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***

“It’s time.” One of the men from before remarks from behind, startling me. “You made a lot,” he comments.

I gulp down the anxiety he landed in my gut. He is right, I cooked way too much. “Leftovers?” I ask.

But realistically, I need to figure out portion sizes. I am used to making restaurant portions all together, and one person proved to be more difficult than I originally thought.

I quickly plate the meal.

“Looks good.” He grabs onto my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, I just need to add—”

But he’s already dragging me away before I can add the dash of cinnamon to the top.

I’ll just put it in the leftovers.

I am convinced this place is purposefully confusing; by the time we make it a closed oak door, my head is spinning.

“Present it to him and then come back out. Don’t get too close to him,” the man warns, offering a single wrap to the oak door.

“Enter.”

And then he is pushing me through the doorway.

19

A Dish Best Served Cold

Julienne Napolitan

“We need to figure this out with the Rouxs and Barleys before they become even more problematic. No one else can tie us to the deaths. We need it to fall back on them,” I bark into the phone.

“We could always cut back some of the product. Less deaths on the street, less suspicion.”

My irritation piques. “Then how will phase two work? The poison needs to appear to come from their side. We need the unrest, we need the problems. Boss wants to push the hardcore drugs back on the streets. The deaths are the entire reason we are walking this line. And your job is to keep us out of the headlines.”

“I—” He heaves a sigh. “The Aldente boy is going to cause problems.”

“Scotch. If you can’t, let his father deal with him.”

“I—”

“Your job is to follow orders, not to question them.”

“But…”

“We’re going to put more in the products. More ODs. I don’t care about the trail, we need to finish this. Take over this town before the Rouxes and Barleys know what’s happening. I don’t care who dies because of it. My brother is already distributing it across the city.”

I end the call, not waiting for a response.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

Annoyance jolts through me as a new woman is shoved through the door.

The plate in her hand wobbles precariously, but she manages to catch it. Part of me wishes she hadn’t. I would love to punish the mistake.