Page 59 of Dark & Deceitful

Chewing my bottom lip for show, I gesture to the door that leads to the dining room. “Should I leave?”

Romeo’s brows pinch together, and his nose wrinkles as if he sucked a sour grape. “No. Of course not.”

Eyes cast downward, I slide my fingers across the smooth edge of the island. “Will you get in trouble? I don’t want you to get in trouble. Perhaps I should go back to my room… Or…” I tremble. “I could joinhim,” I whisper, as if I’m scared of Dark and what he’ll do to me if I return to his side.

“No. You’ll have breakfast here.” Romeo motions to my vacated stool.

“And you won’t get in trouble, right?” Wanting to be useful, I collect a stack of napkins by the window and fold them aroundthe foil-wrapped sandwiches before carefully setting them in their bag.

“I’ll handle it,” Romeo reassures.

“T-thank you.”

The kind chef nods as if no thanks are needed, but his lips thin into a grim line, like he knows this isn’t going to end well. Little does he know how right he is—only not in the way he’s thinking.

A sous chef pours hot coffee into cups and shoves them into a stackable carrier, and I collect the packets of sugar and creamer.

Naked as the day she was born, Jasmin races into the kitchen, panic written across her face. “We need water and the seasick medication!”

Shit.

The mimosas are working too quickly.

Both sous chefs gather armfuls of water bottles from the walk-in and deliver them to the dining room as Romeo collects the emergency stash of medications. Taking advantage of the distraction, I run with it, shoulder the bag of drinks, sandwiches, and the stack of coffees, and race from the kitchen before Romeo can stop me. In the hall, I pretend to reconfigure everything I’m transporting to make it easier. Huddled in a corner, I pull the powder from my dress, contaminate as many coffees as possible, and set out to deliver the food.

Each goon reaches into the bag, and I hold it for him to grab whatever he’d like. Most men claim at least two sandwiches, a coffee, and a sports drink. Then I’m onto the next, smiling like the polite, submissive worker they think I am.

The wind whips my hair as I climb the outdoor stairs to the wheelhouse, where the captain and co-captain run this giant vessel. I knock on the door before going inside, where I’m met with smiles.

“Hannah, how lovely to see you again,” the co-captain greets as I pull two coffees from the stack and set them along with sandwiches and sports drinks on what looks to be a small snack station, complete with jerky, nuts, and other healthier options.

“Enjoy, gentlemen.” I half bow like an idiot before I escape the chamber and slowly descend the stairs, a giddiness now churning in my gut. My job is done. The main part, anyhow. The poison I’ve made will run its course, and soon, the ship will be ours. These rich assholes will be dead, and I can go home.

Death by poison is a little bland compared to a major shoot-out, I get it, but it’s efficient and puts far fewer people at risk. Saving this many women and offing this number of men to hurt Remy’s operation couldn’t be accomplished any other way. If they had stab wounds or bullet holes, when their dive teams come to retrieve the bodies, they’ll see there was foul play and not assume they died from a fire on the water and couldn’t escape. It’s not perfect, but it’s what I was taught to do. My mother was a crazy plant lady and shared much of her knowledge with her only daughter. Where my mother learned her nefarious ways, I’ll never know.

Still carrying the empty totes and coffee holders, I return to my stateroom. In the bathroom, I set my items on the counter and pull the small bottle of liquid makeup remover from my makeup bag. In the sewing kit I brought, I slide out three needles that look nothing like a sewing needle because they’re not, and finally, I peel back the tabs on three tampon sleeves and remove the syringes I stowed inside. Screwing the needles into place, I use them to suck the liquid from my makeup remover. These are my insurance policies if someone doesn’t ingest what I contaminated. It has happened before.

To keep from stabbing myself, I cap the needles and set them inside the bag where the sandwiches were before heading back to the kitchen, where all hell is currently breaking loose.

“Hannah!” Romeo gasps. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?” I set the coffee holders on the kitchen island.

“Everyone’s sick.”

“Everyone?” I grimace.

“Si. I-I don’t know what happened.” Romeo fills a bucket of water at the kitchen sink, shaking as he looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are round with worry as sweat beads on his dark brow.

Wanting to comfort him or appear to, I round the island to offer my support. He’s so preoccupied with the water and the sous chefs as they race in and out that he doesn’t notice my hand slide into the bag hooked over my shoulder or hear my thumb pop a cap off the needle. Sliding up to the man who has been kind to me, far more than I deserve, given my reason for being here, I pull the syringe from my bag and rest my head on his shoulder.

He hums in contentment as if I’m soothing his woes.

I wait for the guilt of what I’m about to do to surface, but I feel nothing as I swiftly jab the needle into the back of his thigh, through the cotton of his pants and express the plunger.

Romeo jerks away like you would a painful bug bite, and the needle flies, skittering across the kitchen floor. Moaning in agony, he grasps the back of his leg as the poison spreads—burning like acid in his veins.

“Hannah.” He falls into the island, barely catching himself with his hands. His eyes are glassy, his face twisted in torment as foam bubbles from his lips. He gasps once, twice, as the pulse at his throat pounds. This is how it happens. Having to battle with the digestive system, the powder is slower. It takes longer, much like swallowing a pill versus getting medicine through an IV. The liquid is quicker, much quicker, but it’s not painless.

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