Prologue
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True hate, like true love, can make you do crazy, crazy things…
Azalea
A dark yet pitifully less-than-stormy night
“We’d like you, Azalea Pastella, to help us kill Malcolm Swallow.”
Before me, three disturbingly large men in dark suits blend into the evening shadows as they create a wall between me and my car. Adjusting my pristine white purse on my shoulder, I take half a step back toward the skyscraper of my employment and eye them all with wary caution. “I’m not sure I understand,” I lie.
Because, if I’m honest, I understandperfectly.
Specifically what I understand is: the desire to kill Malcolm Swallow.
Malcolm Swallow is the elder of the two Swallow brothers and the billionaire in charge of all external relations that concern the Swallow Medical Group. On the surface, he’s attractive, tall, broad, confident, andcharming. Beneath that surface, though, he is an unequivocal monster.
Unfortunately—alongside his far-more-tolerable brother, Iverson, who handles all internal relations—that monster has been my boss for the past two years.
To sayI hate himwould be an understatement; I rather quite regularly picture ways to murder him.
However, I had no idea my fantasies might find themselves nudged gently into sweet reality on this random Wednesday night in April. I’m somewhat inclined to believe it’s a hallucination prompted by the relief of tax season finally beingover until the man in the middle says, “We’re willing to pay you handsomely for your efforts.”
Ha.Pay.
I would do it for free.
In a heartbeat.
Not just for my sake, either. I’d do it for the sake of anyone who might find themselves unlucky enough to cross paths with the demon.
Malcolm’s polished front conceals genuine evil. He makes grown men cry and smiles as he crushes dreams. Due to my regrettable character, disposition, and “quirks,” I’ve met my fair share of cruel people growing up, but not a single one of them could hold the dying flicker of a birthday candle to Malcolm.
The world would so thoroughly be better off without him.
Which begs the question.
Why amIbeing recruited to this noble task? This job feels like the sort that would highly benefit from the loving touch of a professional.
Cautious, I scan the men and say, “Why me?”
The same man in the middle narrows his eyes. “You work closely with him. You’ll have opportunities to get him with his guard down. Thus far, everyone we’ve hired has failed to manage that feat. You’re our next best option. So, after some careful recon, we’ve concluded that potentially our interests align.”
First of all, recon? They’ve beenwatchingme? That’s mad creepy.
Second of all, this isn’t their first attempt? I’vemissedpeople trying to assassinate Malcolm?
That’s the worst thing I’ve heard all day, and Malcolm’s spent the past four hours keeping me late withjust one more quick taskafter another.
But, anyway, how hard is it to kill a man?
It should be as painless as a daily dose of poison in his jet-black coffee until he’s too sick to stand. Or planting a toxic needle on his car door handle. Perhaps even cornering him in an alley, wrapping a rope around his neck, and strangling him until the light leaves his infuriating cold gray eyes.
I can perfectly picture it. But I wouldn’t use a rope.
I’d shove him down…press my gloved fingers into his windpipe…and listen to him sputter as he struggles for breath.
