“Gentlemen,” one of Ash’s contacts announces, his voice carrying across the main room. “I’d like you to meet Scarlett Rose. She’s here to discuss potential business arrangements.”
Every conversation stops. Every eye in the room turns to assess the blonde woman in the silk dress who just walked into their sanctuary. I count twelve men total—more than we expected, but not more than I prepared for.
At the head of the main table sits Brutus himself, exactly as Blue described him. Massive shoulders, scarred face, and eyes that have seen too much violence. He raises his whiskey glass in greeting, and the gesture is both welcoming and threatening.
“Ms. Rose,” he says in a way that reminds me of gravel in a cement mixer. “We’ve been hearing interesting things about you. Something about expanding your father’s business into our territory?”
I move deeper into the room, letting my hips sway just enough to hold their attention. “Daddy always said you Americans know how to spot opportunity,” I say, my British accent making the words sound casual but sharp. “I’m after partners who don’t fuck around.”
“Quality work.” Brutus grins, the expression transforming his face into something genuinely terrifying. “I like that. Sit. Let’s discuss what quality means to people like us.”
The chair they offer puts me directly across from Brutus, with six men on each side of the long table. Perfect positioning for what I have planned. As I settle into my seat, I notice the table is alreadyset with crystal glasses and opened bottles of what looks like very expensive wine.
“We’re celebrating tonight,” Brutus explains, gesturing to the bottles. “Got word this morning that someone finally took care of a problem we’ve had for years. Car bomb in Portland took out an enemy of ours. Hell of a way to go.”
The room erupts in laughter and congratulations. Men toast the unknown killers’ success, bitching that they didn’t get to do the honors themselves but celebrating the result. I smile and nod, playing the impressed potential partner while fury builds in my chest.
They think Blue is dead. They’re celebrating his murder.
“To whoever blew that bastard to pieces,” someone calls out, raising his glass. “And to one less problem to worry about.”
“Cheers to that,” I say with a smile, accepting a crystal glass filled with dark red wine. The liquid catches the lamplight, and I can see my reflection swimming in its surface. “But hang on—let me do this right.”
I stand gracefully, glass raised, commanding attention with the simple act of movement. Every eye in the room follows me as I walk to the sideboard where the wine bottles wait like soldiers in formation.
“Back home, we always add a little something special to celebrate big wins,” I continue, my British accent flowing naturally as I set down my glass and reach into my evening bag. “Trust me, it makes everything taste better.”
The blue spheres roll across my palm like tiny pearls, each one containing enough poison to kill a grown man in ten minutes. I’ve practiced this so many times in Blue’s basement that my movements are automatic now.
“What’s that?” one of them asks, craning his neck to see.
“Something brilliant from back home,” I say with a wicked grin, my accent making it sound exotic. “Think ecstasy meets cocaine, but your head stays clear while your cock thinks it’s Christmas morning. The high lasts for hours.”
The room erupts in interested murmurs and crude laughter. “Hell yes,” someone shouts. “Count me in.”
“My dealer calls it ‘executive candy,’” I continue, dropping three spheres into the first bottle and swirling gently until they dissolve completely. “All the fun, none of the stupid decisions. Well, except maybe fucking like a god.”
I move to the second bottle, then the third, adding poison to each one while the men watch with the fascination of children witnessing a magic trick. They have no idea they’re watching their own execution.
“There,” I announce, returning to the table with my enhanced wine collection. “Now we can truly celebrate properly.”
I pour fresh glasses for everyone, making sure each man gets wine from one of my treated bottles. The poison is completely tasteless, just as Duffy promised, and it dissolves without leaving any trace of blue.
But I catch Brutus watching me carefully, his eyes tracking my movements as I pour. Smart bastard. He’s not going to drink until I do.
I reach for my own glass—the one I poured from the single untreated bottle I kept separate, marked with a tiny scratch on the base that only I can see—and raise it high.
“A toast,” Brutus declares, raising his glass high. “To new partnerships and the death of old enemies.”
“To justice served,” I reply in my refined accent, touching my glass to his with a crystalline chime that sounds like a funeral bell.
They drink deeply, savoring what they think is triumph. I take a small sip from my own untreated glass and watch them swallow their doom with smiles on their faces.
The conversations resume, business discussions mixed with graphic descriptions of how they imagine Blue died. They describe his supposed fear, his desperation, the satisfaction they felt watching him fall. Each word makes my hatred burn brighter, but I keep smiling, keep playing the interested businesswoman while death spreads through their systems.
Five minutes pass. Then eight. Then ten.
“You know what?” the man to my left says suddenly, setting down his glass with slightly shaking hands. “I don’t feel so good.”
