Chapter Twenty-Four Blue
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blue
Wren has truly outdone herself with tonight’s table setting. The crystal gleams, the silver is polished to mirror brightness,
and our three dinner guests are tied so expertly to their chairs that they could pass for enthusiastic participants if you
ignored the duct tape.
I guide Saylor into the dining room with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension radiating through her body
as she takes in the scene. Leroy “The Prince” Crow sits to the immediate right of where Saylor normally sits, his refined
features twisted with fury despite the gag. Jack “The Knife” Crow occupies the chair across from him, while Victor “The Veteran”
Crow, the old-school gangster with the cane sword, completes our dinner party triumvirate.
“Gentlemen,” I say pleasantly, pulling out Saylor’s chair next to Leroy with the courtesy of a perfect host. “So pleased you
could join us for dinner.”
“What the hell?” Saylor whispers as I guide her into the seat.
Leroy makes muffled sounds of outrage behind his gag. I wave dismissively.
“Please, no need to thank me for the invitation. It’s my absolute pleasure.”
Hans stands at attention near the sideboard, looking like a bouncer at the world’s most exclusive restaurant. His black suit
is immaculate, his posture perfect, and he’s eyeing our guests as if he’s calculating exactly how many seconds it would take
to snap their necks if things go sideways.
“Wren has prepared something special tonight,” I continue, settling into my chair. “Braised short ribs with seasonal vegetables.
I do hope you’re hungry.”
I catch Saylor’s eye and nod almost imperceptibly toward the large carving knife positioned next to her place setting. It’s
a beautiful piece—German steel with an ebony handle, sharp enough to split hairs. Or fingers. Or whatever else might need
splitting.
The way her gaze flicks between the knife and Leroy tells me she understands exactly what I’m offering her.
Wren appears with the first course, serving soup with the same unflappable grace she’d use for a state dinner. She doesn’t
bat an eye at our bound guests, though she does pause to straighten Leroy’s napkin with motherly care.
“Butternut squash bisque,” she announces. “With brown butter and sage.”
“Smells divine,” I say, lifting my spoon. “Doesn’t it smell divine, gentlemen?”
Jack glares at me over his gag. Victor tries to lean forward aggressively but only manages to make his chair groan under the
strain.
“Oh, right,” I say, as if just remembering. “You can’t exactly participate in dinner conversation at the moment. Hans, would
you mind helping our guests with their dietary restrictions?”
Hans approaches Leroy first, removing his gag with the careful attention of someone defusing a bomb. The moment his mouth
is free, Leroy starts talking.
“You’re fucking insane if you think—”
“Language,” I interrupt mildly. “We’re at dinner. There are standards.”
Leroy’s aristocratic features contort with rage. “You can’t just kidnap us and play house. The Crow know where we are. They’ll
come looking.”
“I’m counting on it.” I take a delicate spoonful of soup. “More guests for future dinner parties.”
Hans moves to Jack next, peeling away the tape with surprising gentleness. Jack immediately spits a stream of curses that
would make a sailor blush.
“Hans,” I sigh. “Perhaps you could help our guests remember their manners?”
Without hesitation, Hans picks up Leroy’s soup spoon and shoves a generous portion of bisque into his mouth. Leroy sputters
and chokes, but Hans holds his jaw firmly until he swallows.
“Jesus,” Leroy gasps once he can breathe again. “That’s actually fucking delicious.”
“Wren will be so pleased you approve,” I say warmly. “She takes great pride in her cooking.”
Hans moves on to Jack, who tries to turn his head away but gets a spoonful of soup anyway. His eyes widen with surprise before
he can stop himself.
“Damn,” Jack mutters. “What’s in this?”
Hans removes Victor’s gag last, and the old gangster immediately works his jaw like he’s testing for damage.
“Family recipe,” Wren calls from the kitchen. “Roasted bones for the stock.”
“What kind of bones?” Victor asks, then immediately looks like he regrets speaking.
“Best not to ask too many questions about Wren’s ingredients,” I advise. “She’s very creative with her sourcing.”
Victor clears his throat pointedly. “So, Blue. Heard you were retired. What’s all this then? Midlife crisis?”
“Something like that,” I agree pleasantly, tearing my bread roll in half. “Turns out retirement doesn’t suit me.”
“You’re completely fucking insane,” Jack states with the confidence of someone making a weather observation.
“Guilty as charged,” I say, raising my wine glass in a mock toast. “Thank you for noticing. I do try to maintain professional
standards.”
Leroy snorts. “Professional standards? You’ve kidnapped three people and are serving us soup like we’re old friends catching
up.”
“Are we not?” I ask with genuine surprise. “I thought we were having a lovely time. Hans, are we not having a lovely time?”
“Is very nice dinner party, Boss,” Hans confirms while straightening the napkins. “Very civilized conversation.”
“See? Hans agrees. We’re practically family now.”
Saylor has been quiet through this entire exchange, mechanically eating her soup while shooting glances at the carving knife.
I can see the wheels turning in her head, weighing options, building courage.
I catch her eye and nod almost imperceptibly toward Leroy, then glance meaningfully at the knife. Do it, I mouth silently when the others aren’t looking. Take it.
She looks uncertain, so I try again. For your father, I mouth, attempting to be encouraging.
“So,” Leroy says, apparently deciding to try charm over aggression. “Saylor, right? You’re even prettier than your photos
suggested. Peter talked about you constantly.”
Saylor’s spoon freezes halfway to her mouth. “Oh really? You knew my father?”
There’s my girl. I can see she’s starting to toy with him.
“Knew him? Hell, I was there when we killed him.” Leroy’s smile is pure cruelty. “Watched him bleed out like the pathetic
waste of space he was.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. I set down my spoon very carefully.
“That’s an interesting dinner conversation choice,” I observe.
But Leroy is warming to his theme, apparently mistaking Saylor’s silence for weakness. “Poor bastard.” His laugh is like broken
glass. “Should have seen his face when he realized he was going to die.”
Saylor’s knuckles are white around her spoon. I shift slightly in my chair, ready to intervene if necessary, but something
in her actions—or lack of actions—tells me to wait.
“You want to know what his last words were?” Leroy leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “He said—”
The carving knife is in Saylor’s hand before Leroy finishes the sentence.
“I know what he said,” she says with deadly calm. “I was there when you killed my father.”
She drives the blade straight through Leroy’s hand, pinning it to the armrest with a wet thunk that booms through the dining
room. Blood spurts immediately, painting the white tablecloth in abstract patterns that would make an amateur painter jealous.
Leroy’s scream tears through the dining room, all his aristocratic composure cracking like expensive china. The sound bounces
off the chandelier and seems to multiply, filling the room with harmonic agony.
“Oops,” Saylor says conversationally, but her face has gone completely white. “That looks like it hurts.”
She’s gripping the edge of the table now, her knuckles white as she stares at the blood still pumping from Leroy’s impaled hand. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something back down, and I can see the exact moment nausea hits her.
Come on, love, I think, watching her jaw clench with determination. You can do this. Fight through it.
She takes a shaky breath, closes her eyes for a second, and I think she’s got it under control. Good girl. That’s it. Show them what you’re made of.
But then Leroy jolts in his chair, and the movement sends a fresh spurt of blood across the white tablecloth. Saylor’s eyes
snap open, focus on the crimson spreading like spilled wine, and her face goes from pale to green.
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
I’m already lunging forward when she starts to topple, catching her just before she can plant her face in the butternut squash
bisque.
“Hans,” I call, lifting Saylor into my arms. “Keep our guests company. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What about his hand?” Jack asks, staring at the blood still dripping from Leroy’s impaled appendage.
“What about it?” I adjust my grip on Saylor, her head lolling against my shoulder. “Consider it an appetizer.”
I carry her from the dining room while Leroy continues screaming things like, “You fucking psycho bitch!” and “I’ll shove
that knife so far up your ass you’ll taste steel!”
Hans’s voice follows us up the stairs as he tries to console our guests. “Is not so bad,” he’s saying in his thick accent.
“Lots of blood makes everything look worse than it is. Here, try some bread. Very good bread. Wren makes from scratch.”
The screaming stops abruptly, replaced by muffled sounds of appreciation.
“See? Much better when mouth is full of carb.”
I push open the door to my bedroom with my shoulder, carrying Saylor across the threshold like some twisted version of a wedding
night. She’s starting to stir in my arms, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks.
My bedroom is the one space in Maison Rouge that’s purely mine—no guest accommodations, no consideration for anyone else’s comfort. The walls are painted deep charcoal, the furniture is all mahogany and leather, and the massive four-poster bed dominates the space like an altar to hedonism.
I settle Saylor onto the black silk sheets, smoothing her hair away from her face as she slowly returns to consciousness.
When her eyes finally focus on mine, there’s something new there. Something darker.
“Did I really stab him in the fucking hand?” she asks quietly.
“You sure did. I’m proud of you.”
“I think I’m going to be sick again.”
“Perfectly normal reaction. Violence takes practice.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “How do you feel about it? The
stabbing, not the nausea.”
She considers this with the serious attention the question deserves. “I think knives might not be my thing,” she says finally.
“All that blood. God, what kind of wannabe killer says blood isn’t their thing?”
She sounds genuinely annoyed with herself, like she’s failed some sort of basic life skill.
“It’s honest.” I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. “And Leroy deserved every inch of that blade. Every killer has
their own way, love. I choose the axe, some choose a gun, some choose—”
“No gun,” she says quickly. “I actually want the kill to be drawn out.”
“See? You already know what you don’t want. We’ll figure out exactly what your style is. No need to rush it.”
“I feel like the worst student,” she says with a frustrated sigh. “Like I’m getting an F in murder.”
“At least a solid C+,” I assure her. “You did pin his hand to the chair on your first try.”
I’ve never found a woman sexier than she is right now—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, still holding the memory of how perfect
that knife looked in her grip. The way she wielded that blade, the deadly calm in her voice . . . she’s speaking my love language.
From downstairs comes the sound of Hans attempting to maintain dinner conversation with three hostile dinner guests, one of whom is still bleeding on my antique chairs.
“Should we go back down?” Saylor asks, but she makes no move to sit up.
“Not unless you want to experiment more tonight.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my fingertip. “But you’ve had enough for
one evening. I’ll have Hans store them on ice for later—no need to act now.” I reluctantly pull away from the bed. “Rest here.
I’ll handle the cleanup and be back shortly.”
“Blue?” She catches my hand before I can leave. “Thank you. For letting me be the one to hurt him.”
“You’re welcome,” I say simply. “Baby steps.”
As I head back downstairs, Leroy is still making pathetic noises about his hand.
Just another evening at Maison Rouge.
Leroy’s still screaming.
And I’m already planning tomorrow’s lesson.