Page 2 of Emerald

There’s virtually no poison that can’t be discovered in the bloodstream in this day and age. Modern science is a bitch. But it’s not infallible. The autopsy will only show what they search for.

So, the best poisons are chameleons. They lurk out of sight, or masquerade as something different.

Aconite is an ancient killer. Women used to grow the pretty purple flowers in their gardens, then brew it into tea for unfaithful husbands.

I’ve made it into little white tablets, a quarter the size of my pinky nail. Once I drop one into Yozhin’s drink, it will dissolve in seconds. He’s going to swallow it down, and it’s going to wreak havoc in the sodium channels of his cardiac and neural cells. It won’t happen immediately, while I’m standing there. It will give me a nice little window to make myself scarce. But then, sure and certain, his heart is going to seize up tighter than a charley horse.

The coroner could find a trace of the aconite, but not without ordering a full-scale gas chromatography, which he won’t do. Not with Yozhin’s blood already swimming with much more obvious culprits like alcohol and cocaine. Not to mention his sixty-some pounds of excess weight, and the fact that he’s hardly a spring chicken.

Nothing could be more natural or expected than a heart attack.

The only thing I’ve got to watch out for is his bodyguards. There’s one, a tall blond with a birthmark on the side of his face, who’s already got his eye on me. Either I’ve done something to make him suspicious, or that’s just his natural state. Either way, I don’t want to tangle with anybody the size of a refrigerator.

I join the other girls out on the floor, mingling with the patrons enough that the floor manager won’t give me shit, but making sure not to get pulled into any private rooms before Yozhin gets here. He should be arriving any minute.

The Raketa is a large club, glamorous in that uniquely Russian way where everything is flashy, showy, and just a little bit odd. Russians love a good theme. In Raketa, the theme is outer space. The floor and ceiling are speckled with little lights that are supposed to look like stars, and the booths somewhat resemble rocket ships. There’s a giant portrait of Yuri Gagarin on the wall, watching the girls gyrate against the poles on the main stage.

I keep glancing at the clients’ watches—it’s almost ten o’clock, long past when Yozhin usually arrives. I’m about to give up on him for the night when I see him hurrying through the doors, looking flushed and agitated.

Yozhin is about 5’9, the same height as me, but he looks small next to his two hulking bodyguards. I can see he’s brought the blond with the birthmark. Blondie is already scanning the room with a scowl on his face.

Yozhin is balding, with a short salt and pepper beard, pouchy eyes, and full lips that he licks a little too often. He wears his suits too large, probably in hopes of hiding his belly. When he tips the girls, he makes sure to slide the bills as far into our G-strings as we’ll allow, with his thick little fingers lingering on our skin. We have to smile the whole time like we love it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve posed as a stripper or a sex worker—it’s an easy way to get close to my targets. Every time I do it, a little more rage builds up inside of me. I hate these men who think that their power and money buys a woman as easily as it buys a car or a watch.

I like to think of myself as a professional. I try to keep emotion out of my work. But I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to seeing Yozhin’s face flushing purple as his heart turns to stone inside his chest.

He deserves it. My targets always deserve it.

Yozhin’s look of strain eases just a little as he catches sight of me.

“Roxie!” he cries, coming close to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, Mr. Yozhin,” I say. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it tonight.”

“I wouldn’t miss seeing you,” he says, allowing his eyes to roam freely over my body in the skimpy costume.

He pulls back from the kiss, but he lets his hand linger on my right asscheek. I’m longing to shake him off, but if I stay the course, tonight is the last time he’ll touch me or anybody else.

“You want me to go get Angie?” I ask.

The sooner I get him alone in the private room, the sooner I can make my move.

“I want to,” he says regretfully, “but I’m supposed to be meeting someone here tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, pouting out my bottom lip.

“Come sit with me though,” he says. “Until my guest arrives.”

I give a nod to Angie across the room. We join Yozhin at his VIP table. He buys us two of the space-themed cocktails, which are actually just pineapple juice when they’re made for the strippers but cost the clients fifteen hundred rubles a round. I get a kickback every time a client buys me a drink, or any time they purchase a private dance.

Of course, those earnings pale compared to the actual payout for this job. But it amuses me to drain the bank accounts of these politicians and businessmen, who should be home with their wives instead of groping girls young enough to be their daughters.

“Where is he?” Yozhin mutters in Russian to his blond bodyguard.

“He says he’ll be here in ten minutes,” Blondie replies.

The other reason Yozhin likes Angie and me is because he thinks we only speak English. That’s true for Angie. Not at all true for me.

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