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Sweet Poison.

Oh God, this is hard. I blink against the burn behind my eyes, biting down on my lip to stop it from trembling. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Cade gives me one last kiss, a half-smile that’s all tension and no warmth, and then he bounds upstairs. I’m still rooted to the same spot when he returns with his backpack and gets on a bike.

I turn away, as the engine roars to life, unable to watch him go. Unwilling to let him see the tears gathering in my eyes. And then he’s gone in a cloud of dust.

You couldn’t control him if he had a leash.I remember what Cade told me about Saint. How apt. You can’t make a man like that stay by begging. Nor can you own him.

He has to want you enough to stay. Enough to willingly submit.

I notice the faces at the windows, including Diamond’s. Maria. Phoenix. Thankfully, no one comes to offer platitudes when I step back into the clubhouse. They give me my much-needed space.

I barely make it up the stairs before the hot tears fall.

I knew this would happen. From the moment I saw that macabre kill list, I knew I could never compete with twenty-two years of vengeance.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.

46

Cade

Hugo Antonov dies tonight.

It’s been a week since I arrived in Moscow. The first three days were a much-needed break to re-screw my head on, and the last four were spent creating my access to Antonov.

Stalking, as Luna calls it.

I push thoughts of her away, as I have been doing in the last week, and focus on the screen in front of me. It’s the security camera feed from the Bolshoi Theatre kitchen, where I posed as the replacement chef last night.

The silent feed shows me gesturing confidently as I direct the staff. Their nods and quick responses tell me my Russian still passes muster. Last night was a test run, a chance to familiarize myself with the layout and the people.

Tonight is the real deal—a high-profile charity event where Hugo Antonov will be in attendance.

I study my movements on the feed, analyzing the best angles to avoid detection. My hand moves to my neck, absently searching for the grounding weight of my rosary.

It’s not there, of course. I left it behind, wrapped around Luna’s wrist.

The absence of my rosary has forced me to make changes to the plan.

No slipping into Antonov’s hotel room for an intimate kill. It’ll have to be out in the open now, right there in the charity dinner. I pick up the vial from the coffee table, rolling it between my fingers. The clear liquid is especially tailored to Antonov.

Most people would just feel dizzy, maybe short of breath. But for Antonov, with his cocktail of usual meds—blood pressure pills, prostate medication, Viagra—it’s a death sentence. The beta-blocker will shut his heart down like a switch.

Simple. Clean. The kind of kill that used to center me.

Used to.

A soft beep from my watch pulls me back to the present. It’s time to report to the theatre’s kitchens. My eyes drift to the crisp white chef’s uniform laid out on the hotel’s bed, but my feet feel like they’re encased in concrete.

“Move your fucking ass,” I mutter to myself. Still, I don’t budge.

The words echo in my mind, reminding me of that final morning when Dante dragged me out of bed. At the time, I had no clue my life was about shutting down.

“It may have shut down, but Luna and Scar are still trapped in it,”a voice needles in my brain, impossible to shut out.

Scar.