My Bloody Valentine

28. Adrian

28

ADRIAN

I watch Maya’s face as Reynolds berates the young server. Her fingers curl into fists, and her knuckles are white with rage. She understands now—she sees the calculated malice in his actions. This isn’t a bad day or a picky customer. This is systematic destruction.

“The veal is overcooked,” Reynolds announces, though I can see from here the meat is a perfect medium rare. “Take it back. And tell that incompetent chef to start over.”

The server’s lip trembles as she collects his barely touched plate. Maya shuffles slightly in her chair beside me, clenching her jaw.

“I knew he was cruel from the reviews, but seeing it...” She takes a slow breath. “The way he’s breaking them down piece by piece.”

I slide my hand over hers, feeling the tension in her muscles. “Tell me what you see.”

“He times his complaints perfectly, waiting until the kitchen is in full dinner rush before sending dishes back. Targeting the newest staff members to erode their confidence.” Maya’s voice drops lower. “I heard about Bella Cucina last week. Three generations of chefs are gone because of him. Their marinara sauce was legendary.”

Reynolds snaps his fingers at another server, demanding a fresh glass of wine. His previous one sits nearly full and is barely touched.

“He’s not here to eat,” Maya continues. “He’s here to inflict pain. To watch them squirm while he holds their livelihoods hostage.”

I squeeze her hand gently. “And what do you think he deserves?”

Maya turns to me. “Show me how to make him suffer.”

A smile curves my lips. She truly understands now. Reynolds will make an excellent first lesson.

I watch Reynolds toss his credit card on the table with a dismissive flick. The server’s shoulders slump as she processes his payment. No tip, of course.

“Time to go, Maya.” I settle our bill, leaving enough extra to cover what Reynolds should have tipped.

Outside, the night air carries the first hints of winter. Maya shivers, though not from the cold. I can detect the anger still simmering beneath her controlled exterior.

I hail a taxi, and Maya slides in first. The moment I settle beside her, she’s in my arms, her mouth finding mine with desperate need. Her fingers dig into my shoulders as she claims my lips.

“You’re sure about this?” I breathe against her mouth.

She bites my lower lip in response. “I want to watch him suffer.”

The taxi weaves through Chicago’s streets as Maya’s hands roam beneath my jacket. Her touch sets my blood on fire. I grip her hip, pulling her closer, tasting the lingering wine on her tongue. The driver’s eyes stay fixed on the road, but I catch him adjusting his mirror.

Maya’s breath comes in short gasps as my fingers trace patterns on her thigh. “Adrian...” How she says my name—half plea, half warning—makes me want to take her right here.

When we arrive at the boutique, we can barely keep our hands off each other long enough to get inside. But there’s work to be done. The special chocolates I prepared earlier wait in the temperature-controlled case—truffles infused with our unique ingredients.

Maya helps me arrange the restraints on the tasting chair, her movements precise and purposeful. She tests each buckle, ensuring they’re secure but won’t leave marks. Smart girl.

“The small knife or the medium?” She holds up two options from my collection.

“Small. More control.” I adjust the lighting, creating the perfect ambiance for our special guest.

Maya moves through the space like she’s always belonged here, laying out tools with careful consideration. Her fingers linger on the silk when she places the blindfold on the table.

“Everything needs to be perfect,” she says, straightening a barely out-of-alignment chair.

I pull her against me, breathing in her scent. “It will be. You’re a natural at this.”

I watch Reynolds strut into my boutique like he owns it, his ego filling the intimate space. Maya greets him with just enough deference and professional interest to lull him into a false sense of importance. “Mr. Reynolds, thank you for accepting our invitation. I’ve followed your work for years.” Maya’s voice carries just the right note of admiration.

“Of course, of course.” He waves his hand dismissively. “After that Bella Cucina review, I imagine some are less eager to see me.”

“Oh, that review was...” Maya pauses deliberately. “Quite impactful. Their doors closed within a week, didn’t they?”

Reynolds preens. “Sometimes the truth hurts. That sauce hadn’t evolved since the ’50s. The public deserves better.”

I arrange the first flight of truffles on hand-painted porcelain as they talk, each chocolate a work of art. The Madagascan single-origin pairs perfectly with the 40-year port I’ve selected. The sedative will blend seamlessly with the wine’s natural sweetness.

“Shall we begin?” I wave my hand toward the tasting area, where soft lighting catches the crystal glasses. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata provides a gentle backdrop.

Maya pours the port while I explain the chocolate’s origin. Reynolds settles into the leather chair, already relaxing as the room’s warmth embraces him.

“The ganache is infused with Madagascar vanilla and a proprietary blend of spices,” I explain, watching him pop the first truffle into his mouth without proper appreciation.

“Interesting.” He swirls the port, taking a generous sip. “The texture is unique.”

I notice his eyelids growing heavy as Maya serves the second flight. Each chocolate contains a slightly higher concentration, building gradually. He doesn’t taste the difference anymore. He is too caught up in self-importance as he rambles about his “contribution to culinary standards.”

I watch Reynolds’ gestures become increasingly sloppy as he waves his port glass. His words slur together, ego loosening his tongue.

“You know...” He leans forward conspiratorially. “For the right compensation, I could ensure your collection receives proper attention.”

“Is that so?” I slide another truffle toward him. “And what would constitute proper attention?”

“Twenty thousand.” He pops the chocolate in his mouth without hesitation. “Cash, of course. I know plenty of establishments that would kill for my endorsement.”

Maya’s fingers brush my shoulder as she serves the final course—my masterpiece of dark ganache infused with our special ingredient.

“Kill for it?” I smile. “How fascinating. Tell me more about these arrangements.”

“Simple business.” Reynolds’ head bobs as he reaches for the last truffle. “They pay, I praise. They don’t...” He chuckles. “Well, you saw what happened to Bella Cucina.”

The ganache melts on his tongue. His eyes grow unfocused as the full cocktail of sedatives takes hold.

“I should...” Reynolds pushes against the chair’s arms, trying to stand. His legs don’t cooperate. Confusion crosses his face as he attempts to move again.

“Something wrong?” I ask softly.

He stares at his unresponsive limbs. “I can’t... what did you...” The first flicker of fear enters his eyes as understanding dawns.

“The thing about proper attention, Mr. Reynolds...” I lean closer, savoring the moment his arrogance shatters. “Is that you’re about to receive more than you ever imagined.”

I secure Reynolds’ wrists with practiced efficiency, the leather straps creaking as I pull them snug. His head lolls, but consciousness still flickers behind his heavy eyelids. The sedative blend works perfectly, giving him enough awareness to process what’s happening but not enough strength to resist.

Maya moves gracefully through the space, gathering the delicate porcelain plates and crystal glasses. The soft clink of fine China punctuates Reynolds’ sluggish attempts to speak. Her hands remain steady, and her movements are precise and unhurried. This isn’t the frightened food critic who first tasted the void in my chocolates. She’s transformed into something magnificent.

“The tools, my love?” I extend my hand without looking away from Reynolds.

She places the small knife in my palm, its polished blade glinting in the light. “Everything’s arranged as we discussed.”

I test the edge against my thumb, admiring its razor-sharpness. Maya sets out the rest of my collection on the steel tray—each instrument gleaming with deadly promise. Her fingertips trace the handle of the bone saw with quiet appreciation.

“The collection vessels?” I ask, though I know she hasn’t forgotten a single detail.

“Temperature controlled, properly labeled.” Maya indicates the row of sterile containers. “I adjusted the preservative ratios based on your notes.”

Reynolds manages a weak groan, his eyes widening as awareness slowly returns. Maya places her hand on my shoulder, watching him with cold fascination.

“Shall we begin?” she asks, sliding my mask over my face.

I capture her wrist. “Together. Your first lesson starts now.”

The leather creaks as Reynolds strains against his bonds, fully comprehending his fate as Maya picks up a second mask—a perfect match to mine.