Page 133 of One Secret

I squash the bubble of guilt deep. Right now, I can only stay true to one loyalty. And she's standing by my side.

Lana takes a step back to review the window again, her breath steaming on the glass.

'All right,' she says, with a nod to herself. 'Wait five minutes and then follow me out...'

'The guards—'

'Will be gone,' Lana promises. She then levels her gun on us again like a pointing finger. 'But you renege on our agreement and this is going to play out a whole lot differently in Rome.'

Lana darts back out into the kitchens, leaving her threats and expensive perfume lingering in her wake.

Almost immediately, the full pressure of Darcy's body comes up against me, her breasts pressing up beneath my shoulder blade, her thighs flush to mine. Her breath is hot and heavy against the back of my neck.

She's holding on to me so hard, I'm surprised she's not branding her fingerprints into my skin.

'Okay,' she sighs in a long, drawn-out exhale. 'New rule. No standing in front of bullets with more protection than our skin. You scared the crap out of me diving in like that.'

I don't know whether to laugh or groan but somehow, by now, it feels perfectly logical that Darcy would be more freaked out over something I've done… than of a bullet taking off her head.

* * *

Lana wasn't lying. By the time we slink back into the kitchens, the guards are gone and I sense Cyrus taking a steadying inhale of relief.

As we hurry across the now eerily quiet kitchens, I marvel at the man's cool.

It takes an exceptional level of skill and mental discipline to work a rifle. The distance, wind velocity, climate, environment, obstructions... Not to mention the fact that most human targets don't just stand there static, waiting to be shot. It's a whole lot more than a simple point-and-shoot.

But it's also a talent honed from a distance. On a good day, I wouldn't expect Cyrus to be within six hundred yards of his target.

And here he is, nose-to-nose with them, his most deadly assets rendered useless.

Because of me.

Cyrus busts open the far door and I follow him down a spiral flight of stairs. Even without a weapon, I keep my sights set behind us, watching his six and taking the stairs backward.

It hasn't escaped my notice that it was me who insisted on coming here. I was the one who forced Cyrus's hand.

When he met Felix on the boat, Cyrus could have taken the opportunity, then. He could have heard Felix's outrageous offer, decided not to push his luck, and gotten the hell off this island then and there. He'd already been at the harbor.

Instead, he'd come rushing back to the hotel like a bat out of hell, fearing for my safety. Then, instead of sneaking away himself, he stuck around, waiting for the best opportunity to evacuate us both.

Cyrus is here because of me.

"Here" now being the Caruso Chrysoú's subterranean garage, littered with expensive cars and even fancier bikes.

Assuming Cyrus would prefer a high-speed sports bike, I'm surprised when he sets course for a Tesla, pressing his cell phone to his ear.

'I need a hack,' he says into the phone.

He reads off the Tesla's make, model, and number plate to Nat and, almost instantly, the car comes alive.

I'll give Cyrus's work-wife one thing: she's damn fast.

'Let me drive,' I say, hurrying for the front seat.

Cyrus hesitates.

'You won't let me have a gun,' I point out. 'So, I'll drive. You shoot.'

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