Poisonous Kiss: Chapter 2

Saying that I relish the feel of his windpipe crumpling under my grip makes me sound like a sociopath.

But then, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck?

It’s usually a fucking duck.

Salvatore weakly slaps at my hands as they tighten around his throat. For a second, one particularly sharp nail of his hooks into my skin. But a quick punch to his nose makes him lose that advantage just as quickly.

His eyes bulge grotesquely as he stares up into my face. His lips burble and flap. Even though he can’t say shit with his air completely shut off and his voice box virtually crushed, those lips are trying to form a word.

“You know why,” I growl quietly, not doing a thing to hide the malice in my tone.

He means “why are you doing this” not “why is this happening”. Sal might be a monstrous piece of shit, but he’s no idiot. Which is how he was able to get away with his horrors for so long, not to mention escape justice for them.

For a time.

Point is, Sal is well aware of why someone might break into his home and throttle him with their bare hands. What he might be genuinely confused about is why that person is me, although it appears he does remember me from my time across the aisle from his own legal counsel during his travesty of a trial.

Justice, as they say, is blind. Sometimes, though, she should keep her fucking eyes open. Because it’s not so much that she’s blind, it’s that she’s been blindfolded by greed and evil. By money. By the right words.

That’s where I come in, to be justice’s eyes when her own go dim. I’m not egotistical enough to call myself “justice”. What I do isn’t out of any misguided and narcissistic opinion that I’m an avenging angel, or that I’m playing judge, jury, and executioner.

It’s just that sometimes, justice gets bird shit in her eye and flinches at the wrong time. Sometimes, evil is allowed to go unpunished when the scales tip the wrong way.

I fix those scales.

Restore balance.

And tonight, that means I’m choking the life out of Salvatore Avella.

Slowly.

There are much faster and easier ways of a killing a man besides crushing his windpipe with your hands. But, at the risk of sounding like a complete sociopath… again…where’s the fun in doing it too quickly? Or from a distance?

When I act as justice’s wingman, I want the monsters I put down to know in their very soul, in their very last moments, that it was me. And I want them to know why.

Otherwise, what’s the point?

Salvator’s eyes bulge wider, as if they’re about to pop out of his head. His face is suffused red, his flabby lips turning purple as he desperately tries to draw in oxygen.

For a moment, I consider allowing him a single breath, just to prolong it. To give him brief, fleeting hope of survival, if only so I can watch it drain from his eyes when I tighten my grip again. But no. I’m not the monster here.

He is.

A year ago, Salvatore was busted in a child predator sting. The scum used his position as an administrator at a well-known private school here in Manhattan to groom and abuse children. And if that wasn’t monstrous enough, he facilitated even more abuse and evil by allowing other monsters in his dark, sick circle to prey on them as well.

In a just world, Sal would be strung up by his balls and dipped head-first into hydrofluoric acid over and over until his skin melted off, before being made to swallow his own severed dick.

I mean, I’m just spit balling here.

Unfortunately, we don’t always live in a just world. In Sal’s case, justice was miscarried because some of his predator friends were higher-ups in the Department of Justice.

Favors were called in. Evidence was purposefully mishandled.

And justice got a sharp fucking stick in the eye.

Instead of being sent to prison to be skinned alive the second he hit gen-pop, Sal walked free on a technicality.

The other pieces of shit that aided this travesty of justice have already been dealt with, slowly, over the last six months. I deliberately left Sal for last because I wanted him to dread this day. I wanted him to see those headlines about accidents and untimely deaths, and to fear the vengeance stalking the shadows.

In a few minutes, the last ones in which the world suffers Sal’s existence, this will all be over. A hacker friend of mine is on standby to get into Sal’s domestic and offshore accounts and route that money to about a dozen shell companies before being distributed anonymously to college funds I’ve taken the liberty of setting up for his victims.

It won’t undo what happened to them. But it’s a start.

Remembering those heartbreaking witness statements I watched over and over during Sal’s trial brings a fresh surge of raging acid to my veins. Crown and Black represented five of Sal’s victims, pro bono. And when I think back to the moment the jury was unable to return a guilty verdict, my hands tighten.

And tighten.

And tighten.

Sal’s mouth drops open. His left eye turns blood red as the vessels pop.

“Rot in hell,” I hiss quietly. My forearms bulge as my grip clenches like iron. Finally, Sal’s eyes dim and roll back.

I let him drop to the floor with a satisfying thud. Rolling my shoulders, I crack my knuckles and slide my phone out of my suit jacket pocket.

Kratos answers on the first ring.

“Done?”

“Done.”

“Good. I’m ready downstairs once you walk out. All cameras in the lobby and outside the bodega across the street have been disabled.”

Kratos Drakos is the youngest brother of the Drakos Greek mafia family. Crown and Black handles a lot of his oldest brother Ares’ legitimate…and not-so-legitimate…legal needs, which is how Kratos and my brother Alistair became friends. They both also like to participate in New York’s underground fight clubs.

A few months ago, I recruited Kratos to my little side project. The giant of a Drakos brother didn’t need much convincing to help destroy true evil that escapes justice. He is very, very good at what he does. Also, like me, he prefers to keep this side of himself hidden from his friends and family.

That’s a win-win.

A few minutes after I leave, Kratos will slip in and make all this look like a botched break-in. He’ll also leave enough confusing evidence—fingerprints of dead people, hair samples from famous movie stars—to thoroughly fuck any investigation into Sal’s demise, burying the case cold.

Just another day’s work playing blind lady justice’s guide dog.

“Perfect. Call me when it’s done?”

“Yep,” he rumbles. “Talk soon, Gabriel.”

I take one last look at the dead piece of shit on the floor. A smile creeps over my lips.

There’s a darkness in me. Always has been. Over the years, I’ve found a few different ways of releasing the pressure of it. Destroying predators who escape justice might not be my favorite. But goddamn, I enjoy it.

“Rot in hell, fucker,” I spit. Then I turn, stride out the door, and disappear into the night.

Whatever darkness is still within me recedes as I step out of the cab back at my place and look up at the brownstone. I’m hosting a dinner tonight, and I can see through the lit-up windows that my family and friends have already arrived.

Alistair and his fiancé Eloise. Our sister Tempest and her husband Dante, who owns and operates the infamous Club Venom. Taylor, who’s like an honorary sister to Alistair and I. Dante’s little sister Bianca. Alistair’s, Tempest’s and my young aunt, Maeve.

A few months ago, Alistair and I got Maeve out from under the abusive influence of her parents—our grandfather Charles and his young trophy wife, Caroline. For a while, she was living with me while she finished high school. But she’s graduated now, and moved into her first apartment with some friends before she starts NYU in the fall.

Time passes, and the people around you grow up and start their own lives, families and adventures. Which is why I look forward to these family dinners so much.

Tonight, though, is about more than just catching up.

As if on cue, a sleek black Porsche pulls up to the curb next to me. The engine turns off, and an attractive blonde in a fashionable outfit and towering heels slips out from behind the wheel.

“Meredith,” I nod as she approaches, her Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder and her heels clicking smartly on the sidewalk.

“Gabriel,” she smiles. She arches a brow, nodding past me to the smiling, laughing group of people inside. “You ready to do this?”

Meredith is the head of Operations for Empire Political Consultants. She’s also about to become my campaign manager.

It’s hard to pinpoint when I decided to try this path. Part of it comes from wondering what’s next, I suppose. I’m at the top of my game, with a nearly perfect trial record, and a firm that Alistair, Taylor, and I have nurtured into one of if not the most prestigious law firm in New York.

Where do you go from there? There’s always a judgeship. Teaching at law school. Or hell, a seat on the State Supreme Court. But I’m also only thirty-four years old, and all of those things scream “put out to pasture”.

Yeah, no.

So instead, this is the path I’m taking. Alistair and Taylor have both suspected for months that I’m up to something. They even have an idea that it’s political in nature, since they know I’ve been talking with Meredith.

Tonight, everyone’s going to find out just how high I’ve set my sights.

I shrug. “It’s past time they all knew, Meredith.”

She nods. “We’ve talked about your brother or Taylor putting up roadblocks to you potentially leaving the firm. If that comes up⁠—”

“It won’t.”

Her brows knit. “You know I prefer to be prepared for anything. Should we run through some of the lines we tried with the focus group? We can start with pushback from Taylor⁠—”

“Meredith.” I shake my head. “There’s not going to be pushback. Trust me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I fix her with a look. “Because if it was Taylor or Alistair running, I wouldn’t put up any roadblocks for them.”

She smiles. “Well, before you start sharing…” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a manilla legal envelope. “The NDAs we put together. I know they’re all family and friends. But I have to insist that we maintain media silence until you announce⁠—”

“Meredith. I got it,” I smirk, taking the file from her hands. I notice her pointed silence and the crease in her brow. “What?”

She exhales slowly and glances away. “There’s…uh…”

“Meredith.”

She takes a breath and levels her gaze at me. “We ran some more focus groups.”

I roll my eyes. “At a certain point, I have to actually run a campaign, you know. Not just focus groups.”

“Har-har,” Meredith snorts. Then her smile quickly fades. “Gabriel, we⁠—”

“Just tell me whose ass I need to kiss.”

Her mouth twists. “It’s slightly more involved than that.”

Shit. I don’t like the hard look on her face. Or the absence of her usual sarcasm. “Meredith, what the fuck is⁠—”

“You won’t win, Gabriel.”

Let it never be said that my campaign manager beats around the bush.

My brows furrow. “What the hell do you mean, I won’t win?”

“Under current conditions, there’s no scenario where you beat Hall in the polls.”

My jaw grinds. “Meredith, I’m so close to getting the court documents unsealed⁠—”

“Yeah, we ran that scandal through the computer models. We even made it look worse than we suspect it probably is. It moves the needle, yes. But not enough for you to beat a well-loved politician who’s also the incumbent.”

“The man is a⁠—”

“It doesn’t matter, Gabriel,” she sighs. She brings a manicured hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“You’re seriously telling me I can’t win against a fucking nakedly corrupt⁠—”

“You can’t win against him because he has something you don’t.”

I scowl. “What’s that? A magical fucking unicorn?”

“Better,” she says flatly. “He’s got a wife.”

The sidewalk goes silent as I stare gobsmacked at her. “You’re saying⁠—”

“I’m saying, for all your success, charisma and charm, and all your ideals, you simply cannot beat a sitting married incumbent as a single man. Period. Full stop. Voters don’t trust a single guy.”

“That’s absurd,” I hiss.

“No, that’s politics,” she says with a heavy sigh.

My teeth grind as I whirl, fury on my face. “Fucking hell,” I seethe. “So just like that, it’s game over?”

Meredith is silent. When I turn back, she’s got a slightly devious look on her face.

“I never said that, Gabriel,” she says cautiously. “I just said you can’t win as a bachelor.”

I go still. Meredith’s brows raise as she coughs delicately. “Connecting the dots yet?”

What. The. Fuck.

I stare at her. “You’re joking.”

“Comedy and political consultation rarely go well together, Gabriel.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

She spreads her palms. “I’m suggesting that if you want to play with the big boys, and if you actually want this, then you need to find a wife, like, yesterday.”

“I…” I sigh. “I’m not even seeing anyone.”

“Which is what we’re going to change this week.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you go in there and tell your family what’s about to go down. And I do my job and find you a prop wife.”

“A prop wife,” I deadpan.

“Exactly.”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Meredith smirks. “Please. This is nothing compared to some of the shit I’ve seen. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” She nods at the folder of NDAs in my hand. “Really… Don’t forget those.” She turns and walks back to the driver’s side door of her Porsche. “Welcome to politics, Mr. Black.”

You need to find a wife, like, yesterday.

I stare at the taillights of Meredith’s car as she drives off into the night.

What the fuck?

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Then I turn back to the brownstone. Time enough to deal with this insane plan tomorrow. For now, it’s time to rip off a giant band-aid.

“About time you showed up.”

The rest of them look up at Alistair’s words when I walk into the dining room. Maeve runs over and gives me a big hug. Tempest kisses my cheek, and Dante gives me a firm handshake before clapping me on the back. Taylor eyes the folder in my hand.

“Whatcha got there?”

I clear my throat. “Let’s all sit.”

Taylor and Alistair arch brows at each other. My brother turns and frowns at me curiously. “What’s with the ultra-serious expression? You look like you just killed someone.”

I doubt it.

I don’t slip up like that.

It’s funny: when people compare the two of us, I end up looking like the “light” brother, the “good one”, and Alistair comes off as the “dark one”.

Reality is a bit different.

Soon, the whole group is finding somewhere to sit around the dinner table. Shawna, my new housekeeper and cook, steps out of the kitchen with a tray of wine glasses. When she sees all the curious faces and the way I appear to be holding court, she turns to leave, but I stop her.

“Actually, this concerns you, too, Shawna.”

“Mr. Black?”

“Grab a chair, please.”

Looking confused, she finds a seat next to Maeve as I clear my throat and open the envelope.

“A few of you have guessed that I’ve been talking with a political consulting group about potentially running for public office. It feels like the next step for me, and obviously, Taylor, Alistair and I will have a much bigger conversation about all of this later. But I wanted to break the news to all of you at once.”

“Let me guess,” Alistair smirks. “Head of sanitation.” He taps his chin. “No, no. Hang on.” He grins. “Head meter maid! Gabriel, I swear to fuck, if you start booting my car for those bullshit parking tickets⁠—”

Eloise elbows him sharply in the side. “Will you let him talk?”

I nod my thanks at my future sister-in-law before I start to walk around the table, laying one of the thick, multipage NDAs in front of each of them.

“This isn’t set in stone,” I say quietly as I make my way around. “But tonight, I wanted to have the first of probably several discussions⁠—”

“What the fuck.”

I stop. All of them are staring at the front page of their NDA. Slowly, my brother raises his eyes to mine, his brows arched sharply.

“You’re running for fucking Governor?!”