Chapter 2: Killing The Mafia Boss

I hesitate for a second before opening the door and sliding into the back seat beside her.

The interior of the car is immaculate. Everything about it made me aware it was worth more than the life savings of anyone in my bloodline. 

For a moment, I became aware of how out of place I am, seated next to a millionaires wife. But I push the feeling aside. I had learned long ago how to mask my discomfort.

She speaks up first. “My husband will continue his therapy sessions tomorrow.”

Relief washes over me. The session mot being cancelled, means I’ll be receiving the handsome pay. 

“That’s good to hear.” I reply.

She nods, adding. “It won’t be at your office.”

Her nose scrunches subtly, as though the thought of my humble office displeases her.

I frown, bewildered on the need to carry me in her car, to inform me she’d taken up another therapist. Probably fancy enough to satisfy her inclination. 

“His sessions will continue at our manor.” She says. 

This surprises me again, and I consider it for a moment. It didn’t change mmuch. As long as the sessions continued, so would the payment.

“That’s fine,” I say.

Her gaze settles on me. She looks me over, as though assessing something I couldn’t see.

“And you’ll also do something else for Jude.”

She says her husband’s name with a bit of derision. As a therapist, I pick up.on it, amidst her detachedness. 

“What is it?” I don’t lower my eyes from her gaze.

Her lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile.

“I want you to kill him."

Maybe I’d misheard her. We were just talking about how to help her husband, Jude. But she adds, with a cruel look.

“I want you to kill my husband.”

I’ve always been eloquent and good with situations. But I’m so flabbergasted that all I can offer is a, “W-what?”

The woman’s eyes pull away from me. She picks up her phone, and begins to tap away on it. After a few seconds, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I ignore it, but Brittany looks at me and says, “Check your phone.”

Still perplexed by the request she’d just made, I reach for my phone slowly. I unlock it, and the first thing I see is a bank credit alert that makes my eyes bulge.

My eyes flit over the zeroes. I’d never had this much money in my account all at once.

Then a sinking realisation hits me as I connect that Brittany just sent me the money, and she’d just made an inhumane request.

As if hearing my comprehension, she goes on.

“You see what I just sent you? I’ll be paying you that every two weeks, in addition to your counselling f*e.”

I’m at a loss for words, and I can only listen as she says, “And every two weeks, you’ll be administering this poison to him.”

From her side, she lifts up a little black box I hadn’t paid attention to. She sets it on her lap and opens up the contents. There’s a red bottle of perfume and a green vial.

“Poisoning him will be easy. My husband might have a vast knowledge of poisons and be immune to most, but this is one I’ve personally developed myself.”

“I’m sorry ma’am.” I finally find my voice. “I can’t kill a man. I’m just a thera—”

“Then would you like to die?”

Her cold voice interrupts. The serene coldness that had been in her eyes is replaced by the most venomous look I have ever seen.

“I might not be able to kill my husband myself, but making a pesky thing like you disappear is no problem at all.”

She clamps the box shut.

I sense danger in the way she looks at me. And when she calls to the driver.

“Mr Benson, take us to the yard. We need to dispose of this one.”

Panic rushes into me. Dispose? I reach for the door handle, trying to open it, but it’s locked shut.

The car begins to speed up, and Brittany regards me with a glare. “There’s no escaping Dr Cecilia.”

Fear consumes me, and I’m barely in the right mind when I scream, “I’ll do it.”

Brittany acts like I haven’t said anything, so I have to repeat, “I’ll kill your husband for you.”

“Mr Benson, forget the yard.”

She says to her driver, and the car slows down. She looks at me with a cruel smirk, then tosses the black box at me.

“Dr Cecilia, thank you for your cooperation.”

The next day, I’m in my office, dreading the arrival of Jude Martinez. 

Before coming to work, I’d ingested a drop of the contents in the green vial Brittany had given me. It was the antidote for the poison I’d be giving Jude.

My phone pings with a message from “Mrs Martinez.” It reads in a simple and straightforward way: “He’s almost there.”

Immediately, I open my drawer and spring up with the red perfume bottle she had given me.

In a quick movement, I spray it across the room. Then I settle back in my chair, and watch as the faint scent begins to spread, slow and unassuming, like something that did not intend harm.

This is how I’ll be poisoning Jude Martinez. The thought makes me nauseous. I barely have time to compose myself before my office door is flung open.

He walks in. Every bit of displeasure is written across his face.

Without a word, he takes his seat across from me, not sparing me any form of greetings. 

“Good morning, Mr Martinez.”

He answers me with a curt nod.

I glance briefly at his file, more for distraction than necessity. Trying to tamp down growing guilt I’m feeling. 

“How have you been sleeping?” I start with the first question. 

“Fine.”

“Any changes in your mood recently?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any unusual stress triggers this past week?”

“No.”

“Have you felt sad this week?”

His eyes flicker briefly at that, but his expression does not change.

“No.”

I pause.

The clipboard in my hand suddenly feels useless, because he’s not giving me any useful information to help him. I lower it slowly onto the table, letting out a quiet breath before speaking again.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you actually tried.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

The room is silent for a moment. 

Jude leans back slightly, his gaze settling on me with something new. He doesn’t look annoyed or irritated. He looks...

...amused?

A faint smirk tugs at his lips.

“Is that frustration I hear, Doctor?”

His voice is low, and mocking. But I hold his gaze.

“It’s called doing my job.”

The smirk deepens, just slightly.

“And what exactly is your job?”

There is something about the way he asks that question. It feels heavier than it should.

I look down, and notice my drawer, where the spray bottle of poison is in, is slightly open. I use one hand to push it close discreetly, while answering Jude’s question.