Page 58 of Corrupted Deception

Too many cogs… too much noise… I mulled over the possibilities.

“You think they’re decoys,” I said when the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.Great, now I’m thinking in puzzles.

He nodded. “I think there was no reason forLos Cazadores Sangrientosto contact you, no reason to come after you. No reason but to distract you… or eliminate you.Someone is trying to keep you buried in research and chasing after leads that don’t add up until you get yourself killed.”

Damn it.“I fucking knew that,” I muttered under my breath. I’d been chasing after what was right in front of me like a rookie.

A wave of anger rose up, thick and hot like always, but I dug my fingers into my palms and stared at the five canisters on the counter, each one a different material. Wood… glass… tin… plastic… ceramic.

I let out a breath, feeling my lungs deflate. “Everything has just been smoke and mirrors.” Every assumption I’d made and every bit of intel I’d interpreted, I had to throw it all away and start over from scratch.

“We’ll sort through it,Signorina,” Aurelio said with his kind eyes and warm smile, like I wasn’t a complete stranger to him and this was more than just a job.

“Thank you,” I replied because the man was doing an irritatingly good job of smothering my snark and aloofness.

It was a good thing Cielo flashed me a smug smile, making all that snark rise right back up to the surface. But before I could let it out, he kissed the top of my head and strode across the hardwood floor to the door without another word.

“Damn smug man,” I muttered under my breath, but as I watched him punch in the code on the keypad and open the warehouse door, there was no denying that the damn smug man had an ass that could stop traffic.

Because that was totally what I needed to be focused on at the moment—really.

Chapter Seventeen

Cielo Luciano

Amidst the soft hum of clinking cutlery and muffled conversations, I sat back and finished off my glass of wine in the dimly lit, upscale Italian restaurant,La Trattoria del Lusso, outside Atlantic City. The ambiance was all oak panels and faux leather booths, the type of place where deals were sealed over steaks and secrets whispered over wine. Across from me, Anthony Sorrento, the man I’d carefully chosen as our political puppet, fiddled with the fine silk of his tie, betraying an air of restlessness.

“A problem, Anthony?” I asked, though I would have smelled his fear wafting from his bald head and portly body if there was.

“No, of course not,SignorLuciano,” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “Everything is in order,” he continued, pulling out a folder from a black leather briefcase clasped with ostentatious silver fixtures.

He handed the folder across the table as he looked around the restaurant surreptitiously. He reminded me of a nervous squirrel, his gaze continuing to shift around as I skimmed through the documents in the folder to confirm all signatures were in place.

Anthony Sorrento was a greedy, little shit, but he was also efficient. He’d expedited processing and paid the bribes necessary to have the Lucianos’ third casino ready for breaking ground three weeks ahead of schedule.

“Bene,” I said with a satisfied nod when I’d confirmed the paperwork was in order.

As I withdrew a thick envelope from my inside jacket pocket and handed it to him, his eyes widened and beads of sweat broke out across his brow. The nervous squirrel was going to give himself a heart attack.

“Relax, Anthony. If there were prying eyes around, I’d know.”

He nodded and made an effort to stop looking around. “Of course,” he said, his gaze now fixed on the envelope full of cash.

“You can count it if you’d like,” I said, daring him to question my integrity.

“No. No, I’m sure it’s all there.”

Wise answer.

He stuffed the envelope into his briefcase and slammed it shut right before the nervous little squirrel hopped to his feet.

I stood up slowly—because I wasn’t a fucking squirrel—and shook his sweaty hand.

“You should look into an anti-anxiety medication, Anthony. It might do wonders for you,” I said, then I walked away, discreetly wiping my hand with my pocket square as I went.

I stepped out of the restaurant into the bright midday sun and got behind the wheel of one of my family’s Mercedes. But rather than driving away, I circled the building to the restaurant’s rear lot and parked at the far side of it, next to a gunmetal gray Beamer that was already waiting there for me.

The man in the Beamer’s driver’s seat got out and took off a pair of aviator sunglasses as he circled around to the passenger side of my car with a thick folder in his hand. He was tall, an inch or two taller than me, but wiry more than bulky, with dark blue eyes that were constantly scanning, watchful of his surroundings.

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