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"You're a lifesaver," I tell her, leaning over to plant a soft, teasing kiss on her cheek. "Owe you one."
Her eyes twinkle with mischief. "I'll remember that."
Wasting no time, I head to La Lumière, a high-end restaurant known for its ambiance and exclusivity. Spotting Paul is easy. The tall Brit with slicked-back hair is engrossed in a conversation at the bar, a wine glass in hand. I take a deep breath and approach him, steeling myself for the confrontation.
"Mr. Rutherford," I begin, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.
He looks up, his sharp eyes studying me with suspicion. "You! The clumsy oaf from the bar. What do you want?"
I decide to be blunt. "Your life is in danger."
He laughs derisively. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"Far from it," I reply, my tone serious. "You were almost poisoned last night. The Chechen mob has a score to settle with you."
His eyes widen momentarily, but he quickly composes himself. "Ridiculous. Why would they want me dead?"
"That's not my concern," I say flatly. "All I know is they do. And they won't stop until the job is done."
He scrutinizes me for a moment, skepticism evident in his gaze. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I saved your life last night. That drink? It was laced. And the woman who tried to serve it to you? She's a professional."
Rutherford looks taken aback. "The stunning brunette? No way."
I nod grimly. "She's with them."
He appears thoughtful for a moment, then shakes his head. "Even if that's true, I fail to see why you're helping me."
"Let's just say we have a common interest," I reply cryptically.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. Instead, he sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. What do you suggest I do?"
I lean in, speaking low. "Leave town. Now. The longer you stay, the more danger you're in."
He seems to weigh his options for a moment, then nods begrudgingly. "Alright. But if this is some trick…"
I cut him off, my tone hardening. "I have no reason to trick you, Rutherford. Just stay safe."
Another few beats of silence pass as he regards me with skepticism.“Very well.” He reaches in his pocket and withdraws his wallet, taking out some cash and setting it on the bar. “But if this is some kind of…”
Suddenly, he looks confused, as if he’s caught sight of something. Then his hand goes to his throat, rubbing it gently like there’s some itch deep inside he’s trying to reach.Then he coughs. At first, it seems like nothing – just a man clearing his throat. He takes a sip of his water, his face contorting slightly. The coughing grows more persistent, intensifying in urgency. Each hack sounds strained, raspy, as if something is lodged in his throat.
"Are you okay?" a concerned voice asks from behind the bar.
Paul's face pales, his fingers clutching the edge of the bar. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated in panic. He tries to speak, to call out, but no words come out, only a desperate wheezing. His arm jerks forward, hitting his glass of wine and sending it to the floor with a crash.
Realization strikes me like a bolt of lightning. Poison. It has to be. I'd seen it before, the way a man's body rebels when a foreign substance courses through it, shutting down systems one by one. This is no allergic reaction or a mere piece of food gone down the wrong pipe. This is an assassination in progress.
Around us, the diners are becoming increasingly alarmed. People jump up from their seats, some trying to help, others merely watching in horror. A woman screams for someone to call an ambulance.
The weight of realization hits me as Paul Rutherford begins to convulse, his face turning an alarming shade of blue. The world goes into slow motion. I back away from him slowly, knowing there’s nothing I can do. Patrons swarm around him, each trying to figure out what the hell is going on. The last thing I see before the crowd blocks my vision is the light fading from Paul’s eyes.
The raucous sounds of the restaurant dim to a muted drone as I scan the room, a sense of dread gnawing at my gut. My eyes dart to the kitchen, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, framed by the golden light – Valentina.
I see her, garbed in a chef's outfit, peering out. Our eyes lock, and there's an undeniable thrill, a cat-and-mouse game between two seasoned hunters. She retreats, and the chase is on.
Bolting from the restaurant, I rush through the lobby and to the side alley where the service entrance likely is. Sure enough, Valentina explodes from one of the steel side doors, already in the process of shucking off her chef’s garb. She passes a dumpster, smoothly opening the top and depositing the clothing within.
