Page 8 of One Secret

'Mr. Russo,' Fiori greets with an open hand and equally friendly grin. 'Such a pleasure to finally meet you.'

Fiori, like his boss Felix Caruso, knows my real name. Or, at least, the name I use professionally. But it's bad form to verbalize a hitman's moniker in public. Russo is such a common name in Italy that its use has become something of a joke in seedier professions. Yet no less effective in masking identities from wandering ears.

He might be a deceitful bastard but at least the peacock's polite.

I nod my own greeting, steering clear of his offered hand. I pop a pistachio into my mouth.

'Pleasure,' I greet in return, combining a flat grin with a hard chomp.

Fiori freezes for a second and a vein flickers beneath his left eye. I keep my expression blank, even as I have the urge to smile.

Men like Fiori don't like feeling out of step in their fancy-dancy loafers.

'I see you're a man of few words, Mr. Russo,' Fiori says before taking a seat on the other side of the booth.

His two bodyguards claim one of the open tables further into the room, positioning themselves between the main doors and their boss. Both of them are built like fortresses and over six feet tall, so they have to find a way of sitting across from each other that doesn't have them entangled in an accidental game of footsy.

They end up looking like they're on the butchest date ever.

'I can respect that,' Fiori continues, dragging my attention back to his navy suit and gleaming hair.

Can you? I ponder, refusing to look at the woman in the green dress.

'Let us get to the point,' I suggest in a carefully constructed tone of boredom. 'You're the one who asked for this meeting, Fiori.'

Because I've been careful to make you do so.

The death of Giovanni Carlos, head of the Machelli crime family, and the succession of his illegitimate son had caused the usual ripples that accompany new leadership. Despite having the majority of the organization's popular opinion, there had been a few skirmishes before Leon had truly claimed his father's seat.

It had been almost too easy to float around the idea that the Machellis' favorite hitman is unhappy with the new regime and looking for fresh employment.

Fiori had reached out with a few feelers. I had reached back.

And here we are.

'By all means,' Fiori agrees good-naturedly before flicking an empirical finger in the air. The hostess is quick to obey the summons and, apparently forgetting that she's not a waitress, takes the man's order for a Macallan neat.

Fiori looks at me with a questioning glance. The woman looks at me with unease. I note the difference in her reaction between us but disregard it. Her instincts aren't wrong. Fiori might be a snake but, at the end of the day, I'm far more venomous.

I order a Pepsi.

After the woman leaves, there's an air of amusement in Fiori.

'Don't like to drink on the job?' he asks coyly but there's a childish shadow of one-upmanship in his tone.

I don't like to drink, period. But I don't need to justify my life choices to this prancer.

'Has your boss read my terms?' I demand without segue.

That vein under Fiori's eye twitches again and his coy little smile begins to slip. He's used to handling business over scotch and cigars. All pleasantries and flattery. It's becoming clear to him that I don't operate the same way. And it's making him nervous.

He clears his throat whilst I remain still, not wanting to push him too far. It's a fine line between keeping your enemy off-balance and pissing them off right out the door.

'Yes,' Fiori says, a little testily. 'He's looked over your rates and finds them agreeable.' He then hits me with a pointed eye. 'You charge a high premium, Mr. Russo, but Mr. Caruso feels you are worth the expense.'

"I don't," his eyes say.

I offer him no more expression than a slow and measured blink.

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