Codename: Aconite

I drum my glossy red fingernails along the patent leather steering wheel as two guards take a painstakingly long time to scan my car for explosives. If they take any longer I’ll be the one exploding. I was busy cultivating my batch of nerium oleander – more commonly known as oleander – a strikingly beautiful flower that is extremely deadly from root to petal due to containing lethal cardiac glycosides known as oleandrin and neriine. However, I was interrupted by a call from Uncle Dimitris begging me for a favour. As my favourite uncle, I couldn’t say no, but then again, no one says no to the most powerful νονοί in Athens. With my car finally cleared, the gates in front of me open and I am ushered through. I step on the gas and begin weaving through the familiar winding road umbrellaed by Mediterranean Cyprus trees. The road eventually opens to an expansive gravel driveway filled with cars all parked in neat rows, which alerts me to the meeting going on inside. I can even see my fath

I watch with satisfaction as the cleaners wrap up Zephyr’s body to carry his worthless carcass out of the meeting room. The men slowly slink out one at a time, glancing at Zephyr’s face frozen and contorted in a state of agony as the cleaners zip the body bag closed. Some men’s eyes fill with contempt for their traitorous brethren, while others fill with trepidation. It’s the trepidation that concerns me. Contempt tells me they feel he got what he deserved. Trepidation means they think they could be next, and that begs the question… what have they done to make them fear such retaliation? As the last of the men leaves the room, Dimitris walks over and places a gentle hand on my shoulder, once again giving it a firm squeeze as he looks at me with appreciative eyes. “I know I keep giving you my thanks, but I am truly grateful for everything you’ve done,” he says with deep sincerity. “Don’t mention it. What’s family for if not to torture and kill your enemies?” I ask playfully, earning

After an hour of watching Athena sleep, I felt it was safe to carefully remove myself from under her frail frame. I slowly replace my body with a pillow and bundle her up making sure she’s secure and then quietly exit her room, closing the door behind me. I give a nod of acknowledgement to Athena’s diligent bodyguards down the hall, who both nod with a look of relief and appreciation on their faces. To their credit, they are good men and would lay down their lives for Athena. They’re probably as happy as I am that she let me in and managed not to scream. Hopefully she’ll start to improve and when she’s strong enough I can start training her just as my mother trained me, only with some upgrades. I was hoping to see my father again before I left, but I can’t seem to track him down and I don’t feel like staying around here longer than I have to, especially when I have botanicals that need my attention. So, instead, I make my way back to my car stopping at a full-length mirror to give my

I have been buzzing with a sense of accomplishment this week. Roughly a year ago I managed to obtain Hippomane mancinella seeds and have been cultivating them ever since. This particular fruit tree is native to Mesoamerica and the Caribbean Sea Islands and so it’s taken time to create the perfect environment for it to flourish in, and after months of hard work, the tree is finally bearing fruit! Now, it’s not the fruit from this tree that is of interest to me. The manchineel tree is also known as the Tree of Death or the Chamomile of Death. While the fruit smells heavenly and has the appearance of a mini apple, the tree is highly toxic. It’s actually considered the most dangerous tree in the world. The tree itself produces a milky sap that contains phorbol, an organic compound that when exposed to the skin can feel like someone is setting your skin on fire, to the point it can even cause blisters and eruptions in the epidermis. However, if the sap is ingested it will lead to severe vo

My senses are shocked back to life when I hear the obnoxious sound of the telephone. I reach my arm out from under the sheets and feel around the nightstand until my hand connects with the phone. I pick up the receiver and place it to my ear, while I continue to keep my eyes closed, holding onto the last remnants of sleep. “Dobroye utro, Gospozha Medea, this is the front desk,” greets the masculine and contrite voice on the other end of the line, addressing me by my current alias. It takes a moment for my semi-asleep brain to translate the Russian being spoken to me and realise I have to respond in kind. This is the one downside to international travel. While I speak many languages fluently, I am not a fan of being woken up in order to do so. “Dobroye utro,” I say back tiredly, a yawn escaping me. “I apologise for the disturbance, but a phone call has come through for you. Would you like me to patch it through?” The man asks warily. Who the hell is trying to reach me? Who the hell