Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)
Goldsin: Chapter 1

Wolfsbane.

Such a delicate flower for something so lethal.

It took me weeks to learn every aspect of the plant—how much to use, how long it would take for the poison to start to work, and how untraceable it is.

Then it took me even longer to persuade Valentine, my adoptive father and the only person who knows of my revenge plan, to order me some through his network.

And not because he didn’t want me to kill DeMarco, but because he wasn’t too excited by the idea of using poison. He preferred brutality and wanted to see me stab him to death.

Valentine was just projecting his boredom onto my plan. Once I showed him all the information I’d gathered about the plant online, he decided using wolfsbane would make the cleanup easier, help him erase any trace of my presence at the scene.

At the end of the day, attention to detail is everything when it comes to murder.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the slosh of liquid as I sway the vial between my fingers. How can something so innocent-looking be the vile solution to my problems?

I mix a few drops into his drink while he’s busy, probably stroking his ego, in the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror is the only person he’ll ever truly love in this life.

“Cheers.” My lips curve to the side as I lift my glass and slip the vial back into my purse just as he comes out.

“Are we going to toast or what?” His raucous voice attacks my senses, hairy fingers eager as they clasp the flute.

“Of course,” I say with faux sweetness. “To new beginnings.”

Standing in front of me is the powerful Vincent DeMarco. Not so powerful, with the way I’ve been playing him the whole afternoon. It didn’t take me long to seduce him into bringing me to his hotel room just a few floors above the Harrows’ fundraiser, which we’ll be attending soon. Well, I will. He’ll be dead by then.

He was drinking by himself at the hotel bar, deep in his third glass of scotch, when I appeared at his side pretending to order my drink. He didn’t wait long to strike up conversation, and after a few sways of my hips and whispers of sweet nothings in his ear, he invited me up to his room.

Eleanora, my best friend, was right: give men a shallow version of yourself, and they’ll become enslaved to it.

A smug grin stretches his lips as he peeks at me over the rim of his glass.

He thinks I’m just another dumb bitch he’ll get to take to bed—one who approached him for his money. He thinks I’ll be easy to manipulate and use on his own terms, because I laugh at his dry jokes and touch his arm here and there.

He thinks he’s one step ahead of me.

If only he knew.

I take a small sip from my glass, the sweet taste of champagne dancing on my tongue. While the bitter taste of wolfsbane pierces his.

He would have tasted it if he hadn’t swallowed most of the drink so fast.

The clear liquid I mixed with his champagne is enough to kill him twice.

“Ah, that’s the stuff,” he grunts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like the true head of South Seattle’s drug distribution he is.

They don’t really teach you manners when you’re part of the Inferno Consortium. Well, they don’t teach you manners if you’re a man in the Inferno Consortium, the secret society of powerful families who launder money from their legitimate businesses.

Only, that’s not all they do.

His broad shoulders stoop and he threads his fingers through his slicked-back dark hair as his eyes roam over my body. As if he owns it. Owns me for the night.

I feign a smile as I try to hide my disgust.

Just a few more minutes and no one will ever have to experience his eyes burning down their skin, the sickening feeling it leaves you with, again.

There’s no going back now. My plan is set in motion. The poison is coursing through his body right now, so close to reaching the first vital organ.

This is all for you, Mother.

One less monster in the world. Many more to go.

Vincent’s grip on the glass weakens as he tries to keep up the façade. His hand shakes a little, and he clears his throat, brushing off whatever is happening to him.

The loathing I feel for him slips between the cracks in my mask as I watch him struggle.

His role in the Inferno Consortium wasn’t what made me want to draw his fate for him. He’s done something far more personal.

Vincent took his role in the Inferno Consortium, and the power that came with it, and used it against my mother. He humiliated her, alongside other members, at Lucian Harrow’s exclusive parties.

Lucian is the leader of the Inferno Consortium, and his gatherings allow powerful men to indulge in their darkest fantasies while talking business, with no regard for the women they use and abuse.

My mother was one of those women.

“Tell me, Aurelia.” His words are barely coherent as he slurs, his eyes fluttering closed as he struggles to maintain eye contact. “Is this the first time you’ve attended the Harrows’ fundraiser? Have you ever been to one of Lucian’s parties? They’re quite the experience.” He chuckles.

I clench my fist behind my back to keep my boiling anger under control. “Oh, I’ve heard stories,” I reply. The images of those events that ultimately led my mother to her death blind me for a second. “What exactly goes on at these . . . parties?”

Vincent smirks, unaware of his life slipping away by the second. “Let’s just say, the men in attendance have . . . particular tastes.” He glances down at my cleavage, and I swear, if the poison takes any longer to kill him, I’ll do it with my bare hands. “Beautiful women like yourself are put on display for our amusement. We drink, get high, and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without consequence.”

Beautiful women like yourself. He means like my mother.

Something flickers in his eyes. It lasts seconds, but I see the way they round slightly as he looks me over.

I remind him of her.

Of course I do.

I don’t remember my mother, but Valentine, the one who adopted me after her death, does. And he always says I’m a carbon copy of her. Same red hair, and green eyes with the right number of brown flecks.

My identical twin.

If you don’t count her lack of a sense of justice, and her lack of hunger to live.

“Sounds like quite the spectacle.” My throat constricts with the force I use to fake my admiration. Images of my mother surrounded by men like Vincent clog my vision. “I can see why they’re so popular with men like you.”

He scoffs. “Men like me?” Shaking his head, he adds, “You mean powerful men who know how to enjoy themselves? Damn right, sweetheart.”

Nausea crawls up my throat.

“Powerful men who exploit others for their own gain,” I correct him, letting the cracks in my mask slowly show as what I really think of him seeps into my words. “But I suppose that’s just the way the world works, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.” He coughs so abruptly some of his drink spills onto the floor. His hand trembles slightly as he tries to hide what he doesn’t know are the effects of the poison. “And if you play your cards right, you might replace yourself enjoying the finer things in life too.”

God, how oblivious is he?

“Or perhaps,” I muse as I catch the first signs of his body convulsing, “the tables will turn, and those who thought they held all the power will replace themselves at the mercy of someone else.”

He coughs again, this time harshly, as he bends down. “Wh-what is happening?”

“Karma, Vincent.” I lean closer to him as his breathing becomes labored. “It always replaces a way of catching up with us in the end.”

His face contorts, freezing like the elegant statue on the table in the center of the room. I wonder if his body will make the perfect complement to the creamy furniture. The drawn curtains and the soft ceiling are soothing to watch while Vincent’s gurgling noises fill the air.

His hand clutches at his chest, wrinkling his white shirt. “Wh-what did you do to me?” he gasps.

“Nothing you don’t deserve.”

He falls to his knees in front of me. His glass slips from his hand and shatters on the floor.

It was too easy to get him here, pleading at my feet.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Help me.”

I look down at him in disgust. How many times did my mom repeat those two words to him? How many times did he laugh in her face before making her scream?

“But Vincent, I thought powerful men like you didn’t need help from anyone.”

He coughs, his body convulsing violently. Terror widens his eyes.

“Was this how you imagined it, Vincent?” I step around him, sneering. “Begging for your pathetic life on the floor of a hotel room.”

How many times did my mom beg? How many people heard her before someone stepped forward?

Did anyone even step forward, or did they all just watch in amusement?

His eyes plead with me, beg me for mercy, as I revel in it.

The once powerful Vincent DeMarco, who stood tall within the Inferno Consortium, is now nothing more than a groveling, dying mess at my feet.

He doesn’t deserve my pity. He deserves far worse than death for taking part in my mother’s suicide.

“Y-you could’ve killed me . . . any other way,” he chokes out between gasps for air. “And you chose the weakest way?”

“I didn’t choose the weakest way, Vincent. No—I wanted you to feel the slow burn of betrayal, just as my mother did when you took part in using her.”

The intensity of my desire for revenge blazes through me.

He violated my mother. He pushed her to kill herself.

“Look at you now,” I spit. “A lifetime of power and wealth, and it all comes down to this. You’re not even worth a bullet or a blade, Vincent. Your death should be as insignificant as your soul.”

He extends his hand toward me, fingers clawing at the air between us. Stepping back, I let his hand fall in a thud, not wanting his filth on me.

“Please . . .” His voice is barely above a whisper.

I look down at him, his attempts to survive weakening with each fleeting second. “Save your breath,” I reply coldly as I lean closer. “You’re not worth the air you’re choking on.”

Blood splatters out of his mouth, and he chokes on it before his body convulses one final time.

He lies there dead, and I stand over him, ticking his name off my list.

I brush my hands over my silver gown, quickly checking he hasn’t ruined what I’m supposed to wear for tonight’s fundraiser.

With one final glance at the lifeless body on the floor, I turn and leave.

The sound of my high heels on the marble vanishes beneath the intensifying chatter coming from behind the double doors. The corridor is covered in shadows, the lack of light a jarring contrast to the fundraiser, which is bright with candles and chandeliers.

The whole room is cast in a warm glow as tailored suits and couture dresses mingle around. Laughter and the soft notes of music fill the ballroom.

A hint of expensive perfume overpowers the delicious scent of finger food being served by waiters. Slender flutes of sparkling champagne accompany the shrimp in phyllo pastry cups.

Countless eyes follow my every move as I make my way across the hall, judging my hairstyle or praising the way the silver complements my skin tone.

I already feel like I’m drowning in a pool full of people hungry for the one thing they don’t own: a soul.

“Ah, there you are!” Lady Harrow, the wife of Lucian, the leader of the Inferno Consortium, approaches me with a drink in her hand. Her lips attempt to form a smile, but it’s impossible after the countless injections she’s had. “You look stunning, dear.”

You look average, is what she’s really saying.

I dated her son for ten years, and the only time she ever complimented me was when I picked up the correct fork for the first course of our meal. As if I’d never attended a banquet before.

“Thank you.” I give her the warmest smile I can fake. I can’t afford to raise any suspicions now—not with a dead body upstairs. “It’s a beautiful event, Lady Harrow. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Of course, dear. Only the best for our esteemed friends.”

She says the last words with a drop in her voice, but I can’t seem to focus on her underlying message. Not with the way Adrian Harrow, the Harrows’ eldest son—and my ex-boyfriend—is watching us from across the ballroom.

Watching me.

His dark blue eyes narrow, and I swear, if they could, they’d swallow me whole. He just stands there observing. Unreadable.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Adrian’s always been stoic. As the eldest Harrow brother, he was taught to be like this, in stark contrast to his younger brother Julian’s nonchalant ways.

But tonight . . . something feels different.

“Excuse me. I should probably go and greet some of the other guests.” Without waiting to hear Lady Harrow’s response, I extricate myself from her presence. But even after I’ve walked the perimeter of the ballroom, Adrian’s eyes are still glued to me, leaving a trail of unease down my spine.

Brushing off the heaviness of his gaze, I move through the crowd, engaging in trivial conversation while collecting whispered secrets. Each spoken word is a weapon, a tool I’ll get to use against those I promised to destroy.

“Golden one!” The nickname the Inferno Consortium gave me scratches down my skin as the woman’s eyes do the same, appraising the way I look. “Your dress is simply divine.”

They’ve called me that since I can remember. No one calls me by my given name except Valentine, Adrian, and Julian. Although Julian hasn’t really called me anything for a while.

Whenever I hear those two words, they make me feel dirty, like a pet for them to toss around. No one else has a nickname in the Inferno Consortium but me.

I match the woman’s saccharine tone. “Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell.”

Another guest appears next to her. “Isn’t this a fabulous party?” His cheeks are a shade of red from the countless flutes of champagne he’s probably had. “The Harrows always know how to throw the most exquisite fundraisers.” His fingers are covered in cream cheese as he stuffs his mouth with cucumber sandwiches.

I force a polite smile as I nod in agreement.

As exhausting and boring as it may be, engaging in small talk is the only way I can gain valuable information on the members of the Inferno Consortium. Unless I resort to stalking, but I’m not about to waste my time studying these pigs.

“Is it true what they say about Julian Harrow?” he asks before sipping on his flute of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay. His fingers are still covered in cream cheese as he dirties the glass. “That he’s involved in some rather . . . unsavory business dealings?”

His name chills my heart as I try to suppress a sigh of frustration.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that they had to bring him into our conversation, they clearly have nothing to do with the Inferno Consortium. They’re just wealthy associates of the Harrow Enterprise, relying on their money for influence.

This is a waste of time. I need to replace members, not outsiders.

“Who can say for certain?”

This man is playing my game. He’s the one digging for information from me. But in this world, gossip is a currency, and I’m not about to give it away.

I’d trade it, but he clearly knows nothing apart from the taste of those cucumber sandwiches.

At my silence the man continues. “Either way, it would seem there’s more to the Harrow family than meets the eye.”

No shit. The words beg to leave my lips.

Instead I ask, “Isn’t that always the case with powerful families?”

My gaze drifts across the room to where Julian stands. His torturous blue eyes are already fixed on me. I can’t decide if it’s how unreachable he looks between the laughter and chatter of others, or if it’s the way only his attention can scorch my insides, that truly feels torturous.

One look from him and I feel things I’m not supposed to. Not ever.

It’s just a look . . .

But it’s one I haven’t felt in years.

“Wise words,” the man murmurs in agreement, licking his fingers. “Very wise indeed.”

The night drags on, and I start to itch with the pestering thought that DeMarco’s body is still upstairs and at any minute someone could replace it.

What if I messed something up? What if they can trace his death back to me?

I try to distract myself with every loose-lipped guest, but no one seems to hold anything of value. They clearly believe I do, charming me into spilling every Harrow secret.

Gathering information is more boring than I thought.

“Ah, there she is.” A smooth voice interrupts my train of thought as I approach the bar.

I know that voice. The sweet tone is a pretense as it slithers down my body, stiffening it, stealing the serenity away from me and leaving me on my toes for what’s to come.

Not bothering to turn to my right, I pretend to ignore Adrian as he leans against the polished walnut counter. But we’re standing so close to one another it’s hard to ignore him completely.

He doesn’t waste time. If he’s talking to me, there must be a reason, and since getting me into bed isn’t one, there must be something else he wants. And I don’t like how uneasy it makes me feel.

Adrian studies me carefully, the ice cubes gently knocking on his glass as he twirls it in his hand. “Enjoying the festivities?” His lips curve into a lopsided smile.

Not good. That smile is never a good sign.

“I can’t complain.” I finally turn to face him. “Your family certainly knows how to throw a party.” I match his tone with practiced ease.

“I have to admit, I replace these events somewhat boring. The same faces, the same conversations—it all becomes dull after a while. Don’t you agree?”

“Dull” seems like the correct word coming from Adrian. Our relationship was dull. His love for me was dull. And the sex . . .

Actually, “dull” seems too exciting a word.

“Depends on the company.” I try to hide my smirk. Instead I pick up a champagne flute from the ones left on the bar for guests to take.

He follows my every move, and I see the gears turning in his head before he glances past me.

“Speaking of which.” He tilts his chin at something behind me. “It seems my father has taken an interest in tonight’s proceedings.”

Following his gaze, I suppress the urge to stiffen as I spot Julian and Lucian Harrow locked in what appears to be an intense conversation.

Is this another one of their family feuds, or is this about DeMarco?

Lucian’s jaw is clenched. His ice-blue eyes narrow slightly. He’s visibly irritated, yet he maintains a polite façade.

“Family business?” I ask, turning back to Adrian.

“Something like that. My father has a habit of involving himself in matters that don’t concern him. It’s a trait Julian and I both replace . . . tiresome. But you already know that.”

Why is he telling me this? Why does it feel like we’re talking about something else?

How can I exploit it to my advantage?

“Tell me,” Adrian continues, “what do you make of all this? The wealth, the power, the constant maneuvering for position.”

What does he know that I don’t?

“Life is a game, Adrian.” I maintain an unwavering gaze. “And we’re simply playing our part.”

His eyes flick back and forth between mine before he raises his glass in a silent toast. “May the best player win.”

“May the best player win.”