The apartment building was obviously a pre-Columbian artifact.
Just inside the unlocked door was the row of mailboxes. No buzzers. How quaint.
Number 4 was Maria Mordella. Perfect.
Just outside Number 4, I held out the single rose, but my left hand, hidden in my jacket, held my 9 mm.
After an age of the Universe, a lady opened the door.
She was older than the building.
“Ms. Mordella?” A nod. “Complements.” I gave her the rose and left.
It was only after a 34-year-old Maria Mordella met an unfortunate accident that I discovered Cruella Mordella really was my target.
Word count = 100