Page 14 of How to Kill Your Rival

Eliza doesn’t rush, not even when one of the Stewart lads tuts. She just looks up at him and levels a devastating smile his way. Jealousy bites me, sending a twisting anger clawing at my stomach. It’s irrational. I know she isn’t interested in them. It doesn’t make the envy any less. The Stewarts control a wide swathe of Glasgow, their interests in drugs and control aside from the contract killing. They lack the finesse of the Hamiltons and would gladly put them six feet under if it means a seat at the head of the table. They’ve been especially vicious since the disappearance of the eldest Stewart lad, Eddie, a few months ago.

She places her files on the table and takes Evan’s empty chair. The high-backed seat overwhelms her slight figure, which is more compacted muscle than it appears. I know because I’ve fantasised about them. Again and again.

Patrick Kavanagh, one of the middle-aged family heads, looks pointedly at Eliza’s former seat, which remains empty. He’s a sour-faced git, all professional up top, yet he has a piece of croissant on his lapel, which undermines his staunch face. He used to be considered quite handsome with his mop of brown hair just turning salted at the edges, and his broad shoulders. Alas, in the past few years, he’s become more angry, and that anger seems to poison him. He’s a damn sight doughier than he was, and spends half of the meetings glaring at Eliza. He married again in recent years, and seems to have been miserable ever since.

The slight lift of her brow lets me know she’s noticed his slight, but rather than rising to it, she ignores his bad behaviour. Like he’s an overgrown toddler rather than a well-connected killer.

Annoyance dances over Patrick’s face, and I pretend not to notice. Outwardly, I try to remain impartial. Internally, I may as well be wearing a neon sign that says, I need you, Eliza Hamilton. Choose me.

When Eliza opens her paperwork, moving to address everyone, Patrick cuts in ahead of her. ‘I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all thinking of Evan. It must be a difficult time.’

Eliza’s fingers still on the paper, her eyes darting up to glare at Patrick, something unreadable passing between them.

‘He sends his regards and expects to be back to full health within the year. Shall we start with the contract assignments?’ She might not say, Shut the fuck up, Patrick with her mouth, but the essence of it hangs in the air.

‘Wonderful.’ He smiles. ‘Has he had a chance to review the border dispute? It’s the kind of thing that might benefit from his specific⁠—’

‘I’ve reviewed it,’ Eliza says. ‘My father is not in this seat for the time being. I am. I’ve reviewed everything on today’s agenda.’

Patrick opens his mouth.

‘Let’s proceed,’ Eliza cuts him off before he can start.

I take a biscuit from the saucer below my cup of tea and take a bite. Fuck me, it’s a wonder I’m not the size of a house with the way the Hamiltons’ chef cooks. The man is a wonder. The biscuit is perfectly crisp and decidedly buttery. When I marry Eliza, I’ll have these biscuits as favours for everyone who attends.

I’m quite sure that one day, she’ll marry me, because I fully intend to kill any other man who tries to turn her head.

Is it a healthy way to snag the love of your life? Perhaps not. But when you’re a killer anyway, what’s a few more bodies?

Eliza talks through some contracts, and I zone out. I love my job, and I especially love taking out people who truly deserve to die, but I hate these fucking meetings. Thank God that attending is only mandatory once a month. They are designed to stop in-fighting and competition amongst the contract-killing families, but largely, they are a sausage fest where the guys compete to see who has the biggest dick.

Not literally, but in the battle for superiority. Yawn.

Not that it’s unusual in the criminal world. Whether you’re in the upper echelons like these families, or in the far more on-the-ground enterprises, men still dominate. Some say it’s because women are softer, or more emotional, or don’t have the stomach for crime. Those people have clearly never seen Eliza choke a man with his own ball sack.

Still, the chairs are largely handed down from father to son, each generation reared to maintain the status quo. Kowalczyk sits at the far end of the table, silver-haired and slower nowadays. He focuses largely on Eastern Europe. His burly son, who is 90 per cent brawn and lacks his father’s brains, sits beside him. I know Kowalczyk’s daughter. She’s whip-smart and yet frozen out of the business.

‘On the question of the northern contracts,’ Bellingham, fifty-eight and with dyed hair that tells me he refuses to accept his ageing, and a beard that is equally as pitch-black, adds. ‘It might be worth getting Evan’s thoughts on the resourcing. Given his experience with the northern families.’

‘Evan’s thoughts,’ Eliza repeats.

Bellingham shrinks a little in his chair, evidently afraid of the scarlet-haired hellion that is Eliza. ‘Just a thought…’

Eliza places her chin on her hand and narrows her eyes. ‘He’s having chemotherapy, Bellingham. Not just skipping the meeting to play golf. The Hamilton operation is my operation. The northern families are my relationships. If you have a problem, you need to discuss it with me.’

Eliza makes a note on her paperwork while Bellingham takes a drink of his tea, his face growing red as the other men glare at him.

They all underestimate her. These men see her as a pretty diversion from normal proceedings at best, and a hindrance at worst. But they don’t see the real Eliza. She grew up at Evan’s feet, embroiled in the family business from a young age, not because it was expected, like all of their sons. Because she thrives in it. They fail to realise that she outwits, and outpaces, their sons in every single way. Eliza is a natural-born assassin; it flows through her veins. Not in a frenzied manner, but with the clinical efficiency of a businesswoman who intends to conquer her world.

‘Purely for the record,’ Patrick says, sitting up straighter in his chair with a smirk that means trouble, ‘we’ve had two voided contracts so far this year, and all in the Hamilton arena. I’m sure Evan would want⁠—’

‘The next person,’ Eliza says, her voice sharp enough to scalp a man, ‘who suggests I ring my father to check on something will find themselves short of a testicle.’

Silence fills the room as more than one man tenses at the threat.

Shit.

At the far end, Eric Smith, who sits holding the only other woman – his wife, Margaret’s – hand, bursts into laughter. Margaret slaps his thigh, which only makes him laugh harder.