Page 7 of One Secret

Fiori, in particular, is a handsome man and radiates himself as an alpha male. There's no doubt in my mind that every female staff member will be falling about themselves to—

I freeze when I spot a familiar figure tending to glasses at the far end of the bar.

Darcy.

Something in the vicinity of my gut clenches.

What. The fuck. Is she doing here?

2

I'd had little choice in the location for this meeting.

That is the way of things when two enemies approach under a white banner. Deadly skepticism and trigger-happy gangsters are a piss-poor combination. So, considerations like place and time have to be carefully negotiated.

Combining Fiori's preferences for particular brands of scotch and my need for a schematic familiarity of the venue, only a few places in Rome's central district came out on top: a couple of hotels and one gentleman's club

Of those remaining options, Fiori had chosen The Blue Star.

So, I had insisted on a Tuesday.

The one day of the week I knew that she wouldn't be in the building.

Good. Fucking. Job.

Tempted to turn my burner back on and text Nat to call in a fire alarm in Darcy's building or something, I freeze when Fiori scans the room and spies me in the far corner.

Screw it.

If the meeting goes as planned, there'll be no need for violence anyway.

And, more to the point, Darcy's technically nothing to me. Not my partner, not my significant other… She's just a woman with whom I spend some downtime whenever I'm in Rome. The sex is… well, damn phenomenal if all cards are on the table. But neither of us has sought anything beyond it. Not intimacy, not personal connections. Nothing but phone numbers.

The arrangement between us is clinical and effective. I fly in. I pass by the hotel. We fuck. I leave. It's so hit-or-miss casual that, even with the sex, we can barely be called lovers.

She's more like the garage I take my bike to for a tune-up whenever I'm in town.

And no one gets emotional over their mechanic. I remind myself. So, there's no issue with her being here, is there?

Focusing on the job at hand, I keep my hands in plain, unthreatening view—one over the back of the booth and the other on the table, toying with the dish of nuts—and give Fiori the briefest of nods.

Having never met me before, the man doesn't move in my direction until the nod confirms my identity. Trailing in his wake are just two men. Nat said there was a third, so I assess the room quickly and casually, looking for the woman.

The lounge is wide and shadowy, decked out in navy fabrics and blackwood tables. The bulbs in the wall sconces burn a muted white, twisting ocean blues to sickly aquamarine.

The bar is on the eastern side of the vast hall, stretching nearly thirty paces before turning away in an L shape. The far side is for stool perchers and loiterers waiting for a table in the hotel's restaurant. On this side, the lounge is more exclusive. A set of velveteen ropes perpetuates that illusion. To add to its mystique of luxury, the designer of the hotel favored round booth tables over square cut, obviously jonesing for the speak-easies and gin-joints of black and white movies.

I'd selected one such booth at the very back when I arrived, from which I can now play witness to the entire room.

Including the brunette in the green dress, which Nat had described as "slutty", perched at a high table near the bar.

As Fiori comes to join me, the woman pays him no mind and he plays equally dumb. Which means I'm not supposed to know they arrived together. Meaning, she probably has some kind of audio recorder honed in on us from across the room. Likely a signal reader too.

Though where she's hiding either of them, I have no idea.

Well, maybe not no ideas.

So much for "no tricks", Fiori.

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