Page 7 of Volatile Vice

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.

Likedto 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.