I can see his face redden as the venom wraps around his lungs, taking every part of him captive in order to lure him to a slow, painful demise. I watch in total silence, almost paying homage to the task I was dealt. Once he begins to calm, I watch for any signs of a miraculous survival. When I notice his chest doesn't shift with exhalation, I move forward. My heart is a slow beat, the thrill of the kill about ready to burst with adrenaline through my body. His eyes are wide, pupils’ dilated, the whites of them both are stained red. I crawl beside him, straighten his collar as I redo his buttons and lean in for one last act - kiss his check. As my lips settle against his cheek, I feel the lasting warmth on his skin. It’s a sensation I’ve gotten myself used to. That initial kiss, the one after their fatal ending, the one that is last to believe he’s still a human being and not a corpse.
This is my calling card – the mark of a Femme Fatale. I kill and then I leave, but not after leaving one last mark. Carlson Matthews is no different to the many men before him. I’m a master of disguise, it’s in my veins. It’s who I am, who I was taught to be. As I sit back, looking at the lipstick staining his cheek, I know I have to leave. He was just another pitiful victim in a much eviler scheme.
I don’t usually mind the murder. It’s the mess I have to leave behind that bothers me – the corpse, the incriminating evidence, another death to add to my kill list. I cause the mess, I don’t clean it up. It’s one of a few things I have to remember. After all, Abbiatis are never to get their hands dirty with the aftermath.
I climb off the bed, away from Carlson’s dead body, and step back into my dress. I pull it back up over my body and zip it up. I grab my file, throw it into my clutch bag, and look around the room, making sure I leave no personal belongings. I refuse to look back at Carlson as I leave, but grab another strawberry as I head for the door.
As I saunter my way down the corridor, I pull my cell phone out, hit speed dial number two, and press the phone to my ear. I reach the elevator, pushing the button just as my brother’s voice answers.
"Tell him it's done." My comment is straight to the point. After all, the job is done; I don’t need to give anything more than that. As the elevator arrives, I allow a small smile to grace my lips. "What time’s dinner?"
CHAPTER TWO
"I need a new stash," I comment, throwing my now empty vial straight for my brother the moment I walk into the grand dining room. The light billows in, shrouding my brother in a bright ominous light. With the light blue walls, the sunshine always makes this room feel so grand. "I'm completely out, and knowing our father, I'll have a fresh body on my plate by the strike of midnight."
“You’re late,” Giovanni states harshly, twisting the vial between his fingers. He doesn’t even comment back, just seems to be hell bent on clock watching. I know him, he’s hoping he’ll be able to snitch on me to our father, but I don’t really care when I’m late because of a job.
“Carlson didn’t want to die quickly,” I tell him with a shrug. “Now, am I getting a new lot of poison or will I have to go to Papà for it?” I slip into a seat and look at Giovanni across the table. “Wouldn’t want him to think his prize jewel was losing its shine.”
“Shut up, I’ll have more by tomorrow,” Giovanni growls at me. His eyes narrow into slits as he tries to stare me down with a dominating glower. I don’t even so much as quiver under his stare. “You don’t have to bring him into this.”
I just smirk at his comment.
Giovanni Abbiati – the bald, brooding, middle child and the one most desperate to inherit our father’s throne. He has the same God complex our father does, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to execute it often. Although, I know not to push him too far; I have come to blows with his sadistic streak and have narrowly missed escaping without injury on multiple occasions. However, saying that though, it has never stopped me from rattling his cage whenever I find myself presented with a perfect opportunity. He might be the angriest of us Abbiati’s, but I can still rustle him with the mere threat of using our father as leverage.
“Did Enzo get the room cleared up, okay?” I ask as I reach forward for Giovanni’s glass of wine. I take an indulgent sip and relax back, keeping the glass close to my chest.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, and I can feel his eyes burning into me. “You did well not leaving much behind.”
“I’m well trained,” I remark, giving my own ego a stroke. “To be honest, I wished I’d have taken him out a week earlier. Carlson Matthews was a vile man. Too much groping for my liking.” I decide it’s time to dig a little deeper, try to find out some more information. “What did he do that was so bad anyway?”
Immediately, Giovanni’s face ignites, and I see he loves this part. He loves to dish the dirt on everyone, and he loves discussing what’s in people’s closets the most. No one’s skeletons are safe when Giovanni is around.
“Apparently, he used to be a Dio Lavoro accountant, but he left out figures and pocketed the money. Made himself ridiculously wealthy before cutting all ties and going into hiding for a few years,” he divulges, and I immediately bristle. I know how our father is over money. He isn’t precious over offering loan money. If you need some, he’ll give it, but steal it, and well, you’re just asking for trouble. “When he came back out of hiding, Papà tracked him and handed him over to you.”