1
GABE
Ipour two fingers of aged whiskey into crystal tumblers as Adrian lounges in one of the velvet booths. The last notes of tonight’s saxophone set still linger in the air, but the club’s emptied now—just the way we like it.
“To sweet success.” I slide a glass toward him and settle back against the bar. “How’s the Valentine’s collection coming along?”
Adrian swirls the amber liquid, studying it. “Exquisite. I’ve perfected a new ganache that’s transcendent.” His lips curl into that dark smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “The iron notes are subtle this time.”
“Subtle isn’t exactly my specialty.” I tap my signet ring against the glass, the sound resonating through the empty club. “Remember that banker from last month? Fucker wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“Your technique lacks finesse.” Adrian sips his whiskey. “Too messy.”
“Not everyone can be a fucking artist like you.” I laugh. “Besides, I prefer being artistic with my preservation these days.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Want to see something interesting?” I don’t wait for his answer, just motion for him to follow me down into the wine cellar and open the door disguised as a maintenance panel. “My little collection,” I announce as I lead him into my lair.
The unmistakable scent of natron and decay surrounds us as we enter, and I switch on the light.
“You’ve been busy.” Adrian peers into my display, more curious than disturbed.
“Four so far. Ancient Egyptian methods, mostly. Took some trial and error.”
“Mummification.” Adrian sounds impressed. “That’s new.”
“They last longer,” I announce. “When’s the tasting?”
“Next Saturday. You’re coming, I assume?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Your tastings are legendary.” I nod back toward the stairs, and we leave my collection in the dark. As we walk back, I continue, “Though I still don’t understand why you waste your best work on those clueless socialites.”
Adrian’s eyes gleam in the dim light. “They appreciate quality, even if they don’t understand what makes it special.”
Once we’re back at the bar, I pour Adrian another drink, watching as he examines the crystal in the low light. My friend has always been so controlled ever since we met as kids. It’s why we work well together. He’s the reasonable one, I’m the enforcer.
“Remember that hedge fund manager last spring?” Ilean against the bar. “The one skimming from pension funds?”
“Ah, yes. Matheson.” Adrian’s voice softens with the memory. “His blood had notes of expensive scotch and cocaine. Made an exceptional dark chocolate truffle.”
“Fucker had it coming. Living in that penthouse while families lost their homes.” I knock back my drink, the burn satisfying. “At least we gave him purpose in the end.”
Adrian nods. “That’s what separates us from common killers, Gabriel. We’re selective. Purposeful.”
“The world’s a better place without them.” I trace the rim of my glass. “That art dealer last summer—the one selling forgeries to retirees?”
“Exquisite fear response. Pure adrenaline.” Adrian’s eyes light up with the memory. “I still have some of that batch, actually. Saving it for a special collection.”
We sit in comfortable silence. Twenty-five years of friendship built on shared darkness. We understood each other even before the first kill—saw the same emptiness in the world, the same hypocrisy in people who pretended to be good while destroying lives.
“That new city councilman,” I say after a moment. “The one taking kickbacks from developers. Tearing down homeless shelters for luxury condos.”
Adrian sets down his glass. “You’ve been watching him?”
“For weeks. Regular schedule. Predictable habits.” I pull out my phone and show him the photos I’ve been collecting. “No one would miss him. And his blood type is rare—O negative. Could make something extraordinary.”
Adrian studies the photos, his expression contemplative. “Politicians always taste... complicated. All that corruption marinating in the blood.”
