Page 68 of One Secret

Felix Caruso's words are out of place with the sweetly sweet smile on his face. A false welcome from a paranoid king, the smile has his teeth bared like fangs and has turned his gaze sharp as a viper.

For the first time, the reality of our situation begins to hit me.

Alone, I'm used to men like this. The threats, the bravado. The games of power and insult, taunt and negotiation…

But with Darcy...?

I can already feel her tensing under Felix's vulgar inspection.

Fuck. Too late, I realize that I've brought a firecracker to a shooting range.

No going back now...

'Cyrus Alesi,' Felix goes on to greet me personally, still playing the power game with his fingers wrapped hard around the back of my hand. 'How long have we both been in this industry? To take this long to meet in person is a sacrilege, surely?'

As I shake his hand, I'm unsurprised to find his palm smooth and supple.

Felix Caruso did not take the mantle of head of the family through violence. He did it with cunning. An accountant by trade and originally chief launderer for the Caruso's criminal activities, Felix was also an accomplished thief in his youth. Despite being rich from birth, the man is very accomplished at wriggling his fingers into things he shouldn't and is infamous for desiring what is not his.

Including the head honcho's seat.

Like the Machellis, the Carusos suffered a shift in leadership in the last few years. However, unlike Giovanni Carlos Machelli, who had been succeeded (after a fashion) by his son, the late Marcus Caruso had no children and no heir apparent. Only a half-dozen nephews squabbling for the crown.

Felix was widely recognized as the number two choice, whilst his cousin Rafail was the known favorite of their uncle.

Until evidence had come to light that Rafail had been embezzling from his own family. Officials picked him up red-handed on his next enforcement run. Convicted of attempted murder by the Italian authorities, Rafail Caruso is currently serving twenty-five to life in a high-security unit down near Salerno.

And Felix is dining in his newly acquired hotel with a supermodel on his arm and a private yacht in the harbor.

I don't believe in coincidence.

Putting the man's resume and background search out of my head, I shake Felix's hand firmly, highly aware that he's nowhere near as soft as his moisturized digits.

A gun is not the only way to end a life. And Felix is well-versed in invisible execution.

'Come,' the man insists, clamping his other hand just above my elbow in a brotherly gesture before sweeping it grandly to include the others still seated at the table. 'I shall introduce you... Rocco, stop drinking yourself into an early grave for a second.'

The man seated furthest from Felix's chair at the head of the table sets aside his glass of merlot and leans back to level us with a critical eye. He hooks an elbow over the rungs at his back, his casual posture at odds with his hawkish stare. Like with Hector yesterday, the languid ease with which "Rocco" moves his body is a smokescreen. Heavy muscles under his jacket and old scar breaks along his knuckles tell me he's a boxer. The heavy family ring on the middle finger of his right hand suggests he's either a leftie and merciful. Or right-dominant and mean. The icy expression on his face says it's the latter.

That chill warms exponentially when his gaze lands on Darcy.

'Rocco Benedicti-Caruso. My chief of security,' Felix explains. 'And a trusted second cousin.'

Chief of Security. A common enough term amongst crime syndicates. And deliberately misleading. Rocco didn't preside over Felix's personal protection. The security he provided was for something far more important: money. Or, at least, the recovery of it. All of my intelligence thus far on the Carusos said that they ran their set-up to a similar hierarchy and schedule as the Machellis. Which means that, as Chief of Security, Rocco is head of the enforcers. Leader of the bruisers sent after those who are behind in their payments or trading partners who slack on their end of an agreement.

Felix turns to stand more at my side, a hand on my shoulder, and gestures to the man sitting next to Rocco.

'Beside my cousin is Mr. Vincent Omar, a long-time friend and business associate of the family.'

Rocco is stout-jawed and thickly muscled. There is no doubt in my mind that, when he walks into a room, everyone pays attention and gets out of his way. But the other man, Vincent Omar, is different. Instead of dominant threat, Omar's aura is one of wicked cunning. Of malcontent. From his surname, his olive skin, and his pitch-black hair, I surmise that his family is probably from the Arabian peninsula or northern Africa—Egyptian, perhaps? He wears his hair over long and curling at his ears and sports a goatee that transforms his mouth from classically handsome to almost cruel.

He pins me with a gaze of stony, gun-metal grey and I instantly know: this is the real threat in the room.

Forget Rocco's muscle. Forget Felix's money. Vincent Omar is the one I need to keep tabs on.

The foreigner gives a nod of recognition at our introduction and I return the favor. Darcy hovers quietly at my side, just taking in the men and the way that they—Rocco in particular—are looking her over.

'Lana, of course, you've already met,' Felix continues. 'Another cousin of the family and my phenomenally resourceful assistant.' Felix reaches to stroke the back of his finger down the side of Lana's face. She smiles back at him and my stomach churns. He touches her like he might a prize horse. 'Handles this entire place herself,' Felix praises condescendingly, 'Not to mention some other more... delicate matters in the business.'

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