Page 62 of Lethal in Pink

The screen cuts to black. The hotel room falls dead silent, saved only by the high hum of the air conditioner and the distant rattle of a Vespa backfiring down on the cobblestones.

I pick up my phone, dropping it into my clutch alongside Claudette’s business cards.

Claudette Moreau adjusts her cuffs, checks her lipstick, and steps out into the Florentine heat to begin the hunt.

Wrought-iron lanterns cast warm, low shadows across the stone floor of the Palazzo Corsini terrace, the Arno River gleaming like oil in the dying twilight below. The wine in my glass is a 2015 Barolo—dark, heavy, tasting faintly of crushed cherries and oak. I hold the crystal stem lightly between two fingers, taking my first sip only after I’ve watched three other guests drink from theirs.

Renato Caruso finds me exactly where Penelope planned for him to find me—leaning against the balustrade, my profile angled toward the softest light on the terrace.

He approaches from my left, preceded by a cloud of cologne so thick it practically leaves a film in the air. A heavy, suffocating blend of sandalwood, bitter nutmeg, and synthetic musk. It hits my nose with the force of an allergen, triggering a sharp prickle at the back of my throat that requires every ounce of my training to ignore.

“You’re new,” he says, stepping entirely too close. His Italian-accented English is smooth, delivered with the easy confidence of a man who believes he catalogued every woman in the room the second he walked in.

“Claudette Moreau.” I turn slowly, extending a hand. His fingers are warm, his grip firm enough to demonstrate authority without crushing mine. “Milanese luxury goods. I’m in town for the trade conference.”

“Renato Caruso.” He doesn’t offer a title or a firm name. He doesn't need to. In this city, his surname is the currency.

“I’ve heard of you,” I say softly. I haven't—not until Penelope’s dossier dropped into my inbox. But I deliver the line with practiced reverence, like his reputation preceded him across northern Italy.

I watch his shoulders relax—a subtle, microscopic shift as his vanity absorbs the compliment.

The conversation flows effortlessly because I make it easy. I ask about Florence, letting him lecture me on his favorite trattoria, his private art collection, his view of the Duomo—all places I’ve already mapped, all opinions I’ve already memorized. I nod at the right moments, laugh at the exact right volume, and let him believe he’s orchestrating every second of our chemistry.

It is almost absurdly simple. A man so completely wrapped in his own ego doesn't question good luck; he assumes he deserves it.

The plan moves forward without a single hitch. Three nights later, when I meet him at an exclusive private gallery showcase in the Oltrarno, he’s already acting like my presence is guaranteed.

We stand before a featured Caravaggio—Judith Beheading Holofernes—the painted blood spray hanging in dark, thick crimson against the stark white wall.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping into my peripheral vision. “The raw violence. Most painters show the quiet aftermath. Caravaggio captures the precise second the blade meets flesh.”

I know this painting. I know Caravaggio painted it in 1599, that his mistress Fillide modeled for Judith, and that the arterial spray follows the exact physics of a severed carotid artery.

Instead of offering any of that, I turn to him, tilting my head slightly, letting my eyes widen with quiet, captivated wonder.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave. “That’s... remarkably perceptive, Renato.”

I watch the pride bloom across his face—unmistakable, transparent, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. Men like Caruso are painfully easy to operate. They don't want an equal; they want an audience. Give them an audience, and they will hand you their keys, their trust, their lives.

Four days after the gallery, we’re sitting in a dimly lit bar on Via della Vigna Nuova. The low cello music feels like a physical vibration against my spine. Caruso has finished two negronis; my Aperol spritz sits mostly untouched, the ice slowly melting into the orange liquor. His silver pillbox rests on the dark mahogany table beside his water glass. On his phone, a countdown timer glows faintly on the lock screen before going dark—a health app reminder set for 10:00 PM sharp.

I have five minutes before his phone chimes.

“Renato,” I say softly, leaning in just enough to draw his focus toward the shadowed alcove near the courtyard entrance. “Is that Senator Rossi?”

Caruso turns his head immediately, his eyes narrowing as he scans the crowd to verify the presence of someone more important than himself.

It takes him three seconds. Three seconds is an eternity.

My pulse doesn't spike; my hands don't shake. With the replacement capsule already palmed between my thumb and forefinger, my fingers slide across the table beneath the heavy drape of my silk sleeve. Flip, swap, drop. The latch snaps shut with a quiet, metallic click that vanishes beneath the swelling cello music.

When he turns back, disappointed—“No, just a gallery owner from Venice”—I offer a sympathetic, intoxicating smile.

Five minutes later, right at 10:00 PM, his phone screen lights up with a quiet chime. Caruso doesn't even break eye contact as he reaches out, pops the silver case open, tips the capsule into his mouth, and downs it with a swallow of sparkling water.

I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows his own mortality, completely oblivious.

“I should get back,” I say, gathering my clutch from the mahogany counter. “Early start tomorrow.”