Page 5 of My Bloody Valentine

“The one who destroyed Mario’s place?”

“Drove him to bankruptcy.” The headline glows on my screen. “He’s doing a series on artisanal chocolate shops next month.”

“Convenient timing.” Gabe counts out the register, rubber-banding bills together. “Though your Valentine’s collection is already spoken for.”

“True.” I help myself to another pour of whiskey. “How’s Sarah?”

“My sister’s good. Finally left that deadbeat husband.” He locks the cash in the safe. “Kids are adjusting.”

“She still making those awful Christmas sweaters?”

“Worse. She’s into needlepoint now.” Gabe collapses into the chair across from me. “Keeps sending me pictures of half-finished cats.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind only decades of friendship allow. Outside, a siren wails past, and I think about Maya, wondering if she’s lying awake, haunted by the taste of my chocolates.

“You need help with inventory tomorrow?” I ask, pushing the thought away.

“Nah, new supplier’s reliable. Unlike the last one.” Gabe stretches. “Though I wouldn’t mind your opinion on some new bourbon they’re pushing.”

“Speaking of bourbon...” I reach behind the bar and grab the bottle Gabe’s been eyeing all night. “This the one?”

“Aged fifteen years in charred oak.” He grabs two fresh glasses. “Guy swears it’s smoother than silk.”

“That’s what the last one claimed.” I pour us two fingers. “Remember that batch from Kentucky?”

“The one that tasted like lighter fluid?” Gabe wrinkles his nose. “Cost me three regulars.”

The bourbon hits my tongue—vanilla, caramel, and a hint of smoke. Not bad. Not great either. “Your supplier’s full of shit. This is eight years at best.”

“Since when did you become the bourbon expert?”

“Since you started serving swill to your jazz crowd.” I savor another mouthful. “Stick to the Highland Park. At least that one’s honest about what it is.”

Watching Gabe laugh, I’m struck by how easy this is—two killers discussing liquor like normal business owners. But that’s always been our dynamic. While other friendships crumbled under the weight of secrets, ours grew stronger. Every body buried, every alibi crafted, every clean-up handled without question.

“Remember when we used to steal your dad’s whiskey?” Gabe swirls the liquid in his glass. “Hide behind the garage and pretend we were sophisticated?”

“You were never sophisticated.”

“States the man who pairs blood with chocolate.”

It’s the kind of joke only Gabe can make. Thirty years of friendship built on murder and trust. He’s the brother I chose, the one person who sees my sinister side and matches it with his own. Different methods, same madness. Where I create art from death, he finds beauty in the final notes of a victim’s breath—the perfect accompaniment to his jazz.

The bourbon settles warm in my stomach as I watch him sample another sip. His face scrunches in concentration, reminding me of those teenage years when we first discovered who we were. Some friendships are forged in fire. Ours was forged in blood.

3

MAYA

Istare at my laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The review of Adrian Vale’s Valentine’s collection glares back at me. The words cut deep, but they’re true. My reputation as Chicago’s most trusted food critic depends on honesty, no matter how magnetic his blue eyes are or how his presence sparks a rush of excitement across my skin.

“His latest collection lacks depth, a hollow shell of technical perfection without soul. While the craftsmanship demonstrates Vale’s mastery of chocolate, the emotional resonance falls flat?—”

A knock at my office door breaks my concentration. Amelia pokes her head in, her curls wild from the winter wind. “Ready for lunch? I’m starving.”

“Just...” I hit publish and close my laptop with a satisfying click. “Done.”

“Another review?” Amelia raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the victim this time?”

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