Chapter Forty-Two Saylor
Chapter Forty-Two
Saylor
The hunting lodge blazes with light and laughter when Ash’s contact leads me through the front door. Inside, it’s exactly
what I expected from a group of killers celebrating what they think is their greatest victory: expensive whiskey, cigar smoke
thick enough to choke on, and the kind of reckless joy that comes from believing you’ve finally eliminated your biggest threat.
“Gentlemen,” one of Ash’s contacts announces, his voice carrying across the main room. “I’d like you to meet Scarlett Rose.
She’s here to discuss potential business arrangements.”
Every conversation stops. Every eye in the room turns to assess the blonde woman in the silk dress who just walked into their
sanctuary. I count twelve men total—more than we expected, but not more than I prepared for.
At the head of the main table sits Brutus himself, exactly as Blue described him. Massive shoulders, scarred face, and eyes
that have seen too much violence. He raises his whiskey glass in greeting, and the gesture is both welcoming and threatening.
“Ms. Rose,” he says in a way that reminds me of gravel in a cement mixer. “We’ve been hearing interesting things about you.
Something about expanding your father’s business into our territory?”
I move deeper into the room, letting my hips sway just enough to hold their attention. “Daddy always said you Americans know
how to spot opportunity,” I say, my British accent making the words sound casual but sharp. “I’m after partners who don’t
fuck around.”
“Quality work.” Brutus grins, the expression transforming his face into something genuinely terrifying. “I like that. Sit.
Let’s discuss what quality means to people like us.”
The chair they offer puts me directly across from Brutus, with six men on each side of the long table. Perfect positioning for what I have planned. As I settle into my seat, I notice the table is already set with crystal glasses and opened bottles of what looks like very expensive wine.
“We’re celebrating tonight,” Brutus explains, gesturing to the bottles. “Got word this morning that someone finally took care
of a problem we’ve had for years. Car bomb in Portland took out an enemy of ours. Hell of a way to go.”
The room erupts in laughter and congratulations. Men toast the unknown killers’ success, bitching that they didn’t get to
do the honors themselves but celebrating the result. I smile and nod, playing the impressed potential partner while fury builds
in my chest.
They think Blue is dead. They’re celebrating his murder.
“To whoever blew that bastard to pieces,” someone calls out, raising his glass. “And to one less problem to worry about.”
“Cheers to that,” I say with a smile, accepting a crystal glass filled with dark red wine. The liquid catches the lamplight,
and I can see my reflection swimming in its surface. “But hang on—let me do this right.”
I stand gracefully, glass raised, commanding attention with the simple act of movement. Every eye in the room follows me as
I walk to the sideboard where the wine bottles wait like soldiers in formation.
“Back home, we always add a little something special to celebrate big wins,” I continue, my British accent flowing naturally
as I set down my glass and reach into my evening bag. “Trust me, it makes everything taste better.”
The blue spheres roll across my palm like tiny pearls, each one containing enough poison to kill a grown man in ten minutes.
I’ve practiced this so many times in Blue’s basement that my movements are automatic now.
“What’s that?” one of them asks, craning his neck to see.
“Something brilliant from back home,” I say with a wicked grin, my accent making it sound exotic. “Think ecstasy meets cocaine,
but your head stays clear while your cock thinks it’s Christmas morning. The high lasts for hours.”
The room erupts in interested murmurs and crude laughter. “Hell yes,” someone shouts. “Count me in.”
“My dealer calls it ‘executive candy,’” I continue, dropping three spheres into the first bottle and swirling gently until they dissolve completely. “All the fun, none of the stupid decisions. Well, except maybe fucking like a god.”
I move to the second bottle, then the third, adding poison to each one while the men watch with the fascination of children
witnessing a magic trick. They have no idea they’re watching their own execution.
“There,” I announce, returning to the table with my enhanced wine collection. “Now we can truly celebrate properly.”
I pour fresh glasses for everyone, making sure each man gets wine from one of my treated bottles. The poison is completely
tasteless, just as Duffy promised, and it dissolves without leaving any trace of blue.
But I catch Brutus watching me carefully, his eyes tracking my movements as I pour. Smart bastard. He’s not going to drink
until I do.
I reach for my own glass—the one I poured from the single untreated bottle I kept separate, marked with a tiny scratch on
the base that only I can see—and raise it high.
“A toast,” Brutus declares, raising his glass high. “To new partnerships and the death of old enemies.”
“To justice served,” I reply in my refined accent, touching my glass to his with a crystalline chime that sounds like a funeral
bell.
They drink deeply, savoring what they think is triumph. I take a small sip from my own untreated glass and watch them swallow
their doom with smiles on their faces.
The conversations resume, business discussions mixed with graphic descriptions of how they imagine Blue died. They describe
his supposed fear, his desperation, the satisfaction they felt watching him fall. Each word makes my hatred burn brighter,
but I keep smiling, keep playing the interested businesswoman while death spreads through their systems.
Five minutes pass. Then eight. Then ten.
“You know what?” the man to my left says suddenly, setting down his glass with slightly shaking hands. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Same here,” another one admits, loosening his collar. “Getting warm in here.”
Brutus frowns, studying his own hands as they begin to tremble. “What the hell—”
That’s when the first one collapses.
He pitches forward onto the table, wine glass shattering against the wood. His body convulses once, twice, then goes still.
Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, dark against his pale skin.
“What—” another one starts to say, but the words dissolve into choking sounds as he grabs his throat, eyes wide with terror.
Panic erupts around the table. Men try to stand, to run, to call for help, but their legs won’t support them. The poison is
working exactly as expected—consciousness remains while everything else shuts down.
“You,” Brutus gasps, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You did this. You fucking poisoned us.”
I lean back in my chair, completely calm while chaos unfolds around me. “Guilty as charged,” I say, my British accent now
carrying an edge of steel.
“Who are you?” he demands. “Really?”
I stand slowly, smoothing my silk dress while men die around me like dominoes falling in sequence. When I speak, my voice
carries across the room with perfect clarity, the British accent now dropped completely.
“My name is Sara Mitchell. My father was Peter Mitchell. Five years ago, you murdered him in front of me, and I’ve been dreaming
of this moment ever since.”
Brutus’s eyes widen with recognition and fear.
“You searched for a broken little girl,” I add, walking slowly around the table while he struggles to stay upright in his
chair. “But she grew up. She learned things. She made friends who taught her exactly how to get to you.”
Three more bodies hit the floor. The sounds are wet and final.
“Blue Crow,” Brutus rasps, understanding finally dawning. “He’s not dead.”
“Very much alive,” I confirm pleasantly. “And probably wondering how I’m doing right about now.”
I reach Brutus’s chair and crouch beside him, studying his face as the poison works its way through his system. He’s still conscious, still aware, just as Duffy promised. Still able to feel everything that’s happening to him.
“I want you to know something before you die,” I whisper, close enough that only he can hear. “My father was a good man. He
saved people. He made the world better just by being in it. And you killed him because he refused to let you hurt someone
innocent.”
Brutus tries to speak but only manages bloody foam.
“He begged you to let me live,” I continue. “Do you remember that? How he offered you everything—his life, his money, his
complete surrender—if you would just let his daughter go?”
His eyes are starting to glaze, but I can see he remembers.
“Well, congratulations. You got exactly what you wanted. Peter Mitchell is dead.” I lean closer, my lips almost touching his
ear. “But his daughter is very much alive. And she just killed every single one of you.”
Brutus tries to respond, but the poison has other plans. Blood starts pouring from his nose in thick streams, followed by
his ears. His body convulses violently, and he vomits blood across the table with wet, choking sounds. His eyes roll back,
showing only whites, while his fingers claw uselessly at his throat.
I watch every second of it with a smile. The girl who used to faint at the sight of blood is long gone. This is who I am now—someone
who can watch a man die in agony and feel nothing but satisfaction.
A man that deserves it, of course.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out into the Witchwood where I know Blue is waiting. The silence behind me is complete
now—twelve men who woke up this morning planning to celebrate Blue’s death, now dead themselves.
The irony is so perfect it makes me smile.
I pull out my phone and send a simple text: “Come collect me. It’s finished.”
Then I sit down to wait, and take a long, luxurious drink of my wine surrounded by the corpses of my father’s killers.
I know my father would be proud of me.