Raven stood in the dim corridor outside Vincent's private study, a crystal decanter of aged red wine balanced in her hands. The liquid inside was perfect — deep crimson, breathing for exactly forty-three minutes as the sommelier had instructed. To the naked eye, flawless, and only she knew about the poison.
A slow-acting neurotoxin she'd perfected during her Caruso years. Thirty to forty minutes to begin shutting down motor functions. Subtle tremors first, then paralysis of the diaphragm. Death would look like a silent heart attack in his sleep. Clean, untraceable. The kind of kill that made even the Obsidian Council pause.
She'd slipped the vial from a hidden compartment in her tactical vest during her shower after the warehouse mission. One drop was enough, and she'd flushed the rest. This was her third serious attempt since the forced marriage. The knife to his throat in the bedroom had been impulsive. Tonight was calculated.
