Chapter 107

Croissants, Carnage, and Coffee with Consequences

The villa’s breakfast terrace was a sun-drenched slice of deception—too many flowers, too many forks, and just enough silverware to be considered mildly threatening.

We showed up fashionably five minutes late, in matching silk robes and oversized sunglasses that screamed, “We survived your secret compound, now feed us carbs.”

Santiago was already seated at the head of the long, ancient-looking stone table. His face was unreadable, his vibe radiating Irish grudge with a side of bruised masculinity. He still walked a bit stiff—ah yes, the sweet ache of dignity shattered between the thighs.

“Ladies,” he greeted, voice rough like gravel marinated in whiskey. “You’re looking... rested.”

“We exfoliated with danger and moisturized with secrets,” Jhing Jhing replied, plopping down into a chair like it was a throne.

Then came the amazing coffee.

The moment Santiago’s throat started closing like a bank account after divorce, Mylene didn’t so much as flinch. She simply buttered a slice of sourdough like she wasn’t the human equivalent of a slow-burning Molotov cocktail in Chanel flats.

He was puffing. Snorting. His face a shade somewhere between “sunburned arrogance” and “internal combustion.” But not once did the idea cross his mind that we were the cause. Oh no—our sweet, dangerous breakfast table smelled too much like roses and powdered sugar to possibly be guilty.

"Get the medic," one of his guards barked, panic blooming across the terrace.

“Do you think it was the pollen?” Santiago wheezed between sips of purified panic and mortal realization.

"Or the sea breeze,” I said innocently, dabbing my lips with a cloth napkin laced with smugness. “Florence this time of year can be so cruel to sensitive constitutions."

Jhing Jhing twirled her straw through her mango mimosa. “Maybe you're allergic to betrayal,” she offered, smiling like a pageant queen handing out grenades. “It does sneak up on you.”

Meanwhile, Mylene made an art of playing innocent. “Heavens, do you think the kitchen cross-contaminated something?” She leaned toward one of the villa’s trembling kitchen staff, all wide-eyed and wet-lipped with guilt. “You didn’t accidentally expose our host to something fatal, did you?”

“I-I—no, madam—there were strict orders!” The sous chef looked like he was ready to sob into the truffle oil.

“Oh dear.” Jhing Jhing clicked her tongue. “That’s at least two stars off the Yelp review.”

Santiago clutched the EpiPen Mylene had oh-so-generously thrown back after letting him flail a little for dramatic flair. He jammed it into his thigh with the precision of a man too proud to scream but too close to death to be chill about it.

Thunk.

A hiss.

A shaky breath.

Life, slowly dripping back into his ego.

After a long minute, Santiago leaned back, chest rising and falling like he just fought a lion and lost his Gucci belt in the process.

“I—I think I’m fine now,” he muttered, confused and flushed. “That was... odd. Never had a reaction like that before.”

“Oh no,” Mylene said, wide-eyed and gasping like an opera villainess. “Do you think someone sabotaged your coffee?”

He paused, clearly not having considered it until now.

Jhing Jhing narrowed her eyes behind gold-rimmed sunglasses. “Maybe an inside job.”

Santiago looked at his guards. They all looked away. No one dared suggest that maybe—just maybe—three women with cheekbones sharper than their stilettos and a toddler backpack filled with suspicious tech had anything to do with it.

“Who would want to hurt me?” he asked slowly.

I sipped my mimosa and let out the softest, most deranged little laugh. The kind you let out when you remember you buried someone under a nightclub ten years ago and now they’re back, reincarnated as your barista.

“People envy power,” I said. “Especially when it comes wrapped in suits and unearned confidence.”

He gave a tight smile. Still oblivious. Still proud. Still absolutely unaware that the very coffee he almost died sipping had been weaponized with sesame seeds from Mylene’s secret stash of ‘Oops, did I do that?’

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Shall we enjoy the rest of breakfast?”

“Absolutely,” I said brightly, slicing into my strawberry Danish. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

The Tuscan sun was offensively romantic.

Golden light spilled over acres of lush vineyard, as if we weren’t plotting psychological warfare in heels that cost more than a government laptop. Santiago, still recovering from his mysterious allergy episode, had arranged a private vineyard tour for us and a select few "trusted guests"—aka three guards with suspiciously bulging jackets and two assistants who blinked like they were blinking in Morse code.

I wore a sundress as soft as sin and a wide-brimmed hat with a hidden dagger sewn under the lining. Jhing Jhing had on a silk scarf patterned with mini skulls (inspired, she said, by vintage Versace and poor decision-making). Mylene carried a picnic basket, which absolutely did not contain food. Unless you counted lock picks, fake passports, and lipstick grenades as edible.

Santiago walked ahead with a vintner who smelled like expensive oak and unspoken lawsuits.

"So," he said, swirling his wine glass and oozing charisma, "this vineyard dates back to the 1500s. Legend says a noblewoman once poisoned her entire family during a harvest celebration."

"Iconic," Mylene muttered under her breath.

I smiled brightly. "What a charming legacy. Tell me, does your wine have notes of black cherry and generational trauma?"

He chuckled, sipping without fear. “Only the finest. Shall we tour the cellar?”

Ah, the cellar.

Where secrets were buried, and occasionally—bodies.

We descended a cool, stone staircase while Mylene 'accidentally' knocked over a display bottle.

CRASH.

“Oh no,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “My heel slipped.”

One of the guards reached to help her, and her arm "brushed" his side—long enough to steal the access key clipped to his belt.

"Oops. Clumsy me."

I stepped in beside Santiago, placing a hand on his arm. “You really do treat guests so well,” I said sweetly. “Unless they have allergies. Then it’s a gamble.”

He didn’t catch it. Still oblivious. Still breathing sesame-free air like he wasn’t one micro-latte away from meeting Saint Peter.

Jhing Jhing trailed behind, whispering in her burner phone to Joe.

“He’s got two armed guards inside the fermentation wing, and the back exit is locked. Want me to pull a fire alarm or release the bees?”

Joe: “Bees?”

Jhing Jhing: “Never mind. Backup plan.”

Down in the cellar, wine barrels lined the walls. The smell was rich, heady—fermented history and fake hospitality. Santiago leaned in close, voice like caramel dipped in suspicion.

"You fascinate me, Catherine. You're... different."

"I get that a lot," I said. I let my gaze trail around the dark cellar like I was already mentally sketching out escape routes and weapons locations. I found three corkscrews, a ceremonial sword on the wall, and a fire extinguisher that would make a perfect bludgeon.

“Would you care for a rare vintage?” he asked, nodding to a dusty bottle the size of regret.

“Yes, please,” I said, already calculating how fast I could swap it for a duplicate filled with a mild but embarrassing truth serum. (We’d packed that in the picnic basket, right between the baguette and the bone saw.)

Mylene handed me the right bottle—under the table, with a wink and a flex of her manicure.

Santiago poured. We toasted.

“Here’s to new beginnings,” he said.

I smiled, clinking his glass. “And to beautifully chaotic endings.”

Jhing Jhing sneezed. “Sorry. I’m allergic to bullsht.”

Mylene took a sip. “Mmm. Is that a hint of arsenic? Or just your cologne?”

He laughed, confused but charmed, like a man playing checkers in a chessboard war.