Page 110 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘I didn’t put Eddie in the ground,’ I say.

I stop in front of him and see him questioning whether he’s mistaken. Close enough that his gun is a foot from my face. Close enough to see the sweat dripping down his chin and the greyness in his skin. And I smile.

‘I fed his evil arse to my pigs,’ I say. ‘There wasn’t much of Eddie left that was recoverable by the morning. Hewie had him mostly digested by dawn. People underestimate pigs just like they underestimate me. Eddie certainly did.’

The colour drains from Marcus’s face next to his father. I frown as he vomits up pink foam on the table.

‘He had a knife to my sister’s throat. Had the audacity to attack my family in my home. He terrorised Maggie for years with your family’s blessing and encouragement because you wanted a Stewart in a Hamilton bed for business.’

Hector has turned a remarkable shade of puce. His gun dips as he steadies himself against the table.

‘So yes, Hector. I fed your son to my pigs. And I’d do it again if I could.’

‘You—’ Marcus’s voice falters. ‘You absolute⁠—’

They are all sweating properly now. The Kavanaghs and the Stewarts. So far, no one else. Mrs Cairns and Fraser hit the right teacups, thank God. It’s a good thing you can rely on Brits to be unable to resist a cuppa.

Fraser smiles at me over their heads.

Hector opens his mouth to say something but falls to the floor instead.

What comes out isn’t words, just a bubbling red mess. He tries to lift his gun, but his eyes are unfocused.

He drops the pistol and rolls to his side, clutching his stomach. I take a step to the side when he coughs blood onto my shoes.

For fuck’s sake.

Callum Kavanagh folds forward, dying on the table. Patrick gets a shot off, but it swings wide. James tosses a knife into his throat with an intensity that tells me he’s been plotting it for a while. Marcus makes it to his feet and takes one staggering step towards me before falling on top of his father.

Every Stewart and Kavanagh is dead. Or very soon to be.

James sits there wide-eyed amongst a sea of ashen-faced Death Council members.

Levelling a kick at Marcus on the floor, I get his attention, his eyes bloodshot and his lips double the size.

I crouch down.

‘You came into my home and took my brother. You sat at my table with guns pointed at my family because you thought you could take something that doesn’t belong to you.’ I look at him steadily. ‘You didn’t know that Fraser’s been learning all about poison from our mother’s journals.’

Marcus says nothing. He can’t any more; his tongue’s too fat and black in his mouth.

Taking a moment, I wipe the blood from my shoe on Marcus Stewart’s shirt and straighten back up.

I walk back to the head of the table and spread my hands flat on the surface. The remaining members sit in stunned silence. Kowalczyk. Bellingham. The Smiths.

With deliberately narrowed eyes, I look at each of them in turn.

‘I believe we’re going to need a reshuffle,’ I say. ‘We have a few new openings on the Death Council. I’d invite each of you to consider families you feel would be a loyal asset to the business going forward. It’s time for some new blood up in this crusty old mansion. Fresh perspectives. Maybe people who were even born this century.’

Silence.

At the far end of the table, someone reaches for a teapot that sits where the Stewarts had been.

Fraser shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t. That’s the Stewart pot.’

The hand withdraws.

James, to my left, lets out a long sigh.