Chapter Eighteen

Campbell

POISONING SOMEONE IS far more difficult than it seems.

Everyone knows stories about a wife sugaring her husband’s dinner with arsenic each night until he dies, or the nerve agents levied back and forth by spies and secret police, but what’s missed in the mix of spectacle are two factors: time and severity. Any poison spells a straightforward death if you have daily access to someone’s food, and a government-grade chemical weapon does what it says on the tin. The problem is both draw a similar sort of suspicion, and a blood test reveals the rest.

To kill La Rosa and walk away clean, I need a natural source for his allergy, one that will decay long before the coroner ever cuts him open. Enrico helpfully provided printable copies of his medical records, which means I can match the dose to La Rosa’s bodyweight—another oft-forgotten detail—and ensure my injection is well past the point of lethality.

So, I’m grateful Justine accepted my grim trip to the Fulton Fish Market before dawn, not to mention the butchery I inflicted on the kitchen. Filling a syringe with the toxin in question isn’t enough; I need a proper fluid suspension to delay anaphylactic shock. I’m aiming for an hour, although two would be preferable.

At least nothing I’m using can harm either of us. Working in PPE is annoying even when it’s necessity, but this morning’s shellfish provides an unfortunate scent note to the acetone coming from the exercise room. I moved my equipment so Justine would have room to paint, as well as a modicum of privacy while I experiment with new distillation methods.

Part of me still can’t believe she said yes.

Last night, I was ready for ruin, to store my heart in the smallest box I could find before throwing away the key, but Justine might as well have forced her hands in my chest and ripped the organ free before making it her own. Defending her parents makes sense, but if we had only promised each other a simple exchange of violence, the morning after would feel more like a hangover. She promised me everything I never dared to voice, not for her family’s sake, but for herself.

When we practiced shooting in Paris, Justine worried the lesson would change her. Maybe it did in some subtle way, but crossing the line into murder works exactly like poison: when enough exposure meets potency, an effect is almost guaranteed. The military is built on the same notion—that with repeated, callous gardening, the seed of violence inside each of us can be forced to bloom. For a few, it doesn’t take, but such resistance is framed as failure, as shame, and there are few things young soldiers have more of than an overabundance of pride.

I have no idea if she’ll ever enjoy this, but the keen hunger in Justine’s eyes when she stood above me promised at least one kind of satisfaction. It’s been years since I surrendered to a woman that way, and even then, that was in a much younger and fumbling state. Offering her control felt like putting a knife to my own throat, but she wielded the blade beautifully, seducing with equal parts steel and edge until I wanted nothing more than to bleed.

Arousal’s echo kicks my focus loose. I’ve been staring at the kitchen counter for the last sixty seconds, which is proof I could use a break from measuring out La Rosa’s death to the last milliliter. I need movement, something more active to do with my hands.

After plucking a couple of fresh syringes out of the box, I call out to Justine, “Don’t mind the sound! I’m not the one getting stabbed.”

The perpetual whisper of her brush fades, followed by a laugh. “Only from you would that be comforting. Have fun?”

More work rather than play, unfortunately, but it’s been that kind of week.

I dragged my freestanding dummy out into the living room to make room for Justine, but his quiet watch has come to an end. After adjusting the stand to make sure the torso matches La Rosa’s height, I move both arms down to slacken them at each side as if he was simply standing and talking.

The syringes are small, but it still takes a few tries before I find an angle that fits flush against my palm, balancing concealment and a good grip. My first injection sinks deep into the forearm, withdrawn in the blink of an eye, but I’m liable to hit bone from this position, which would draw far too much attention. It needs to be a split-second prick, forgotten the instant needle punctures flesh. Dosing some hors d’oeuvres at the makeshift gallery would be straightforward, but La Rosa is already deeply paranoid about his allergy; I can’t imagine he’d ever eat something complete strangers had access to.

I jab again—too shallow. No point in introducing the injection to his system if it won’t hit the bloodstream; I need him dead, not breaking out in hives. Switching hands shows some promise, but the full movement would look strange to anyone watching, and I have to account for La Rosa’s wife being with him, as well as whoever Protego sticks in his shadow. Going to the opposite side of the dummy poses the same problem because what I need is—

A change in perspective.

Repositioning one arm as if La Rosa is offering a handshake offers up the hinge of his elbow, rich with veins. I stalk around the dummy for a few more test injections—approaching him seems best, rather than trying to reverse my grip and moving from behind—but there’s still one more missing piece.

“Justine, could you come in here for a minute?”

“One second.” An easel drags against the floor, and she emerges soon after.

Justine is dressed in what she affectionately describes as her throwaway clothes—a thin gray tank top, which attracts paint like a magnet, and loose sweatpants worn smooth and soft, enduring whatever position she works in for hours at a time. A streak of black divides her forearm; fresh drops of red acrylic soak into the strap over Justine’s shoulder from an errant brush flick.

When she’s in arm’s reach, I step forward for a kiss. “How’s the painting going?”

“I’m no Rothko, but I think I’m making the limited palette work.” Dark eyes shift to the syringe sticking out of beige foam and ballistic gel. “Ouch. I assume that’s La Rosa?”

“It will be.” I pluck the syringe free, then draw out the plunger again. “But I need you to feel how much pressure a needle like this can cause.”

Justine recoils, and I clarify, “It won’t break the skin. I’m not injecting you, but the moment I go for La Rosa, his attention has to be elsewhere.”

“Okay.” She frowns, brow tense. “I’m overthinking this. Show me what you mean.”

I take her hand in mine, firm but polite, and use the other to fit the syringe right against Justine’s skin. “Feel that?”

“Yes.”

“Squeeze my hand just as hard. Put your nails into my palm. Whatever you have to do to match the sensation you feel.” Her thumb presses in against my knuckles, one nail pinching the flesh there. “Like that. Good.”

Recognition shoots her eyes wide. “If we time it right, he won’t even notice the injection. A little hint of pain gets blamed on my overenthusiasm.”

“Exactly. I’m using the thinnest needle possible, so La Rosa might miss the feeling anyway, but I’d rather have a backup plan.” Not to mention a distraction for when I’m standing so close. If this goes the way I intend, his attention will never leave Justine. “And that will be your cue to send him home. Whether he buys the paintings or not doesn’t matter.”

She nods, and I withdraw the syringe before throwing it in the trash. “Sorry for interrupting your work. The dummy can’t give me feedback.”

Justine laughs softly. “I needed to get up and stretch anyway. Once I hit my stride, it’s easy to forget everything else.”

“And you’ll be able to finish in time?” I hate to pressure her, but I have to be sure.

“If he only liked oil paintings, we’d be in trouble, but acrylic is easy.” She gestures toward the other room. “I’ll age everything once it’s done. La Rosa shouldn’t have a clue they were made overnight.”

“You’re brilliant.” I should say so more often; she certainly doesn’t hear it enough. “If you need anything, speak up and it’s yours.”

“Dinner would be nice,” Justine answers as she steps away from me. “Somewhere outside that doesn’t smell like the top of a Venice canal.”

I should open the windows to vent our respective chemistry experiments later. “I’ll make reservations after I call Sofia.”

Once Justine retreats to her canvas, I wash my hands and find my phone. This is the wild card factor. I can’t tell Sofia what I’m doing—I can only trust she’ll react the right way at the right time.

“Hi, Campbell.” She sounds exhausted, but that’s better than the alternative. “I can’t believe you’ve made me look forward to phone calls.”

“I’m surprised the firm isn’t lighting you up twenty times a day.”

“Oh, no. My assistant has stuck solely to texting, and only to say that she’s so glad I’m finally taking a vacation.” Sofia doesn’t bother hiding her exasperation. “Some vacation. It’s either takeout or television, watched by six men who have far too many stories about my father. I almost wish one of them would hit me.”

Six. That’s very helpful to know. “They won’t. I told Cesare I would kill all of them if anyone put hands on you, starting with his wife.”

A laugh startles from her lips. “That’s so sweet. For you anyway.”

This is where it gets dangerous. “So nothing’s changed? You’re still at home?”

“Yes. Surrounded by my security system that did absolutely nothing.” Right. Her front door has an alarm; they either tricked the system, or coverage in the back of the house has an unresolved flaw. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I would love for La Rosa to keel over sometime soon.”

He will. “That’s the plan. Is Stefano there?”

“Wearing a new hole in my leather chair, yes.” Sofia’s voice goes distant as she turns away from the speaker. “It’s for you, Galici.”

Fabric rustles when the phone is exchanged and his gruff voice takes over the line. “Don’t you have my private number?”

“I thought you’d prefer if I used this one.” The more off-kilter he is, the better. “Did La Rosa take the bait?”

“He did after I sent him that website.” A mockup that Enrico put together, positioning Justine’s new alter ego as a hidden gem of the French art scene, elusive and almost impossible to get ahold of on this side of the ocean. “The address you sent me is legit?”

It will be once I refurbish the room into a private gallery, meant for the commissioner’s eyes only. “Perfect little spot, don’t you think? Less than twenty minutes from his house.”

“You better not fuck me, Campbell,” he snarls, rage spiking from deep within, sudden and volcanic. “If you think you can drop a single hint to Miceli about what’s going on—”

“No one trusts a traitor,” I interrupt. “Even if he did believe me about you, it wouldn’t be long before I met the same fate. As long as you hold to our deal, this is settled.”

Stefano grunts, ego soothed. “Good. I still want to hang you by your guts, but I’m starting to understand how you got one over on Mickey.”

I’m glad he can’t see me. Hiding the toothy smile that rises to my face is impossible. Stefano has no idea what he’s set in motion or what I’ll do the moment he and his made men are in reach. I imagine he believes he’s better than his brother, that his survival alone is ironclad proof, because even shared blood pales in comparison to that self-obsessed, king-of-the-castle arrogance. The same arrogance telling him I couldn’t possibly be smarter, or stronger, or better prepared.

It took hours for Mickey to choke out and die. I’m going to hold Stefano in my grip for far, far longer.

“La Rosa will be dead by midnight on Friday,” I say. “Keep that time in your head.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my goddamn job,” Stefano growls, “because if it hits 12:01 and he’s still breathing, you’re the one I’m coming for first.”

Logically, I understand why the average person might find someone like him threatening, but the toothless swagger verges on comical. If he didn’t have Sofia, I’d have ended this days ago. The second that shield is gone, I’m ready to take care of business.

“Midnight,” I confirm. “Goodbye, Stefano.”

Now that he’s tangled up in the same net as La Rosa, I can get back to the finer details. After returning to the kitchen, I take the sharpest knife out of the block and wipe down the cutting board.

Poison doesn’t make itself.