The Assassination of Count Vicci Vamoré
By Anonymous, Frederick, MD
Author's note: I hope the plot in this story entices the reader and thrills them in new, exciting and... Show full author's note »
The Russian's TaleI was never worth anything; my family was bought by the count himself after the slave trade in Vladivostok. He placed a high bid, one that our trader could not refuse. My family lived in Rostov but after a series of events, as my parents tell me, our property was seized and we were forced to live on the streets. Russia’s climate is harsh and the people even more so. It took incessant begging to be offered even a slight bit of bread. My father knew we wouldn’t survive and soon followed a heated argument between him and my mother, who easily began to breakdown in tears. It was decided we go into the slave trade; at least we would be taken care of, if someone bought us. It took years and we fought off many diseases with the God’s divine assistance, it was constant travel in cages shackled to ox driven carts. Always to new cities that hosted annual slave trade events, sometimes our trader couldn’t sell anybody and that made him angry. Those were the worst days because we were starved and beat because we “weren’t good enough,” but then came December, 21st.
Vladivostok one of Russia’s port cities was hosting an enormous slave trade inviting nobles rom all across Europe. My family and I hoped that this would be the one. Then we saw him in his imminence, Count Vicci Vamoré the Italian count with his beautiful wife Valentina. His high bid was successful and we were transported in a carriage driven by black Italian steeds to his manor in the Italian countryside. He called it “Bella Villa” which was Italian for beautiful mansion. It was adorned with gorgeous flowers of every color and invigorating vines that caressed the European stonework all over. It was simply stunning. Years passed as I worked for the Count he began to take a liking to me as I was young and very skilled. “Dmitry,” he’d say with his silver hair slicked back, “la mia famiglia,” with his wrinkled hand on my shoulder. I was family, to a prestigious Count, I was family. Mother and father did not like Count Vamoré’s favoring towards me and they told me my reliance on his appreciation weakened the Yakolevsky name. They informed me of a plot they hatched to kill Count Vamoré by poisoning his meal. Count Vamoré favored a nice glass of Verdicchio white wine complimented with a slice of fine Gorgonzola cheese, my parents suggested tainting the wine with lethal poison. I simply could not and so I told the Count of their plan and he told me I was being used as a tool by my parents to seize bourgeoisie wealth through murder, when that wealth was easily attainable otherwise. He gave me an ultimatum and handed me a silver dagger inscribed “Vamoré”.
That night while my parents were sleeping I murdered them; quietly I went for my mother’s neck and killed her peacefully. My father began to awake and so quickly I lunged on his back and stabbed him multiple times until he was lifeless. When I turned around Count Vamoré was standing at the cellar door where we resided, he smiled and assured the bodies would be dealt with. The cellar also reeked with the stench of death even before my committed atrocity. Only now do I realize to the full extent what I have done, how I betrayed the Yakolevsky name, the wealth he promised did not come. I am still sitting here stirring the broth for his famed Minestrone, he is having a dinner party tonight and many people are invited here to “Bella Villa” the Count has been looking forward to this party for quite some time. It is now time for his glass of Verdicchio, and his glass is coincidentally sitting next to a pile of nightshade and mandrake, I think this is a sign from God. I hastily pour his elegant white wine into the glass and administer the poisonous plants to his drink and cut his slice of Gorgonzola to be put neatly on a silver platter. With the drink now bubbling and the Gorgonzola fresh I walk out of the kitchen, it looks as if the guests had arrived early. I set down the platter in front of Count Vamoré and he responds “grazie,” with guilt surrounding me I shamefully walk back to the kitchen and close the doors. Sitting on a stone bench I begin to cry, he is the only family I have left -I have made a terrible mistake! I rush out of the kitchen to correct my wrongdoing but I am too late, Vamoré is dead. Lifelessly he is sprawled out on his Arabian imported carpet, paler than the grave. Valentina is crying, another Italian man is yelling in an accusatory tone at a white garbed and tall Arabian man. What have I done?