25. The Perfect Solution #2
She staggers backward, knocking over a chair. Her eyes roll, foam spilling over her lips, and then—
She collapses.
A sickening thud echoes through the room as her body hits the floor.
Screams erupt.
Nichole jumps back, her eyes wide in horror. People rush forward, calling for help, but there is no saving her.
Her chest heaves violently once, twice— and then she goes still.
Dead.
Right there, in the center of the gathering.
I stare, my pulse pounding, rage boiling under my skin.
This wasn’t the plan.
This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Now, there’s chaos. Now, there are eyes everywhere.
And Nichole?
She’s still standing.
The room erupts into chaos.
People push forward, their voices clashing in frantic bursts—questions, demands, gasps of horror. A few rush to the woman’s side, but there’s nothing to be done. She’s dead. Gone in seconds.
Nichole stands frozen, her eyes locked on the lifeless body sprawled across the floor. A dark stain of wine spreads across the carpet beside her, soaking into the fibers like blood.
My mind races, calculating.
The plan was flawless. The poison should have worked perfectly—slow, untraceable, nothing immediate. But something went wrong. Something made it act too fast.
I scan the faces in the room, reading their reactions. No one is looking at me. Good.
Now I just need to make sure no one starts asking the wrong questions.
Antonio steps forward, his voice booming over the chaos. “Get back! Give her space!”
It’s instinctual, an order for control, even though he already knows there’s nothing to be done. His sharp gaze sweeps the room, assessing. People obey, stepping back, their murmurs hushed with tension.
One of the family doctors pushes through the crowd, kneeling beside the body. He checks for a pulse—pointless. A moment later, he looks up and shakes his head.
“She’s gone.”
A fresh ripple of shock moves through the guests, but I don’t let myself react.
Nichole exhales sharply, a hand pressing to her chest as she finally moves, stepping away from the body. I study her carefully. She’s rattled, yes, but not panicked. Not guilty.
Because she doesn’t know.
She was supposed to be dead right now, but instead, she’s standing there, horrified like everyone else, completely unaware of how close she just came.
Antonio’s jaw tightens as he turns to one of the men. “Get her husband.”
The man nods and bolts, pushing through the doors. The dead woman’s husband—one of our business associates—was outside on a call when it happened. He has no idea that when he walks back into this room, his wife will be dead on the floor.
The thought should amuse me. Instead, it pisses me off.
I need to get ahead of this.
I move through the crowd, keeping my steps measured, calm. When I reach Antonio’s side, I lower my voice. “A heart attack?”
The doctor hesitates, his brows drawn tight. “Maybe… but it was too fast. It looked like…” He exhales, shaking his head. “It could have been something else.”
Something else.
Careful.
I keep my expression unreadable. “We’ll let the medical team confirm.”
Antonio nods, his gaze sharp, but he doesn’t press further. Not yet.
The double doors burst open, and the dead woman’s husband rushes in. His gaze locks onto his wife’s lifeless form—and then the screaming begins again.
The woman’s husband drops to his knees beside her, his cries raw and guttural, echoing through the room like a funeral dirge. The chaos around me grows, but my mind is already somewhere else.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Nichole should have been the one convulsing on the floor, her life slipping away in front of all these people—clean, untraceable, the perfect death. But instead, some overdressed, gossiping idiot took her place.
I clench my jaw, forcing my expression to stay neutral as I scan the room. No one suspects a thing. No one is questioning the drink, no one is pointing fingers. All they see is a tragedy—a woman who collapsed in the middle of the night’s festivities.
But I can already feel it. Antonio is watching.
Not at me, not directly, but at the situation itself. He smells something off.
I know him too well.
He won’t ask questions now, not in front of everyone, not with the weight of a grieving husband crying over his dead wife’s body. But later?
Later, he’ll want answers.
And I have to make sure that by then, there are none to give.
I turn slightly, catching the eye of the man who helped set the trap. He stands near the bar, rigid and waiting, barely masking his own tension. I give him a slight nod—silent orders. Disappear.
Get rid of the evidence. Erase the trail.
I don’t have time for loose ends.
The medical team finally arrives, pushing their way through the crowd with urgency. They kneel, checking the body, whispering among themselves. Too late, assholes. She’s already gone.
Antonio exhales sharply beside me, muttering under his breath. “Fucking hell.”
I turn to him, keeping my voice low. “What now?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, his gaze flicking from the scene to the guests. Some are murmuring to each other, shaken but already distancing themselves. Death in our world isn’t rare, but when it happens this suddenly, people start thinking.
And thinking? That’s dangerous.
Antonio exhales. “We make it look clean. Get the husband out of here, take care of the body. We keep this contained.”
I nod, already expecting as much. “And the cause?”
The doctor glances up, hesitant. “It could have been a seizure. A cardiac event. We won’t know until we—”
“No autopsy.” Antonio’s voice is sharp, final. “I don’t care what the doctors say. She died of a heart attack, understood?”
The doctor hesitates for only a second before nodding. “Understood.”
Antonio turns to me now, his gaze harder. Measuring. “Something about this doesn’t sit right.”
I meet his eyes without flinching. “What are you thinking?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over the guests again. Then, to Nichole.
She’s still standing near the scene, her face carefully blank, unreadable. But her hands…
Her hands are clenched at her sides.
Not in fear. Not even in shock.
Something else.
I can’t tell what, but it makes me clench my jaw.
Antonio watches her for a second longer, then exhales. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Not yet.”
I nod, forcing myself to stay casual. But inside, I’m already recalculating.
Nichole still needs to die.
This doesn’t change that.
It just means I have to be smarter. I have to be patient.
Next time?
There won’t be any mistakes.