2. Vinnie

2

VINNIE

S everal hours earlier…

I don’t drive home to my mother’s home. Or my grandfather’s.

Instead, I changed into the clothes I left in my rental car—dark denim jeans and a black hoodie. A black baseball cap on my head, thin cotton gloves that I’ll put on later. In the middle of the night, I drive to Houston—to the hotel where Giacomo Puzo should now be dead in his room.

The Carlton Deluxe Downtown is the most expensive hotel in Houston.

Nothing but the best for Puzo and his Colombian deals.

I walk in, my heels clicking on the marble tiles of the lobby. To the right, a grand chandelier casts a golden glow over an elegant seating area adorned with plush velvet sofas and intricately carved wooden tables. A sweeping staircase with a gilded railing spirals up to the mezzanine level. In the center of the lobby stands a magnificent floral arrangement bursting with exotic blooms and rich greenery.

The reception desk is manned only by one impeccably dressed staff member at this late hour, but he smiles as I enter and walk toward him.

I’ve never met the man, but I know him.

He matches the description of the person I’ve paid off.

I clear my throat. “Raul, I presume?”

“Yes.” He keeps his face noncommittal. “You’re Mr. Brown?”

I nod. He knows very well that my name isn’t Mr. Brown. Who I am doesn’t matter. What I’m about to do does.

He slides a key card to me. “Here you go. Room 1027, tenth floor.”

“Much obliged.” I pull out my wallet, slide the key card in, take out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and slide them to Raul.

He nods back.

Then I walk through the ornate lobby to the elevators, slide the gloves on, and press the button.

The doors open for me right away. It’s the middle of the night, and very few people are using the elevators.

I walk inside, making sure to keep my face away from the surveillance equipment.

This isn’t my first rodeo.

I slide the key card over the reader and hit the button for the tenth floor.

In a flash, the elevator doors open, and I walk out, following the signs to room 1027.

I hover my card over the reader, and when I hear the click, I open the door.

This is Puzo’s room. He should be lying dead somewhere, and I’m here to make sure everything went off without a hitch.

I have no personal beef with the man, but he has to die. He has to die so I can regain my grandfather’s trust. Without that trust, I won’t be able to bring him down.

Once the door is securely closed behind me, I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Puzo?” I say softly.

Once I can see, I realize I’m in a suite. This is the living area. Probably where he ate his meal—the meal that was supposed to be laced with peanut butter. The allergy that will kill him. His EpiPen should’ve been taken from him by another one of my operatives.

This is the second time I’ve killed. The first was with my own hand—Misha overseas.

This one? I kept my own damned hands clean.

But I don’t kid myself. I’m responsible for this man’s death. My only consolation is that he seems to be a real dirtbag.

I walk through the living room of the suite. The remains of Puzo’s meal sit on the dining table. A dark rectangular takeout container. Completely empty, with a fork on the table beside it. Next to it a paper bag with the words Mister Noi’s Thai written on it.

I’m not sure which part of it was laced with peanut butter, but it doesn’t really matter. It appears he ate it all. I bring the takeout container to my nose and sniff it. It’s mostly the smell of curry, but there’s a slight tinge of peanut butter.

Good. This hotel doesn’t let food couriers go up to the levels beyond the lobby to make deliveries. They have to leave it at the front desk and a bellhop brings it up to the guest’s room. The bellhop was then instructed to take the bag discreetly aside and then mix in a few tablespoons of peanut butter—the smooth kind, of course.

One of the odd jobs I performed when I was hiding from my grandfather in Europe was food delivery. It always struck me how insanely trustworthy you have to believe your delivery drivers are. Usually they have total access to your food before you receive it.

Finding no sign of him, I walk through the doorway into the bedroom. Two queen beds—and neither has been slept in.

Where the hell is he, then?

God, I hope he didn’t stumble out of the room and flag someone down for help. That would ruin this whole thing, and I’m already on thin ice with my grandfather as it is.

“Vincent,” he’ll say. “You should have taken matters into your own hands. The way I told you to.”

Shit. I really don’t want to have to deal with that.

But then my eyes fall on the one room I haven’t seen yet. The bathroom.

I slowly slink toward the closed door. Puzo could very well still be alive. Or in anaphylactic shock. I might have to snag one of the pillows off the bed and finish him off the old-fashioned way.

Grandfather would like that.

I knock on the door. “Sir? I’m from housekeeping. The front desk sent me up to do a wellness check.”

No answer.

I slowly open the door. It’s not locked, thank God.

But it’s dark. I hit the flashlight on my phone.

Damn, this is a nice bathroom. I guessed Puzo likes to shit in style.

Liked to shit in style, hopefully.

The light bounces off of richly veined marble walls and gilded mirrors outlined with crystal sconces.

Fuck. No one’s in here.

I shine my light around. There’s a clawfoot tub fashioned from gleaming copper and polished porcelain standing majestically in the center, accompanied by a rain shower enclosed in frosted glass. I look inside the shower, and it’s empty. Nothing here is amiss, except…

A pile of silver-capped toiletries—luxury-brand shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and shower gel—litter the floor in front of the marble countertop of the grand vanity. These would normally be stacked neatly by the housekeeping staff, but it looks like someone rushed by them quickly and let them fall to the floor.

And then I see a carved wooden screen, which must conceal the toilet.

I slowly inch toward it, and a foul smell emanates from the area. I peak around the privacy screen.

I know what to expect, but my breath still catches when I see a body hunched over the porcelain toilet. The bowl is filled with vomit, and even in the darkness, I can see the gray pallor of Puzo’s face and hands.

I take a good look at his eyes. Shine my flashlight into them.

There’s no sign of life.

I grab his wrist, feel for a pulse. Nothing there, either.

Yes. It’s Puzo.

And he’s dead as a fucking doornail.

The plan worked, and he’s gone.

Next time I won’t have to identify the body myself.

I may not have shot him in cold blood like my grandfather wished, but I took care of the situation. Other than Raul, I paid off the bellhop who delivered his food and one of the maids to secure his EpiPen.

All trustworthy people—if willingness to help kill a man for money counts as trustworthy—according to my resources.

Still…something pricks at the back of my neck.

If I’d simply shot him like my grandfather asked, I wouldn’t have had to involve others. I wouldn’t have to depend on their discretion.

But doing it this way? Yeah, there are a few potential loose ends, but I was far away from this venue when it happened.

My hands are clean. My alibi is secure.

And I’ll make sure that the three people who helped me continue to be handsomely rewarded.

I move to leave when I remember.

The pinky ring.

The gawdy thing my grandfather hates. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. It’s a thick gold band textured like gold nuggets with a huge star sapphire in its center.

He wants Puzo’s pinky, but no way in hell am I sawing off his finger. I grab the ring and shove it in my pocket. I exit the bathroom and head back into the living area of the suite.

Then I leave the room, walk calmly to the elevator, again making sure to keep my face down as I saunter through the hollow hallway and get into the elevator.

Once I’m back on the first floor, I leave—this time through the back door.

Only then, once I’m in my rental car, do I allow myself to ponder the magnitude of what I’ve put into motion.

Nausea overwhelms me.

Because this isn’t who I am. No matter what I did overseas—no matter what I did this evening—this is not me.

I need to remember that.

Because things are about to get volatile.

And that’s the only way I’ll be able to do what needs to be done.

I’ll walk the path of darkness. Dip a toe into the shadowy realm dominated by men like my grandfather.

But I can’t allow myself to completely fall down the rabbit hole.

Because if I do?

I’ll never be able to escape.