Page 6 of Deception

The scent in the room has changed. A sickly stench lingers from stress and sweat. All threaded with that metallic, coppery scent of blood. Gets my heart pumping.

“So.” I crack my knuckles.

“So, he said he knows who killed our great-zio. Wanted to tell you himself.” Ciro’s got a ring of sweat around his collar, his knuckles nicked, bruised.

Leaning down, I get right in what’s left of the street thug’s face. Fucker soiled himself at some point. “Well,Griko? Tell me, and this stops. You can go home. Which one of your men did it? And who hired them?” I drop my tone to a gravelly bass. It’s not an ask, it’s a command.

My greatest talent has always been my words. My voice.

When I say something, people believe it. Even if it’s a bold-faced lie.

I can almost feel Adriano’s discomfort. He hates when I use that tone. Ciro clams up, losing his permanent grin.

Calm. Quiet. Smooth.

Deadly.

“No hit. No hire. He did it himself. Just came to us for advice.” I can barely make out the words through the gurgle of blood.

“Who?”

“D-Domenico Vipera. He killed Giancarlo.”

A chill snakes down my spine at the words. Even though I suspected it. I hoped it wasn’t true.

The boys are cleaning up, packing their shit. We’ve got work to do.

“What do you want me to do with him?” Ciro cocks his gun meaningfully.

“Cut him loose, like I said.” I back off, uncuffing my sleeves and putting on my coat.

“Seriously?” Ciro gives me that look.

“Yes. He gave up a client. He’s as good as dead the minute he leaves here.”

I have no idea how right I am. We’re halfway to the car, shoving the beaten, wasted and bloody wreck of a man ahead of us when the shot rings out over the water, taking the Greek assassin in the head.

And we’re in the car speeding back to the compound before I can process the fact that someone knew where we were, and they were waiting for us.

The Diamantes aren’t safe.

My family is in danger.

2

ISABELLA

“Come on, Vitelli. Where the hell are you?” Sitting at this cafe all morning is making my back ache. The white metal chairs aren't meant for long-term comfort, apparently.

And the way my day is going, it’s looking like a huge waste of time.

The guy might not even be staying at the luxurious hotel across the street. But my gut is rarely wrong.

It's whatwouldmake me an incredible reporter if I could do something other than this vapid tabloid garbage that I currently do for a living.

At least it pays the bills.

My apartment in Rome is not cheap. Fortunately, my editor pays top dollar for photos of lewd public acts by celebrities, scandals, and the like. Politicians, musicians, and in this case, sports stars. Their dalliances are all the rage for our readers, the typical crap you see on the newsstand.

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