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Either way, this scenario is even better than I could ever have imagined. With the restaurant’s security feed down and now the staff gone, it means fewer obstacles in my way. Franko bought the house for the night, a special luxury only the wealthy can afford, and yet he has no idea he’s going to pay with his death.

Franko is probably the reason the staff had to leave as well. I scoff. Pompous idiot. He’s made everything too easy for me. I’ve spent the last seven days studying the full architecture of this restaurant. When I first found out Franko would be here tonight, it only took me a few hours to remember why The Gilded Cage sounded so familiar.

It’s the same fancy-ass restaurant my friend and fellow confidante, Hunter Rose, took me to right after I lost my sister. At first, I thought Hunter was just some wealthy lawyer or a scam artist trying to pull a fast one on me. A week after Fiona passed, he reached out to me, stating that she had a will and that we needed to meet in person. The whole situation screamed red flags. What healthy young adult woman under the age of twenty-five had a will, let alone Fiona?

I thought it was complete bullshit, and yet, I was grieving and desperately seeking answers. It was a dark period in my life. The last remaining member of my family had just been brutally murdered, and I was looking for someone to blame. Of course, I went.

It seems Hunter and my sister knew each other quite well. In her quest for legal support against Franko, Hunter offered Fiona services on a pro-bono basis. No one understands just how much it meant to me knowing Hunter was in her corner.

It wasn’t long before I discovered the handsome lawyer and I have a lot in common. Hunter also possessed the dark, sadistic nature I always kept hidden deep down. Something about how like calls to like, because the next thing I knew, Hunter wasn’t handing me a will, but a diary my sister left to me, laying out all the evil shit she had to deal with over the past couple of years. My beloved sister was brutally tortured and raped on camera by Franko and his men. No one lifted a damn finger to help her.

Hunter saw the rage building inside me. He must have known what was in my heart, because that day he took me under his wing. He taught me how to survive. How to defend myself. How to kill. He gave me purpose again.

I’ve spent the last three years hunting down each man responsible for hurting my sister. One at a time, I made each of them suffer a brutal, gruesome death. Tonight will mark the end of a chapter when I seek my final revenge on the man who started it all.

The walk-in pantry door creaks open as I slowly emerge from my hiding spot.

Smoothing the front of my dark indigo silk dress shirt, I walk over to the glassware and pluck two wineglasses from the rack.

There are three hidden compartments in my necklace. Twisting the pendant into its proper position, I dump the crushed powder into the wineglass before smearing it on the bottom so it isn’t visible at first glance.

When I pour the wine, the substance will dissolve instantly. Poison might be one of my favorite ways to kill, but this particular batch was made specifically for The Director. I find it almost poetic that Franko will die from the hazardous toxins in my sister’s favorite flower.

While most people might think of oleander or foxglove when it comes to poisonous flowers, no one suspects white amethyst. There’s a certain compound found in its petals that paralyzes, but when combined with the alkaloid, coniine, which is found in hemlock, it leads to a slow, excruciating death.

“Tonight is the night,”

I quietly make my way through the kitchen, slip into the hall, and head down to the wine cellar to pick out a fine vintage of my favorite wine. Might as well enjoy myself while I kill the asshole.

With the expensive bottle in hand, I take a deep breath and center myself. A faint buzz of excitement hums through me, and a smile has spread across my face. I don’t even need to slip into a persona. I’m Skylar King. An entrepreneur. A charming porn star. A killer.

“Tonight is the night,” I repeat like a mantra. This isn’t a whim. It’s not some fancy dream of revenge. I’ve calculated for every possible scenario. I’ve meticulously planned this to ensure Franko Warner won’t make it out of here tonight.

Franko, the pompous jerk I know him to be, is at the large central table in the dining room, surrounded by a fancy feast of food. This amount of food can easily feed more than two people. It’s almost as if he’s been waiting for me.

My smile grows wider when Franko spots me. His bored expression vanishes, replaced for a moment by shock, before he regains his composure. His calculating grin matches mine. The giddiness mixed with what I’m sure has to be adrenaline is pumping through my system.

I’m happy I don’t even have to fake my emotions right now. Out of everything I’ve planned over the years, I was almost half afraid my face would give away my true feelings. But not tonight. Not when he’s this close to death.

Franko’s guard stiffens, hand on his gun as if expecting a fight. I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. There’s a menacing look on his face, and I get the impression he’s trying to look tough for his boss.

Ignoring the dumb brute, I hold up the bottle of wine and wineglasses like a treasured keepsake I’m showcasing.

Franko glances at his guard and gives a quick shake of his head. When his man relaxes, all the tension in the room leaves. I give the big brute a flirty wink as I walk past and gracefully slide into the chair his female companion abandoned.

Usually, I’d be worried about where she wandered off to. She’s a moving variable. But I’ve already set the stage and decided to kill Franko using my special poison. Even if she were to accuse me, without any surveillance or witnesses, it would be hard to prove it was I who poisoned him.

Once Franko consumes the poison, it will take about twenty to thirty minutes for it to truly hit his system. By the time his condition is obvious, he’ll be thrashing about on the floor and gasping for breath while his body painfully begins to shut down.

By then, it’ll be too late. He won’t make it to the hospital in time, let alone have enough of it left to get his stomach pumped.

“Skylar,” Franko purrs. “To what do I owe the honor?”

I inhale a deep breath, grounding myself as I let the last of my anger drift away. In its place, I let my facial features soften even more; it’s a practiced, pouty look that both the camera and social media eat up. Leaning forward, I rest my chin in my palm with deceptively wide-eyed curiosity. “Imagine my surprise when I come to my favorite restaurant only to find out some pompous jerk bought out the whole place.”

Franko’s eyes drop to my lips.

“I had to investigate. I’ll admit, I was shocked when I found out it was you. It’s why I came bearing gifts,” I say, pointing at the bottle.