Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Once the door is securely closed behind me, I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Puzo?” I say softly.
Once I can see, I realize I’m in a suite. This is the living area. Probably where he ate his meal—the meal that was supposed to be laced with peanut butter. The allergy that will kill him. His EpiPen should’ve been taken from him by another one of my operatives.
This is the second time I’ve killed. The first was with my own hand—Misha overseas.
This one? I kept my own damned hands clean.
But I don’t kid myself. I’m responsible for this man’s death. My only consolation is that he seems to be a real dirtbag.
I walk through the living room of the suite. The remains of Puzo’s meal sit on the dining table. A dark rectangular takeout container. Completely empty, with a fork on the table beside it. Next to it a paper bag with the words Mister Noi’s Thai written on it.
I’m not sure which part of it was laced with peanut butter, but it doesn’t really matter. It appears he ate it all. I bring the takeout container to my nose and sniff it. It’s mostly the smell of curry, but there’s a slight tinge of peanut butter.
Good. This hotel doesn’t let food couriers go up to the levels beyond the lobby to make deliveries. They have to leave it at the front desk and a bellhop brings it up to the guest’s room. The bellhop was then instructed to take the bag discreetly aside and then mix in a few tablespoons of peanut butter—the smooth kind, of course.
One of the odd jobs I performed when I was hiding from my grandfather in Europe was food delivery. It always struck me how insanely trustworthy you have to believe your delivery drivers are. Usually they have total access to your food before you receive it.
Finding no sign of him, I walk through the doorway into the bedroom. Two queen beds—and neither has been slept in.
Where the hell is he, then?
God, I hope he didn’t stumble out of the room and flag someone down for help. That would ruin this whole thing, and I’m already on thin ice with my grandfather as it is.
“Vincent,” he’ll say. “You should have taken matters into your own hands. The way I told you to.”
Shit. I really don’t want to have to deal with that.
But then my eyes fall on the one room I haven’t seen yet. The bathroom.
I slowly slink toward the closed door. Puzo could very well still be alive. Or in anaphylactic shock. I might have to snag one of the pillows off the bed and finish him off the old-fashioned way.
Grandfather would like that.
I knock on the door. “Sir? I’m from housekeeping. The front desk sent me up to do a wellness check.”
No answer.
I slowly open the door. It’s not locked, thank God.
But it’s dark. I hit the flashlight on my phone.
Damn, this is a nice bathroom. I guessed Puzo likes to shit in style.
Liked to shit in style, hopefully.
The light bounces off of richly veined marble walls and gilded mirrors outlined with crystal sconces.
Fuck. No one’s in here.
I shine my light around. There’s a clawfoot tub fashioned from gleaming copper and polished porcelain standing majestically in the center, accompanied by a rain shower enclosed in frosted glass. I look inside the shower, and it’s empty. Nothing here is amiss, except…
A pile of silver-capped toiletries—luxury-brand shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and shower gel—litter the floor in front of the marble countertop of the grand vanity. These would normally be stacked neatly by the housekeeping staff, but it looks like someone rushed by them quickly and let them fall to the floor.
And then I see a carved wooden screen, which must conceal the toilet.
I slowly inch toward it, and a foul smell emanates from the area. I peak around the privacy screen.
I know what to expect, but my breath still catches when I see a body hunched over the porcelain toilet. The bowl is filled with vomit, and even in the darkness, I can see the gray pallor of Puzo’s face and hands.
I take a good look at his eyes. Shine my flashlight into them.
There’s no sign of life.
I grab his wrist, feel for a pulse. Nothing there, either.
Yes. It’s Puzo.
And he’s dead as a fucking doornail.
The plan worked, and he’s gone.
Next time I won’t have to identify the body myself.
I may not have shot him in cold blood like my grandfather wished, but I took care of the situation. Other than Raul, I paid off the bellhop who delivered his food and one of the maids to secure his EpiPen.
All trustworthy people—if willingness to help kill a man for money counts as trustworthy—according to my resources.
Still…something pricks at the back of my neck.