I'll get to all of them eventually.
Marchetti's Maserati gets something extra. A small nick in the brake line. It won't fail immediately, but it's deep enough that it'll give out when he decides to go ninety on a mountain switchback.
Should've kept your eyes to yourself.
I sweep the courtyard one last time. My gaze lands on Dashkov's Bentley again.
The unconscious driver. The Monaco address. The man inside that dining room with his hand between her thighs like he had any right to touch her.
My fingers brush the vial in my pocket.
I've been carrying it since I landed in Iceland. Saving it for Calder, but his security has been airtight. No openings. No opportunities.
Dashkov just volunteered as tribute.
A cold smile tugs at my mouth. I don't fight it.
Tonight, before he leaves this frozen hellscape, I'll find the right window to give him a parting gift.
And when I do, he's going to wish he'd kept his fucking hands to himself.
I leave the vial in my pocket and head back inside.
The anticipation is almost as satisfying as the act itself.
Almost.
I'm backat my post before the main course arrives.
No one noticed I was gone, and the conversation has shifted while I was out. They're discussing New York now. The gala for soon-to-be members of hell.
"You'll be attending, of course?" Mendoza asks.
"Wouldn't miss it. The Mortelle acquisition alone is worth the trip."
"And your lovely wife?" Dashkov smiles at her, but she avoids his gaze.
"Naturally. She's my best accessory." Calder’s mouth curves.
I watch Keira's face when he says it. Watch for the flinch, the crack, the tiny fracture in the mask. But there is nothing there. She doesn't give any of them a single point of satisfaction.
We're all going to be in New York, and I'm going to make sure not a single drop of their blood goes to waste.
They have no idea what's waiting for them. Aaron and Cat must be killing two birds with one stone, getting the other players and Calder there at the same time.
It's brilliant. I just hope they have everything?—
Movement at the table.
Dashkov is leaning in close to Keira. His lips brush her ear as he whispers something that drains the color from her face.
Then she's pushing back from the table, her voice steady even though I can see her hands trembling.
"Please excuse me. I'm not feeling well."
Calder frowns. "But I didn't?—"
She's already moving toward the door. "I'll be right back."
