Love Antidote

Chapter 1: Lumos: Isla

Isla works her dessert station at Lumos on the same night a possible Michelin inspector arrives. Abigail hisses that the man dropped a fork but set it on the floor, and no one heard it. Sarah asks if he is dining alone. He is, at table seven. The kitchen staff peer through the pass and see a gorgeous man with black hair and olive skin in a tailored black suit, focused on his phone as he eats soup. Sarah tells everyone he might be an inspector or might not, but if they want to keep their star, they will give it their all. The staff answers, Yes, Chef, and the second service grinds on.

Isla has two jobs. She steals glances at the possible inspector, but her focus is the table beyond him, where Tomasz Nowak sits with eight guests overlooking the Chicago skyline. It is Nowak's birthday. He loves a good time: bleached smile, loud laugh, garish suit. He murders colleagues, buys friends, and spends money on golf equipment, cars, women, and cocaine. He sells weapons to Isla's employer's primary competitor and to governments without scruples. Isla has been at Lumos four months, preparing to get close enough to kill him while staying far enough away not to be shot in the face like the last three assassins. She crosses herself for Carl Donnelly and focuses on the karpatka, Nowak's sentimental birthday dessert from Poland. She layers the choux pastry, pipes Sto lat! in dark chocolate on the plate rim, and injects the custard with a preloaded syringe of hemorrhagic poison. It will make him bleed from his eyes and kill him within sixty minutes. She is adding edible gold foil when a plate smashes.

Paolo, the sous-chef, slices his finger. Sarah presses a rag to the wound and tells Isla, called Beth, to get gauze. Isla responds seamlessly, guides Paolo to the sink, cleans and bandages the cut while the staff cleans debris and replates mains. When she returns, the karpatka is gone. Dread climbs her throat. Nowak still eats his main course. She rushes to the pass and rings the bell again and again until Sarah curses her. Abigail appears. Isla asks where the karpatka with the letters is. Abigail says she took it to table seven. Isla says that one was not his; it was for Nowak. She points toward him, dodging his gaze because he is cagey after thwarted attempts. Her heart drops. The man at table seven is already half finished with the dessert. Abigail smiles and says Isla has made them before, so she has plenty of time to make another. She walks away. Isla will not be fine. She has only one vial of poison. The Michelin inspector is eating it all.

Chapter 2: Sideways: Mateo

Mateo sits in a high-end restaurant, eating karpatka. Kitchen dings send the head server marching back. Mateo glimpses a stunning dark-haired woman beyond the shelves, her face barely restrained fury. The server's words flush her fair skin. She is probably late twenties or early thirties, but her ferocity seems immortal. Instinct makes Mateo drop his gaze. He nearly smiles as he takes another bite. He does not know what upset her and should not care about a woman he will never meet. Sometimes he wonders what a normal life would be like.

His attention slides to the table of eight men to his right. Each wears a holster under his suit jacket. The man he cares about has four, including a Beretta at his ankle. Maybe this is his last good meal. There is a reason he was hired. The angry woman is gone.

When he finishes, he asks for the bill. Knowing Tomasz Nowak, the men will stay another forty-five minutes at least. That gives Mateo time to set up in the parking garage. Nowak is suspicious of everyone, especially Mateo, dining alone. Nowak's eyes have been on him all night. But once Mateo leaves without a fuss, Nowak will forget he existed. Until Mateo shoots him in the head.

Mateo pays with a credit card that will link back to one of Nowak's former bodyguards if anyone looks. The thought of Carl Donnelly, a legend killed by that man, makes nausea coil through him. He signs the receipt and sips water, but the feeling does not fade. He blames the rich food and leaves.

Alone in the elevator to P1, nausea is joined by a headache behind his eyes. He shoves it back when he steps out. Guards wait by the garage door and roam beyond the glass. More will be upstairs on P2 with Nowak's armored Mercedes G-Wagon. They ignore Mateo. They will be dead within the hour.

He heads for the blacked-out Tesla in a shadowed corner. The ground tilts. He stumbles, hand flying to his brow. Sweat slides under his fingers as lights strobe. He forces focus. After tonight, Nowak disappears until Madrid, where he meets Anthony Baptiste, virtually untouchable. Mateo cannot delay, not with so many bounties looming over his head. This is his best shot.

Something is very wrong. He makes it to the Tesla and stumbles through the passenger door. Barely. He should be setting up the self-driving Tesla, the dummy, and the guns. Except he can barely see straight. The realization sinks in. It is not just the food. He has been poisoned. He reaches for the duffel bag and its hidden first aid kit when the driver's door opens. He stares into the muzzle of a gun.

Chapter 3: Bounty: Isla

Isla slips into the driver's seat of the car, gun trained on the man in the passenger seat, and delivers the news: he's been poisoned. She assures him it isn't Chef Kowalska's fault, that the Michelin star shouldn't be held against her, and that the meal, service, and dessert were all excellent. The man, whose Andalusian accent warms his voice, agrees with each point. Isla produces a prefilled syringe of antidote and lays out the deal: she injects him, he passes out and probably doesn't die, and he makes sure Lumos keeps its star. He stares at her with confusion and vertigo.

She reaches into his jacket for his wallet to learn his name. He tries to stop her, his grip surprisingly fast, but his sweaty palm lets her twist free. She reads the credit card and white-hot rage floods through her. She pistol-whips him, accusing him of being Tommy McCormick, the man who killed Carl Donnelly. She keeps hitting him as he begs her to stop, insisting he isn't Tommy, that his name is Mateo Rocha. She freezes, gun poised above his flinching face, and demands proof.

Mateo unbuttons his shirt, exposing his chest. Isla scans the invisible UV tattoo above his heart with her phone. The QR code confirms his identity: Mateo Rocha, class 1 assassin, independent contractor, current client Worben Inc., 128 confirmed kills. She clicks on his bounties and finds more than a dozen companies listed, including her own longtime employer, Juniper Guild, offering a $5 million bonus for proof of death. The money would be more than enough to open her bakery.

She stares at the legend before her, a man who killed thirty-two armed men in under ten minutes, who slit Valentin Svoboda's throat in his own panic room. Even poisoned, he could have killed her ten times over. Both his eyes are bloodshot now, a crimson tear pooling and sliding down his cheek. One corner of his mouth lifts into a bittersweet smile, the small scar on his cheek looking like a dimple. He tells her it's okay, to take the kill and make sure they pay up. He closes his eyes.

Isla caresses the trigger, draws a long breath, shifts in her seat. But when she jabs the antidote into his jugular, his eyes fly open. His hand flies to his neck. The crimson tear slides down his cheek as his mouth opens in a quiet gasp. Then he passes out, head smacking the dashboard. Isla watches his breathing deepen to long, rattling exhalations. Maybe he'll survive, maybe he won't. She doesn't stay to find out.

Chapter 4: Labyrinth: Mateo

A spike of pain drives through his skull in a steady beat. His mouth is a desert, tasting of vomit and blood-soaked sand. When he cracks his eyes open, the room has a pinkish hue. Rolland’s gravelly voice calls out from somewhere in the room, announcing that he lives. Mateo groans, an IV tube dangling from his hand as he rubs his eyes and takes stock of his surroundings. They are in the safe house in Milwaukee, the basement studio flat of an old 1920s foursquare home in Riverwest. It smells like antiseptic and pizza. Rolland shoves the last bite of a slice into his mouth before hastily wiping his fingers and coming to his side. He tells Mateo he was touch and go, that he has been out for three days, and that Doc Leighton says he should be out of the woods now, though he looks crazy with those red eyes.

Rolland asks how he feels. Mateo takes another sip of water and levels his gaze at his rosy-hued friend and business manager. He says he thinks he is in love. Rolland blinks at him, the trenches of his wrinkles set in an expressionless mask. He asks with whom. Mateo is not sure how to explain this in terms Rolland will understand. Rolland has been in the industry much longer than him, and Mateo has already seen enough horrors in this world that he does not trust anyone but Rolland or the man in the mirror. Rolland will not understand what it is like to be saved by someone who could and should kill him. Mateo is not sure he fully understands it himself. He does not know if he would have made the same choice had their roles been reversed. He just knows she is not like anyone he has ever met.

He drinks more water, trying to work out what to tell Rolland until Rolland pulls the glass from his hand. Mateo tells him it is the woman who poisoned him. Rolland asks for her name. Mateo has no idea. He winces inwardly when Rolland lets out a disappointed grumble. He explains that she thought he was a Michelin inspector and was very concerned that he would hold it against the restaurant. It was endearing. Rolland echoes the word seriously. Mateo continues, saying she could have taken the bounty but did not. Rolland asks if he thinks that means she likes him. His gray eyes turn to daggers when Mateo shrugs. In one blink, there is a gun pointed at his forehead. Rolland says the poison has clearly melted his brain, that he is compromised.

Mateo whips the gun from Rolland’s hand and releases the empty magazine before tossing it onto the nearby couch. He tells Rolland it works better when it is loaded and that he is too slow. Rolland says he is retired and allowed to be. He pivots in a circle, the brief flash of amusement in his face gone the moment he puts too much weight on his braced left leg. He limps back to the small table shoved against the wall and sits, running a hand through his silver hair before he picks up another slice of pizza. Rolland says she must have been after Nowak too. Mateo nods, sitting up a little more on his bed, and assumes she did not take Nowak out in the parking garage. Rolland confirms Nowak is back underground.

Rolland takes a bite and chews for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Mateo. There is something he does not want to tell him, and Mateo already knows what it will be when he finally says it. Worden is not happy that Mateo failed. They have a lot of money on the line, and they expect him to do his job. Clearly, they are not the only ones who want Tomasz Nowak dead. Rolland asks if Mateo has any idea who his mystery woman works for. Mateo says no, maybe Worden hired her too, just in case he missed. But Nowak has many enemies. Rolland says whoever her employer is, they will not be happy either. She might be dead already.

He is right. It is a thought that has been lurking in the back of Mateo’s mind since the moment he woke up, and now Rolland has thrust it into the light. Mateo has no idea who she is, who she works for, if she is even still alive. It should not matter. But somehow, it does. He gets up from the bed to the sound of Rolland’s protests, gripping his IV pole for support, his hospital gown fluttering open at his back to smack his naked ass with cool air. He tells Rolland that Nowak will meet with Anthony Baptiste in Madrid in March. If she is still alive, she will be there too. He will find her. He gives Rolland a single, decisive nod. And then he passes out on the laminate floor.

Months tick down to weeks. Weeks become days. Then hours. Finally, he is boarding the plane to Madrid. It feels like it has taken a lifetime to prepare for this trip. He has spent every working hour uncovering Nowak’s clandestine deals or researching his likely security setup or strategizing about his next moves. Every off moment he has spent trying to find the poisoner but coming up empty. No matter how hard he tries to refocus on his mission, the possibility of seeing the mystery woman again has his blood humming through his veins. No matter how badly he wants to rationalize his interest in her or will it into dissipating, it still remains. People in their business do not save one another, especially not with five million dollars on the line. So why did she save him? The question dogs him, night and day. When he touches down in Madrid, it feels like it is biting at his heels, propelling every step he takes.

Rolland has already spent a week in the city, setting up their base of operations and gathering weapons. By the time Mateo joins him at the apartment on Calle de Lagasca, they are fully stocked and ready for Nowak’s arrival. But according to Rolland, they have a problem. Mateo raises a brow in question as he straps a bandolier of throwing knives across his chest. This is only a reconnaissance visit to the hotel where Nowak’s meeting will take place in three days, but he knows better than to assume it will be straightforward. He says it sounds like fun. Rolland says it is decidedly not fun, spinning his laptop screen to face him. There is a photo of a man wearing sunglasses in the foreground, Nowak standing behind him on a busy street. There are more grainy figures in the background, all of whom carry the air of authority. Rolland says he just received these from Alvaro. Mateo asks if the man in the sunglasses is Slange, saying he thought he was dead. Rolland says it appears the rumors were misleading. Mateo stares down at the photo, unmoving. Shit. Yeah, shit.

Rolland passes him his gun, sliding several magazines across the table. And then a few more. He frowns as his eyes travel across the ammunition and then Mateo’s body, as though he is woefully underprepared. Rolland says this changes the game, a lot. Mateo locks down his expression as he starts sliding the magazines into their pouches on his belt. The old bullet wounds in his leg and shoulder sing with the memory of his first and last encounter with Henrik Slange. He says he still has to get the job done. It is the only hope he has to wipe the bounties from his name. Rolland nods, his wrinkles etched in grim lines across his skin. He wishes Mateo good luck. With a salute and a weak smile, Mateo strides out the door.

In twenty minutes, he is slipping through the service entrance of the hotel. He navigates the labyrinthine halls, the layout burned into his memory from the hours he has spent scouring the floor plans and sifting through the security footage. With meticulous precision, he installs surveillance cameras at key locations throughout the hotel. The trick about navigating places like this is to know them so intimately that you feel like you belong in them before you ever set foot on the hideous carpet. He has done exactly that. He knows every hallway, every corner, every blind spot, even the ones not on their list. His final stop on Rolland’s schematic diagram of the hotel is the northwest corner service elevator on the sixteenth floor near where the meeting will be held. With a glance in each direction, he drops to one knee and removes the panel of the electrical outlet, replacing one of the screws with a miniature pinhole camera. He says over his earpiece that the last one is in. They are operational. Time to go.

He marches toward the stairway around the corner from the ice machine. Rolland responds affirmatively, then pauses. Mateo can almost feel Rolland glaring from behind his laptop screen. Rolland asks if he is going to scope out the kitchen. Mateo says what if he needs to pose as a banquet server as part of his cover, that he should at least check it out. Rolland sighs, saying Jesus Christ. A grin flashes across Mateo’s lips as he starts his descent. Seventeen stories later, he is in the basement level, cracking open the door to the sound of distant voices and the scent of food. When he is sure he is alone, he sneaks into the hallway, grabbing a clipboard of worker schedules from its hanger on the wall before making his way toward the kitchen. He passes a pair of servers who spare him little more than a glance. They would be within their rights to ask who the hell he is, but everyone looks official with a clipboard.

He is nearly at the double doors of the kitchen when he passes the staff break room. His steps lurch to a halt. It is her. She is listening to a colleague’s animated story. Her glossy chocolate hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, hazel eyes dancing as she smiles at the other woman. She does not see him pass the small window in the door. She does not realize he stops around the nearby corner that leads to a service elevator, or that he waits for her in the shadows. She does not hear him come up behind her as she exits the room alone. She has no idea he is in her territory. Not until he presses his blade against her throat and drags her into a storage closet. She smells like cinnamon and brown butter. He takes a greedy breath of her scent, his lips so close to her ear that they tingle with the urge to touch her soft skin. He whispers that she is just the woman he has been looking for. And he would like to propose a deal.