told me.
“You’re not dead.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t a target.”
“Today. Did he say who he was?”
“No.”
No hesitation or they’ll think I’m lying, which I am. I was not sure why, but was it because I detected a note of sincerity in the target’s tone?
“Checked for identification yet?”
“Just about to.” I knelt down and went through his pockets. Nothing. I told Maury that.
“Pity.” He hadn’t moved from where he stopped. Severin had been looking back up the alley, no doubt looking for where the bullet came from.
Had he reached the same conclusion I had, a balcony on the third floor of the left-hand building? The shooter would be long gone by now.
A white van pulled into the lane and pulled up behind Maury’s car. The cleaners.
It raided questions. How did Maury know we’d be here, and that the target would be shot dead? Or had he assumed I’d all but kill him in revenge for what had happened to the others.
What had happened to the others?
“The rest of the team,” I asked.
“Two dead, one critical. One safe. Let’s go. We need to have a debriefing.”
I took a last look at the body, the joined Maury and Severin in the car. I had questions of my own.
“A bad day’s work,” Severin muttered, as he drove off.
“But conclusive proof we have a traitor, the last thing we need right now.”
I was surprised they were discussing high-level matters that I considered above my pay grade. And, I had to say, it worried me.
The 5 C’s of Writing: Crafting Clear, Compelling, and Captivating Content
In the world of writing—whether you’re crafting a novel, a blog post, a business email, or academic essay—quality matters. But what separates good writing from great writing? Enter the 5 C’s of Writing: a set of guiding principles that help writers produce content that is not only effective but also engaging and impactful.
These five pillars—Clarity, Conciseness, Coherence, Correctness, and Consistency—form the foundation of professional and polished writing. Let’s dive into each one and explore how they can transform your writing from “just okay” to outstanding.
1. Clarity: Say What You Mean
Clarity is the cornerstone of effective communication. No matter how brilliant your ideas are, if they’re buried under jargon, convoluted sentence structures, or vague language, your message will be lost.
Tips to improve clarity:
Use simple, precise language.
Define technical terms when necessary.
Avoid ambiguity—be specific in your descriptions.
Structure sentences so the subject, verb, and object are easy to identify.
“If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.” — Attributed to Albert Einstein
Clarity means respecting your reader’s time and intelligence. Aim for transparency, not complexity.
2. Conciseness: Brevity with Purpose
Great writing doesn’t waste words. Conciseness is about delivering your message using the fewest words possible—without sacrificing meaning.
Filler words like “very,” “really,” “just,” “actually”
Instead of saying:
“Due to the fact that it was raining, we decided to cancel the outdoor event.” Say: “Because it was raining, we canceled the outdoor event.”
Concise writing is powerful. It keeps readers engaged and ensures your key points stand out.
3. Coherence: Logical Flow and Connectivity
Even if your writing is clear and concise, it won’t resonate if it lacks coherence. Coherent writing guides the reader smoothly from one idea to the next. Paragraphs and sentences should connect logically, building a narrative or argument that makes sense.
How to boost coherence:
Use transition words (e.g., “however,” “furthermore,” “as a result”)
Maintain a logical progression—introduce ideas in a structured way
Ensure each paragraph supports the central theme or thesis
Think of coherence as the “glue” that holds your content together. It ensures your reader never gets lost midway.
4. Correctness: Grammar, Spelling, and Grammar, Spelling, and Punctuation
Correctness is non-negotiable. Errors in grammar, punctuation, spelling, or usage can undermine your credibility and distract from your message—even if your content is insightful.
Common areas to check:
Subject-verb agreement
Proper use of apostrophes
Tense consistency
Punctuation (commas, semicolons, quotation marks)
Invest time in proofreading, use tools like Grammarly or Hemingway Editor wisely, and when in doubt, consult a style guide (APA, MLA, Chicago, or AP).
Remember: correctness isn’t about perfectionism—it’s about respect for your audience and your craft.
5. Consistency: Maintain Your Voice and Style
Consistency involves maintaining a uniform tone, style, formatting, and voice throughout your piece. It’s what gives your writing a professional, polished feel.
Examples of consistency in action:
Using the same tense (past vs. present) throughout
Sticking with one spelling convention (e.g., American vs. British English)
Keeping a uniform style for headings, lists, and citations
Maintaining an appropriate tone (formal, conversational, persuasive, etc.)
Whether you’re writing a personal essay or a corporate report, consistency builds trust. It shows that your writing is deliberate and well-considered.
Why the 5 C’s Matter
The 5 C’s aren’t just rules—they’re tools. When applied together, they elevate your writing to a level where it’s not only understood but appreciated. Whether you’re:
Persuading decision-makers,
Informing readers,
Or simply sharing ideas,
Mastering clarity, conciseness, coherence, correctness, and consistency ensures your words land with impact.
Final Thoughts
Writing is both an art and a craft. The 5 C’s help you refine the craft so the art can shine through. As you revise your next piece, ask yourself:
Is this clear?
Could it be more concise?
Does it flow logically?
Is it correct?
Is my tone and style consistent?
By holding your writing to these five standards, you’ll produce content that’s not only professional but also memorable.
Start small. Focus on one C at a time. And remember—the best writers aren’t born. They’re made—one clear, concise, coherent, correct, and consistent draft at a time.
What’s your biggest writing challenge? Clarity? Grammar? Let us know in the comments—and share your own tips for mastering the 5 C’s!
And learn from the works of other writers, famous or not…
…
Can you find the words to describe what you think fiction means to you? Or even what it is for a particular novel?
One opinion, Russian, is that it’s aesthetic bliss. To me, most works by Russian writers tend to go on and on and on. Fyodor Dostoevsky is a case in point. I grant you that if you can sit through the novel, which is very good, your opinion might be a little different. Not so much Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and some of his works.
In my younger days of reading when a large book never fazed me, a thousand plus pages (And Quietly Flows The Don – War and Peace) to a few hundred (One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich) to mid-range five hundred pages (Doctor Zhivago) they all could tend to be tedious, though I have to say Doctor Zhivago as a book was fascinating, the film by David Lean, captivating, and the stage play, boring beyond words.
That is to say, once you get past the Russians, there were British authors like Charles Dickens who could get up to that magic number of pages, and whose works could reach that lofty thousand. They were, however, perhaps more interesting, and most having been made into mini series for television, far more interesting as a spectacle than in reading the book.
And, of course, there is Jane Austen. Need I say more?
But there are times when you pick up a book and start reading the first page, and then stop. It tells a budding author that, on the one hand, it’s not going to be your genre, and on the other, that the opinion of the book is in the eye of the beholder.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 