Page 6 of Volatile Vice

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 wordsMister Noi’s Thaiwritten 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?