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treadmill.
    Dotted around the carpet was the workmanlike assortment of wrenches, hammers, screwdrivers, and assembly instructions that had occupied Luciano’s every waking moment for the previous weeks. Little by little and bit by bit, he had built his home gymnasium from the carpet up, much to the puzzlement of his children, who had rarely seen their father use a screwdriver or—heaven forbid—exercise his muscles in the pursuit of anything other than sculling a boat out into the middle of Lochnagargoyle, all the better to admire the sunset. However, what Luciano had omitted to tell his children was that, concealed beneath the leather bench of the machine that resembled a medieval rack, there was a gun safe, where he had secreted a recently purchased double-barreled shotgun and a selection of ammunition sufficient to rid Argyll of its entire deer population—plus a brace of gamekeepers, should Luciano’s aim prove to be as appalling as he suspected it might be. Pacifist, peacenik, and lifetime supporter of Amnesty International, Luciano sincerely hoped never to have to resort to removing the gun from its secret cache. Even holding it filled him with feelings of dread: he loathed its stink of gun oil, detested its cold weight in his arms, and reeled at the weapon’s potential for harm, for ruining lives and destroying hopes in one brief, blinding blast. Notwithstanding all that, he had gone ahead and bought it, along with its required ammunition; bought it from a terribly well-spoken chap who had managed to confer a bizarre air of respectability to the whole sordid business of purchasing a weapon built to turn flesh and bone into so much lifeless pulp.

    â€œThink of it as a necessary evil,” the family lawyer had instructed him, seeing Luciano’s face blanch at the prospect of ever using his new and loathsome purchase. “All right, then. Think of it as self-defense. What else are you going to do? Reason with the murderers who are coming to destroy not only you, but your family as well?”
    Luciano had glared across the desk at Ludo Grabbit. The lawyer’s craggy features were arranged into an expression that somehow managed to convey true empathy allied with extreme frustration.
    â€œLuciano”—the lawyer shook his head—“you’re not thinking straight. Listen to me: your half brother is not a decent chap. He’s a killer. Always has been, always will be. Are you going to pretend otherwise, right up to the point where he’s holding a gun to your head? Or Baci’s? Or…”
    He didn’t need to go any further. Luciano placed both his shaking hands on the leather of the desktop and took a deep breath.
    â€œRight. I get the message, Ludo. What you’re saying is that it’s kill or be killed, yes? I keep this new gun hidden until my half brother, Lucifer, breaks down my door one night, and then I’m allowed to run downstairs in my dressing gown and shoot him dead, yes? This is legal, yes?”
    â€œLuciano, if you used your gun right now you’d be more of a danger to your family than to Lucifer. You need shooting lessons if you want to avoid blowing your own toes off, or, God forbid, accidentally maiming a member of your fam—”
    â€œRIGHT!” Luciano stood up so fast his chair tipped over onto the floor. “You don’t have to spell it out. Now you’re saying I need to be
taught
how to be a killer. Tricky, don’t you think?” He spun on his heel and began to pace the perimeter of Ludo’s office, massaging his temples and half shutting his eyes as he measured out first one circuit of the room, then another, his mind describing another orbit completely. “I mean,” he muttered to the book-lined wall on the other side of the room, “it’s not as if I can just place an ad in the
Herald Dispatch,
can I? Imagine:
Tutor urgently required for learner assassin. References essential.