Dirty Lies

ENGULFED

"You have a great condo." I rolled onto my side away from Carlo and looked out the narrow, floor-to-ceiling window at the buzzing downtown Miami street.

He pressed against me and kissed my shoulder. I'd thrown on his button-down shirt before he woke up so he wouldn't see the scars on my arms. Went without underwear, though, knowing that would distract him.

The bed was too soft, and I sank into the pillowy mattress. I wanted to leave, but still didn't have the information I needed. Hopefully this wouldn't require a weeks-long relationship. I didn't have time for that.

"Meh. It's only a studio. It's all I can afford now. I can't wait to be rich. Really rich. Like my boss. You should see the places Rossi has."

I rolled over and stroked Carlos's bare chest with my fingertips. "Oh yeah? How many homes does he have?"

"I know he's got the downtown penthouse. Not too far from here. He likes to walk to work. On the weekends, he sometimes goes to this little place across the state. He took a bunch of his top-billing lawyers there for a Christmas party. It's a huge mansion on an island. Palmira. I think he also has a condo somewhere in the mountains. Asheville, maybe."

As Carlos talked about how he loved the snow because it was so different than Miami's humidity, I tuned him out.

"What's this?" he abruptly asked, running a finger over three faint red marks on my inner thigh.

"Oh!" I wouldn't tell him I'd carved the marks intentionally. With a razor blade. "Can you believe that's from waxing? This bitch at a place on South Beach really messed with my skin."

Carlos cooed and settled himself between my legs, kissing the marks softly before moving his lips to the junction of my thighs.

A couple hours and one weak orgasm later, I hugged Carlos goodbye with promises of drinks and dates that would never happen.

I went to my hotel and changed into a casual sundress and a lightweight sweater, then sat at a café drinking espresso on the bottom floor of Federico's building. It would be worth scoping this out for a while, but I suspected Luca was on that island.

He adored sun and sand. I remembered how he looked one morning, running along a beach south of Naples, rivulets of sweat running down his tan chest and thick back muscles. He hadn't known I was watching him that day. I didn't want to ruin that moment of looking at his perfect form.

Surely he'd choose Palmira Island over Miami. It was smaller and safer. Calmer.

He was definitely somewhere in Florida. That's what my cousin had said.

And God knew her cousin—Bruno Castiglione, Naples's most powerful mafia boss—had informants throughout the government and Italy's banking system.

Luca must have talked to someone in Italy, and that someone told someone, and that someone was on the payroll of Bruno. Or maybe Bruno's men had infiltrated Luca's computer. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was I was going to rescue him.