My Savage Valentine (Valentine’s Duet)
Chapter 1 Gabe
GABE
Ipour two fingers of aged whiskey into crystal tumblers as Adrian lounges in one of the velvet booths. The last notes of tonight’s saxophone set still linger in the air, but the club’s emptied now—just the way we like it.
“To sweet success.” I slide a glass toward him and settle back against the bar. “How’s the Valentine’s collection coming along?”
Adrian swirls the amber liquid, studying it. “Exquisite. I’ve perfected a new ganache that’s transcendent.” His lips curl into that dark smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “The iron notes are subtle this time.”
“Subtle isn’t exactly my specialty.” I tap my signet ring against the glass, the sound resonating through the empty club. “Remember that banker from last month? Fucker wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“Your technique lacks finesse.” Adrian sips his whiskey. “Too messy.”
“Not everyone can be a fucking artist like you.” I laugh. “Besides, I prefer being artistic with my preservation these days.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Want to see something interesting?” I don’t wait for his answer, just motion for him to follow me down into the wine cellar and open the door disguised as a maintenance panel. “My little collection,” I announce as I lead him into my lair.
The unmistakable scent of natron and decay surrounds us as we enter, and I switch on the light.
“You’ve been busy.” Adrian peers into my display, more curious than disturbed.
“Four so far. Ancient Egyptian methods, mostly. Took some trial and error.”
“Mummification.” Adrian sounds impressed. “That’s new.”
“They last longer,” I announce. “When’s the tasting?”
“Next Saturday. You’re coming, I assume?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Your tastings are legendary.” I nod back toward the stairs, and we leave my collection in the dark. As we walk back, I continue, “Though I still don’t understand why you waste your best work on those clueless socialites.”
Adrian’s eyes gleam in the dim light. “They appreciate quality, even if they don’t understand what makes it special.”
Once we’re back at the bar, I pour Adrian another drink, watching as he examines the crystal in the low light. My friend has always been so controlled ever since we met as kids. It’s why we work well together. He’s the reasonable one, I’m the enforcer.
“Remember that hedge fund manager last spring?” I lean against the bar. “The one skimming from pension funds?”
“Ah, yes. Matheson.” Adrian’s voice softens with the memory. “His blood had notes of expensive scotch and cocaine. Made an exceptional dark chocolate truffle.”
“Fucker had it coming. Living in that penthouse while families lost their homes.” I knock back my drink, the burn satisfying. “At least we gave him purpose in the end.”
Adrian nods. “That’s what separates us from common killers, Gabriel. We’re selective. Purposeful.”
“The world’s a better place without them.” I trace the rim of my glass. “That art dealer last summer—the one selling forgeries to retirees?”
“Exquisite fear response. Pure adrenaline.” Adrian’s eyes light up with the memory. “I still have some of that batch, actually. Saving it for a special collection.”
We sit in comfortable silence. Twenty-five years of friendship built on shared darkness. We understood each other even before the first kill—saw the same emptiness in the world, the same hypocrisy in people who pretended to be good while destroying lives.
“That new city councilman,” I say after a moment. “The one taking kickbacks from developers. Tearing down homeless shelters for luxury condos.”
Adrian sets down his glass. “You’ve been watching him?”
“For weeks. Regular schedule. Predictable habits.” I pull out my phone and show him the photos I’ve been collecting. “No one would miss him. And his blood type is rare—O negative. Could make something extraordinary.”
Adrian studies the photos, his expression contemplative. “Politicians always taste... complicated. All that corruption marinating in the blood.”
“Consider it an early birthday gift.” I smile. “What are friends for if not finding the perfect ingredients?”
I raise my glass, the whiskey catching the dim light. “To artisans of justice.”
Adrian clinks his crystal against mine. “And to worthy victims.”
We drink in unison, the aged liquor warming my throat. Something about planning with Adrian always puts me in a good mood—the perfect blend of business and pleasure.
“So, Councilman Reynolds.” I pull out a small notebook, flipping to the pages of observations I’ve gathered. “Man of habit. Every Thursday, he visits a massage parlor on Kenwood Avenue. Goes in the back entrance at nine, stays exactly one hour.”
Adrian leans back, fingers steepled. “Interesting. Is he alone?”
“Completely. Pays cash, no paper trail. The girl who works that shift is off next Thursday—convenient timing for a replacement, wouldn’t you say?”
A smile curls Adrian’s lips. “And you’ve arranged this replacement?”
“Not yet.” I tap the bar top. “Thought you might want to pose as the establishment’s owner. Flash some cash, mention a special client. They’re not exactly running background checks.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be the driver waiting outside. Once he’s comfortable, you slip in. Do your...” I wiggle my fingers, mimicking his precise movements, “...whatever fancy shit you do to keep them quiet.”
Adrian’s eyes narrow slightly. “A careful injection of lidocaine to the vocal cords. It paralyzes without killing.”
“Whatever, professor.” I roll my eyes. “Point is, you prep him, signal me. I bring the van around, and we load him up. Take him to your place for the... extraction.”
“My chocolate studio is not a slaughterhouse, Gabriel.”
“Fine. My place. The basement’s soundproofed anyway.”
Adrian swirls his whiskey. “The basement it is. I’ll bring my collection tools. Do you still have that medical-grade centrifuge?”
“Cleaned and ready.” I grin. “We get him Thursday, you have fresh product for your Valentine’s creation the next day.”
“Perfect timing.” Adrian raises his glass again. “To civic improvement.”
“And to that rare O-negative.” I clink his glass. “That’s gonna make one hell of a chocolate.”
Watching Adrian leave, I lock the club behind him and kill the lights. Only my private bourbon lamp glows behind the bar—just enough light to pour one last drink.
There’s something beautiful about this place after hours. Dead silent but still vibrating with the day’s noise. Like a crime scene after the body’s been cleaned up.
I roll my sleeves, examining the sleeve tattoo that stops precisely where my dress shirts cover. The perfect fucking metaphor. Business up front, slaughterhouse in the back.
I laugh at my own joke. People hear that laugh at the bar every night. “Gabe’s so charming,” they say. “Such a good listener.” If they knew what I was really thinking while they drone on about their pathetic lives, they’d choke on their whiskey sours.
I move behind the bar, fingers trailing along the polished mahogany, thinking about my collection downstairs.
Adrian doesn’t fully appreciate my preservation methods. Too macabre for his delicate sensibilities. But there’s something deeply satisfying about the ancient rituals—the removal of organs, the wrapping. I’m giving these worthless fucks more dignity in death than they deserved in life.
I pull out my notebook and reread my notes on the councilman. His schedule, his habits, his tastes. The way he smiles for the cameras while signing orders to bulldoze homeless camps. The kickbacks are hidden in offshore accounts.
My pulse quickens thinking about how his eyes will widen when he realizes what’s happening. That moment when they understand—truly understand—that they’re not getting out alive. That perfect crystallization of fear.
Adrian might be the artist with his fancy chocolates, but I’m an artist too, just with a different canvas.
We balance each other out, have since we were kids. He’s the precision, I’m the passion. He’s the scalpel, I’m the sledgehammer.
I down my drink and smile at the empty room. The civilized world thinks monsters hide in shadows. They never suspect we’re serving their drinks, remembering their birthdays, donating to their charities.
That’s the real fucking art.