I stop my car in a space between two large Bentleys. I cut the engine and slip from the driver’s seat, locking it behind me, and strut along the side of the wide driveway.

People in opulent attire embrace, laugh, and gossip at the base of the palace steps. Various perfumes and colognes intertwine in the evening air. I don a black face mask and fake a small coughing fit as I approach the marble staircase. I ascend it, stopping at the oak doors, guarded by two craggy-faced men. I pull a silver card from my pocket and flash it at them, fake another short string of coughs, before pulling my mask down. One of the guards looks between me and the invite. He nods and reaches back, pushing the doors open. I slip the mask back on and stalk down the lavish corridor.

I turn a corner and slip through a side door to the kitchens. There! The King’s goblet lies unattended, ready for serving. Gloves on, I pull a small vial from my blazer, uncork it, and empty it into the goblet. I leave a business card with a scorpion emblem on the tray. I exit via a fire escape and stand by a hedge nearby.

The King’s rambling over some speakers. He gulps, presumably drinking. He mutters “Long Live the King.” He gasps. I smirk. He’s read my "gift" and spotted the symbol of my family.

A choking sound rips through the speakers. Screams and gasps ring out. I walk away, pulling my phone from my blazer. I dial a number and press the handset to my ear.

“It’s done.” I slide behind the wheel of my car. I restart the engine and powerslide the black Maserati down the driveway and speed away, roaring into the twilight.