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I’m not typically so crass and careless with my hits; I like to spend my time learning a person’s nuances, what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night. But his existence became a threat, and so he needed to be eliminated.
My only regret is not allowing her to be part of the initial poisoning.
Letting out a long breath, Elena tilts her chin up, turning to face me. Unlike most people I meet, Elena’s never had a problem with eye contact. She matches my gaze head on, like she knows it’s exactly what I want and can’t help but give it to me.
I can only hope she’s as pliant in a few moments.
She stares up at me like she sees beneath the cold, rotten exterior to the molten interior; I shift forward, my body an object caught in her magnetic field, losing myself in her warmth.
Golden irises glisten like melted luxury, and my hand lifts of its own accord, reaching for the ends of her chocolate-colored hair.
“Why?” she asks, the single syllable devoid of even a fraction of emotion.
It gives me pause, my fingers brushing against her as they fall back to my side. “Why not?”
“That’s a very selfish way to look at it.”
My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Whatever gave you the impression I was anything but?”
She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her armpits. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”
Behind us, the door to Mateo’s bedroom opens slowly, my employee’s strawberry blonde head poking in. Marcelline glances around with her wide blue eyes, then slips inside with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, closing it shut as she walks over.
Elena’s gaze latches onto my housekeeper’s form as she hands me the bag, blazing with unrestrained rage even though Marcelline won’t look past my clavicle. She watches Marcelline’s pale fingers brush mine, anger radiating off her supple body in waves, deliciously intoxicating.
Jealousy isn’t a quality I typically look for in a woman, but the existence of it within the spring goddess before me is like fresh soil, ready for me to dig in and plant my roots.
It’s the foundation for corruption, that green emotion, and I plan to use it to build us from its rubble.
“Marcelline,” I say slowly, as my housekeeper backs away.
She pauses, furrowing her brows, likely wondering if I’m about to give her another task beyond her pay grade. I make a mental note to offer her a bonus and vacation, knowing I’ve already involved her too much.
But loyalty, I’ve learned, is a small price to pay for some people.
It’s how I got into this mess in the first place.
Unzipping the bag, I reach inside and begin pulling out cleanup equipment, setting up at Mateo’s bedside. I pull the knife from his chest first, extracting it slowly so as not to splatter the blood still hemorrhaging from his chest. It empties in a last pump, spilling from the wound onto the marble floor, and I curse myself for not putting a plastic tarp down beforehand.
With a handkerchief, I clean the blade, then gesture toward Elena flippantly. “Have you met my future wife?” I ask Marcelline, reveling in the sharp silence that follows.
It’s the kind I go out of my way to create, that cuts through the air like a whip.
Bending down, I wipe up the blood with a hospital-grade cleaning solution and disposable towels, then toss them into the wastebasket. With one finger, I flip Mateo’s eyelids closed, then pull his comforter up to his chin, tucking it in at his sides.
If you didn’t know any better, and with the smell of the cleaning solution overpowering the stench in the room, you’d never realize he’s dead.
“I’m sorry.” Elena’s the first to recover from my assertion. “Your what?”
As if on cue, the bedroom door opens once again, Rafael entering with a bald priest in tow. He holds a Bible close to his chest and beams at Elena when he sees her, sweeping his gaze over her dress.
I glance at Marcelline. “Any chance we have something else she can wear?”
Frowning, she shakes her head. “No, sir.”
Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair and push to my feet, discarding my leather gloves. I don’t necessarily want Elena wearing a dress meant for someone else, but I suppose there isn’t much choice.
Shirking off my coat, I toss it onto the bed beside Mateo’s body, smoothing over the lapels of my suit jacket. The Father speaks in Italian, the smile on his ruddy face indicating he has no idea what’s going on.
