Page 69 of One Secret

I glance at Lana's impressively short dress and equally extreme heels. All that luscious blonde hair and voluptuous beauty make sense. She has to be one hell of a honey trap for drawing in new associates or clients.

No wonder the Carusos have been scoring near-impossible trade negotiations all over the Mediterranean of late.

Felix now reverses the introductions, having succinctly forgotten the blonde seated beside his throne. Darcy gets the same blind treatment.

'Gentleman,' he says, waving a hand toward the center of my chest. At five-ten, Felix couldn't reach much higher without drawing too much attention to the differences in our height. 'This is Mr. Alesi. You may know him better as Cyrus or his more colorful moniker "The Ghost". As you already know, Mr. Alesi is here to... shall we say, interview for a spot on our books as the family's latest freelancer.'

Freelancer. Another encoded position. Generally meaning hitman.

'An independent freelancer,' I nudge stoically.

If I'm here to play a part, I must play it right. And the real me would bristle if ever my autonomy were overlooked.

Felix's eyes spark with frustration. I soften my correction with a quizzical eyebrow raise and Felix must swallow his annoyance over being corrected in front of his men or appear the childish tyrant.

'As agreed,' he confirms with a curt nod. Gesturing for me to take a seat beside his blonde friend, Felix reclaims the power in the conversation quickly. 'Though, before we can confirm any long-term arrangement between us, there are a few requirements I would like to discuss with you, Mr. Alesi.'

Mr. Alesi. Mr. Caruso. This excessive politeness and formality is giving me the itch. But I let it stand. I remind myself that it would be worse to have this asshole addressing me more personally.

'Name them,' I tell him, taking the seat I've been told to and turning out the chair beside me for Darcy.

Felix waves away my eagerness as she sits down.

'Later, later... Let us dine first. Lana?'

With a bright smile and an acquiescing nod, Lana ducks out of the room for a moment to—I assume—alert the kitchens.

A second later, two young women in uniform arrive to fill wine glasses and offer fruit juice. Darcy and I both accept the latter in lieu of wine. As does, I notice, Vincent Omar. By the time Lana returns and takes her seat beside Rocco, the conversation has shifted to casual banter. Felix and Rocco quickly become engaged in gossip over another family member. Vincent watches the exchange and gives only minimal responses from behind his drink. I notice that, every time Omar speaks, it draws the focus of the other two like a magnet.

Smiling brightly, Darcy leans around me to introduce herself to Felix's woman.

'Hello? I'm not sure I caught your name...?'

She hadn't caught it because Felix hadn't given it. Just as he hadn't offered up Darcy's to the others in the room. A small but loud remark on how Felix viewed women. Perhaps Lana is the exception that proves his misogynistic rule.

'Oh, sweetheart,' Felix says, breaking his conversation to shake his head over Darcy's efforts at politeness. 'Inga doesn't speak Italian. Only German.'

Darcy glances at me and I repeat her overture to the woman in German. She still looks at us with that same glazed smile on her face.

Huh.

Either Inga is recovering from a recent full-lobotomy or she is distinctly not German.

Like a homing bird, Lana senses social unease and swoops in to provide a solution. She draws Darcy into an exchange of compliments, swooning over her attire.

'I could never pull off something so slinky,' Lana bemoans with an eye of envy, despite her stunning hourglass figure.

Darcy demurrers the praise, apparently lusting for the volume of Lana's hair.

What is it with women? I think. Forever unsatisfied with themselves, even when every man in their vicinity would voluntarily lose a limb to see them naked.

A fact that Rocco is eager to prove the moment the food arrives.

Served in the Grecian tradition, with all courses set on the table at once, meal options are vast and numerous. When Darcy peers into the nearest dish to ascertain what's inside, Felix's second cousin snatches his chance.

'Imam bayildi,' he says to answer the speculative look on her face. 'I had it on my first night here. Fucking delicious if you like eggplant.'

The childish glee he takes from the mere mention of the phallic vegetable is more lewd than funny. But Darcy smiles anyway. It annoys me that I can't read whether or not the expression is genuine.

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