Page 66 of My Bloody Valentine

“Oh, that review was...” Maya pauses deliberately. “Quite impactful. Their doors closed within a week, didn’t they?”

Reynolds preens. “Sometimes the truth hurts. That sauce hadn’t evolved since the ’50s. The public deserves better.”

I arrange the first flight of truffles on hand-painted porcelain as they talk, each chocolate a work of art. The Madagascan single-origin pairs perfectly with the 40-year port I’ve selected. The sedative will blend seamlessly with the wine’s natural sweetness.

“Shall we begin?” I wave my hand toward the tasting area, where soft lighting catches the crystal glasses. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata provides a gentle backdrop.

Maya pours the port while I explain the chocolate’s origin. Reynolds settles into the leather chair, already relaxing as the room’s warmth embraces him.

“The ganache is infused with Madagascar vanilla and a proprietary blend of spices,” I explain, watching him pop the first truffle into his mouth without proper appreciation.

“Interesting.” He swirls the port, taking a generous sip. “The texture is unique.”

I notice his eyelids growing heavy as Maya serves the second flight. Each chocolate contains a slightly higher concentration, building gradually. He doesn’t taste the difference anymore. He is too caught up in self-importance as he rambles about his “contribution to culinary standards.”

I watch Reynolds’ gestures become increasingly sloppy as he waves his port glass. His words slur together, ego loosening his tongue.

“You know...” He leans forward conspiratorially. “For the right compensation, I could ensure your collection receives proper attention.”

“Is that so?” I slide another truffle toward him. “And what would constitute proper attention?”

“Twenty thousand.” He pops the chocolate in his mouth without hesitation. “Cash, of course. I know plenty of establishments that would kill for my endorsement.”

Maya’s fingers brush my shoulder as she serves the final course—my masterpiece of dark ganache infused with our special ingredient.

“Kill for it?” I smile. “How fascinating. Tell me more about these arrangements.”

“Simple business.” Reynolds’ head bobs as he reaches for the last truffle. “They pay, I praise. They don’t...” He chuckles. “Well, you saw what happened to Bella Cucina.”

The ganache melts on his tongue. His eyes grow unfocused as the full cocktail of sedatives takes hold.

“I should...” Reynolds pushes against the chair’s arms, trying to stand. His legs don’t cooperate. Confusion crosses his face as he attempts to move again.

“Something wrong?” I ask softly.

He stares at his unresponsive limbs. “I can’t... what did you...” The first flicker of fear enters his eyes as understanding dawns.

“The thing about proper attention, Mr. Reynolds...” I lean closer, savoring the moment his arrogance shatters. “Is that you’re about to receive more than you ever imagined.”

I secure Reynolds’ wrists with practiced efficiency, the leather straps creaking as I pull them snug. His head lolls, but consciousness still flickers behind his heavy eyelids. The sedative blend works perfectly, giving him enough awareness to process what’s happening but not enough strength to resist.

Maya moves gracefully through the space, gathering the delicate porcelain plates and crystal glasses. The soft clink of fine China punctuates Reynolds’ sluggish attempts to speak. Her hands remain steady, and her movements are precise and unhurried. This isn’t the frightened food critic who first tastedthe void in my chocolates. She’s transformed into something magnificent.

“The tools, my love?” I extend my hand without looking away from Reynolds.

She places the small knife in my palm, its polished blade glinting in the light. “Everything’s arranged as we discussed.”

I test the edge against my thumb, admiring its razor-sharpness. Maya sets out the rest of my collection on the steel tray—each instrument gleaming with deadly promise. Her fingertips trace the handle of the bone saw with quiet appreciation.

“The collection vessels?” I ask, though I know she hasn’t forgotten a single detail.

“Temperature controlled, properly labeled.” Maya indicates the row of sterile containers. “I adjusted the preservative ratios based on your notes.”

Reynolds manages a weak groan, his eyes widening as awareness slowly returns. Maya places her hand on my shoulder, watching him with cold fascination.

“Shall we begin?” she asks, sliding my mask over my face.

I capture her wrist. “Together. Your first lesson starts now.”

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