Page 28 of Business vs. Pleasure

August scoffed. “You’d just dump me off at the hospital? You wouldn’t even stay with me? What happened to ‘in sickness and in health’?”

“I said I’d take you to the hospital.”

“Rude.”

“I’m serious, though.” Ricardo’s demeanor shifted so fast, it was impossible to question that he was being serious now. “There is no treatment for ricin poisoning. Be. Careful.”

“Aww, Ricky.” August nudged him with his foot. “You know I will be.”

Ricardo glared at him.

August huffed. “Do you want to deliver the poison, then? Since you’re so worried about me?” But as soon as he said it, he wanted to haul the question back, because absolutely the fuck not. No way was he letting Ricardo go wandering in there to dump a neurotoxin into someone’s drink and hope he didn’t accidentally drink it. Before Ricardo could answer, August waved his hand. “Never mind. Never mind. I’ve got this.”

His husband’s eyebrow flicked up. “You don’t think I can do it?”

“Not really, no.”

Ricardo blinked.

August guffawed. “Darling, please. Between the two of us, who can really sell ‘I’ve got the magic elixir of eternal youth and health’?”

“Are you saying I look old?”

“I mean, you do, but I meant you’re more ‘grunt with a gun’ than ‘manic snake oil salesman.’”

Ricardo pursed his lips. “Given the alternative, I think I’d rather be the grunt with the gun.”

“Of course you would.”

“Still—be careful. Please?”

“I will. I promise.”

They ate in silence, with August pausing his planning just long enough to respond to Karmena’s text to let her through the security on the east side and onto the grounds so she could check on their heritage carob tree—it was five hundred years old, they had to let her check it weekly or lose their lease on the land—before going through his gameplan for the fiftieth time since they sat down.

He’d swan into the room as himself—as Augustus Mason, invited guest and billionaire philanthropist extraordinaire—and rub elbows with all the pretty people. He’d tell anyone who’d listen—which would likely be most of them—about this miracle supplement he’d found that was keeping him so young, he was still getting carded for alcohol despite being north of thirty.

It was risky and brazen, making him visible to people and cameras alike, but that was exactly what would keep the suspicion off him. Who would make such a show of himself in a place he’d come to commit murder? It was the assassin’s version of a magician’s misdirection—pull all the attention onto himself, make himself very seen and very noticed, and subtly deploy the death blow that would kick in long after he’d gone. And anyway, who would ever suspect such a generous, wealthy pillar of the community to commit murder?

Still… risky and brazen, and he was still edgy after their last job had gone so wrong. He couldn’t help poking holes in their plan, seeing fatal flaws at every turn, when his old self would’ve been confident beyond hubris that it would go down without a hitch. And that if there was a hitch, he and Ricardo would adapt effortlessly like they always had.

Like they always had up until the last time. Fuck.

Shame they couldn’t have just fucked with the mark’s insulin or something. Rachel had disclosed that her husband was insulin dependent diabetic, but of course he had a subcutaneous pump, which made things inconvenient. And even if he’d gone the old-fashioned injection route, getting access to those injections wouldn’t be easy; less because he was paranoid about someone tampering with them and more because he didn’t want anyone to know about them. He was an outspoken proponent of “clean living through clean foods” and didn’t believe in little things like, oh, bacteria. If it came out that he’d developed diabetes last year, his ultra-rich crunchy-living clique would socially castrate him.

“There’s another issue tomorrow,” Ricardo said, pulling August out of his internal turmoil.

“Oh, goodie. Just what I need.” Huffing out an annoyed breath, August reached for his wine. “Do tell.”

“His secretary.”

“Executive assistant,” August corrected automatically even as his mind raced to figure out how the assistant could possibly fuck things up.

“Executive pain in the ass.” His husband looked grumpy about it. “I went by the gala venue to check out exits and install surveillance equipment. Little fucker was everywhere.” He rolled his eyes again. “I ended up having to hide in a broom closet for fifteen minutes while that awful little man shouted the rest of the staff down about preparations for the gala.”

August racked his brain for a moment. “Hmm… Ezekiel Martins?” The man’s name had come up a few times in the documentation Heidi sent over, but he’d seemed like just one more cog in the machine.

“That’s the guy.” Ricardo rolled his eyes. “If he clung any harder to his boss’s ass, he’d be classified as an invasive species.”