Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1)

by Parker S. Huntington

  “First of all, ma’am, remain calm. Is the club crowded?”

  “Yes,” I say, struggling to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

  Is he serious? This is a Friday night in a college area in the most populated city in the United States. Of course, it’s crowded.

  “What club are you at?”

  “Rogue.”

  There’s a staggered gasp on the line before the operator recovers. He says, albeit weakly, “And there’s a male with a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this. Well, I already had a bad feeling, but that was mostly worry for the girl. Now, it’s worry for me, too.

  Am I stuck in the Twilight Zone?

  If so, where’s Bruce Willis?

  And how the Hell do I get out?

  The operator finally speaks again, “Are you sure you wish to report this?”

  My jaw drops.

  What? Really?

  Are cops even allowed to ask that when someone reports that a scary guy has a gun in his hand and is strangling a woman? This is beyond odd. Is this a thing? Are guns considered foreplay in New York? 50 Shades of Grey hasn’t prepared me for this.

  Oh, gosh.

  What if I just interrupted kinky sex?

  That’d make me no worse than Blue Eyes. And he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be an asshole. They’re gross and ugly and smel—I force myself to stop my nervous mental rambling. It’s one of my many bad habits.

  I peak my head out again in time to see Scary Guy running his hands down the side of the girl’s body. It’s slow and sensual, but the gun is still there. Light reflects off of the trigger, winking at me in spite of its deadliness. It can go off at any second.

  The uncertainty running through me passes from my system. I pull back into the restroom, assured that I’m doing the right thing. Plus, I was scared for the woman before, but now I’m increasingly uncomfortable with my role in this. I want to leave as soon as possible without being the primary witness to a murder, and the cops are still my best bet.

  “Yes,” I say firmly, leaving no room for doubt.

  “Are you sure he’s not a security guard?”

  I remember the matching suits that all the guards around the club are wearing. In fitted dress slacks and a tailored, navy blue button down, this guy is dressed similarly to Zeke, only Zeke looks like a little boy compared to him. This guy is certainly built like the guards, but he isn’t dressed like one.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Okay,” the dispatcher acquiesces. “I have a patrol unit nearby. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Please, wait on the line and stay put.” He hesitates. “Whatever you do, don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

  No shit.

  I release a breath and along with it goes my anger. I’m being unnecessarily mean to this guy, even if my jabs are just in my head. Sarcasm may be my defense mechanism of choice, but it’s not a very nice one.

  A few minutes.

  I can do that.

  I can wait that long.

  “Okay,” I tell the operator.

  I walk even further away from the door with the phone still pressed against my ear. But I walk back to the door almost immediately after, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  I’m saving this girl, so I can spy on her, I reason.

  With my eye positioned at the door’s keyhole, I watch as the man starts patting her down with his free hand. His body is still flushed against hers, keeping her pressed into the wall. The girl has an indignant look on her face, and she appears to be more angry than scared. That’s yet another thing to add to the long list of things about this situation that are strange.

  Something is off here. I start to reconsider my decision. Maybe I’ve been too hasty in calling the police. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous regions over the past two years, so violence seemed like the most obvious conclusion to me. But now, judging by how the guy steps back with a mischievous grin quickly replacing his angry features, I know I’ve made a mistake.

  I glance down at the phone in my hand. The operator is still on the line. Fuck. He sent a patrol unit, and they’re already on their way. Is it too late to call the whole thing off? I debate my options for two more seconds before making another hasty decision.

  I hang up on the police.

  I end the call and wipe down the phone, removing all of my fingerprints from it. It’s an international prepaid phone that I bought a couple years ago in Mozambique. It’s unlikely that they’ll be able to trace it back to me.

  I’ve never even made a call on it before. I had no one to call, and I only bought it for emergencies anyways. I’ve been meaning to get a new phone with a national provider, but my lazy ass hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I’m glad for that now.

  After flipping the phone over, I remove the battery and SIM card out of it. The battery goes into the trash, while the SIM card goes in one of the toilets. I take the phone—which I’m still holding up with a paper towel in order to keep my prints off it—and place it in the sink under a stream of water. I make sure that it’s low enough that they can’t hear the sound of the water from outside, though the odds of that happening are slim. The club is loud, after all.

  I grab the wet phone and throw it in the trash. Then, I use the wet paper towel to wipe down anywhere I might have touched. I know I’m being paranoid. No way will the cops take the time to fingerprint a bathroom that has to have a lot of fingerprints everywhere just to identify me.

  Whatever.

  Better safe than sorry.

  When I am done indulging my paranoia, I return to the keyhole in time to see a guy approaching. He’s a dark shadow of leisurely movement until he comes closer and the light shines on his magnificent, stony face. I recognize it immediately.

  It’s him.

  Blue Eyes.

  Asshole.

  Hell-bound.

  Whatever his name is.

  I still haven’t decided what I want to call him.

  How do you give a name to someone who has the power to tilt the earth on its axis? Because, surely, that’s the only way I can possibly be feeling like this right now. Like the world is tumbling inward, and this man, who brought me to the brink of orgasm then left, is suddenly in the center of it.

  Maybe I’m just crazy?

  I don’t know, but I do know that I’m also still angry. My first instinct is to push out the door and slap him silly, but I restrain myself.

  Barely.

  “You pat her down?” he asks immediately.

  No hellos. No pretenses.

  He only said four words, but I revel in the sound of his voice again. It’s rough and masculine and sexy. I want to drown in it, and then I want him to resuscitate me with those full lips.

  Look at me.

  I’m in a sketchy situation and am still horny. What’s even more embarrassing is, even after he left me hanging, he’s the one that’s making me horny. I need to take a page out of Aimee’s book and get laid. All the way this time. I add that to my mental to do list after I get out of this situation.

  The scary guy nods and says, “Yeah, boss.”

  Boss.

  Scary Guy works for Blue Eyes?

  I wonder what they do. From his stylish suit to his fancy watch, Blue Eyes looks like he’s dripping in wealth. Whatever he does must be lucrative.

  The girl rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. There’s no indication that she was just being manhandled not even a minute ago. She doesn’t even seem to care. Instead, there’s a haughty air about her as she says, “Yes, Asher. Now, if you’re done treating me like I’m the enemy, can we begin?”

  Asher.

  That’s Blue Eyes’ name.

  I remember what Zeke said about an Asher Black owning the club. Is this him? If so, it makes sense. He has access to the VIP area and looks like he has a lot of money to spare. And no one in the club seems to care that his “employee” was manhandling this girl.

 
; Damn it.

  What have I done? I called the cops on what now appears to be a consensual business deal. Sure, a gun was involved, but everything looks fine and dandy now. Aimee is going to hate me. They’re totally going to blacklist me from Rogue for this.

  This is bound to be the end of my clubbing days. Now, I have to meet men on Tinder. I don’t even have a phone that swipes.

  Stupid, waterlogged flip phone.

  And as if it can’t get any worse, one of Asher’s guards comes over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever he said makes Asher’s body go rigid.

  He turns to the other two, eyes full of exquisitely restrained wrath, and growls, “Who the fuck called the cops?”

  No one answers him.

  Asher straightens himself, and his mask is back in place in an instant. Calm but also icy. The frustration on his face is quickly pushed aside, and he begins to bark out orders.

  “Bastian,” he addresses Scary Guy, “take her out through the back. Don’t draw any attention to yourselves. No one can see the two of you together.”

  He leaves abruptly after that, and his guards, the girl, and Scary Guy, who I now know is named Bastian, follow after him. I breathe a sigh of relief, happy to be alone.

  Chapter Four

  Courage is fear

  holding on a minute

  longer.

  George S. Patton

  I wait a few minutes before I leave the restroom. The music in the club has shut off already by the time I reenter the main area of the club, searching for Aimee. There are several police officers inside, clearing out the club. Some of the faces in the crowd show confusion, but in general, everyone looks excited, even though their night is being cut short by the cops.

  It’s bewildering.

  But I can’t dwell on it, because a pair of hands grab me. I jump, alarmed, already on edge from the hallway incident.

  “Relax! It’s just me.” Aimee throws her head back and laughs. “We’ve been looking all over for you! The police are here, Lucy! This is so exciting.”

  Zeke nods behind her. “We should leave. We don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

  Crossfire?

  His words, like the rest of this bizarre night, strike me as odd.

  I fold my arms across my chest, not budging when he tries to usher Aimee and I towards the door. “Crossfire. What do you mean by that?” I don’t bother restraining the accusation tingeing my voice.

  He sighs, and I see him glance at the door with a contemplative look, as if he’s debating just leaving us here.

  Don’t even think about it, buddy.

  Are all men assholes or is it just New Yorkers?

  He turns back to me and gives me a disbelieving look. “This is the Rogue,” he says like it explains everything.

  I give him a blank look. “And?”

  Aimee glances back and forth between us, a frown tugging on the edges of her red lips.

  “And it belongs to the mafia,” Zeke says, sighing again.

  Am I just a pain in everyone’s ass today?

  And then I process what Zeke said.

  The mafia?!

  But he isn’t done. “The Romano family, to be exact.”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Oh, no.

  The Romano family.

  I grew up across the country and I’ve been gone for a couple years now, but even I know who the Romano family is. They’re one of the five American crime families. The entire Northeast of the United States and parts of Canada are their territory. They’re big time, and the idea of being in a club owned by the Romano family is absolutely frightening.

  Can it be that The Hallway Incident is connected to the damn mafia?!

  It’s then that I know I have truly fucked up. I can’t come back from this. I interfered with mob business. I can only hope that no one has seen me or cares enough to find me. I remember the fury on Asher’s face, and the memory causes a shiver to ease its way down my spine.

  I really need to get out of here. Now. And pray to every god in the universe that no one will find out that I called the cops on the mafia. The Romano family.

  Oh, my God.

  Everything makes sense now. The guards. Asher’s money. The pat down. The gun. The people who ignored what was happening. Bastian. The 9-1-1 operator. The sheer amount of cops in here right now.

  I eye the door like it’s my salvation and nod. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  I’m playing it cool on the outside as Zeke leads Aimee and me out of Rogue, pushing through the crammed crowd, but I’m dying on the inside. Literally. In my head, I’m replaying the million different ways this might end in my death like a morbid movie reel on repeat. I’m also mentally putting my affairs in order. But really, no one will miss me, and I have nothing of value to leave behind.

  I grew up in the California foster care system, jumping from home to home before I aged out and left to volunteer around the world. No one even knows I’m in New York, except the school records and Aimee, who I’ve only just met today. The mob can easily dispose of me, and nobody will even blink an eye. That’s a depressing thought.

  By the time we reach the doors, I have assured myself at least a dozen times that no one saw me enter the hallway. That Bastian and the girl were too busy arguing to notice me. When we exit Rogue, a line of cop cars catches my eye. I curse, causing Aimee to send me a confused look. But I barely notice it. I’m too angry at the police operator for lying.

  That asshole told me that a patrol car was coming.

  One.

  Not eight!

  I can’t believe I didn’t think about it when I saw how many officers were in the club ushering people outside. I want to groan and put myself out of my misery before the Romano family can. I’m the reason why eight cop cars are here. No way will they be able to let this go.

  There are actually only two officers outside, though. The rest are probably still in the nightclub, kicking people out and doing whatever it is they’re doing. The two officers are talking to Asher, who is leaning against a police cruiser with a devil may care attitude sprawled across his indifferent face. If I didn’t see how angry he was when he learned the cops had been called, I would have thought that nothing can faze him.

  There’s an eager crowd surrounding Asher and the officers. Some of them even have their smartphones out, recording the whole thing. Aimee pulls Zeke and I to a stop, her round eyes fixated on Asher with a look of hunger in them. I frown. Can’t she see that he’s dangerous?

  But even I have to admit that his shady mafia connections do nothing to dim my attraction to him. There’s no denying how alluring this man is.

  Even if he did leave me hanging…

  Oh, no.

  The realization cuts me deeply.

  I hooked up with a mobster.

  I watch as one of the officers’ hand twitches near his weapon holster. Asher’s eyes narrow at the action, and he straightens from his position against the police car. The movement comes off as a taunt.

  I tense, preparing myself for a battle that I imagine Asher will win. But it doesn’t come, because the officer’s radio goes off. Through it, someone is saying something about two suspects fleeing out of the back entrance. I remember what Asher said to Bastian about going through the back and know instantly that it’s Bastian and the girl.

  Asher’s body is no longer relaxed. He has a neutral look on his face, but I can see the tightening of his shoulders and the apprehensively coiled muscles of his neck. I wonder if anyone else can see it, but the officers have taken off toward the back of Rogue and with them goes most of the crowd.

  If we stay any longer, it will only be us and Asher. That definitely cannot happen. I place a hand on Aimee’s back and one on Zeke’s, urging them both forward. We’re practically running now.

  “Dude! What’s your problem?” Aimee is frowning. Her head is still turned in Asher’s direction, a look of awe and lust written all over her face.

  “Noth
ing. I just… It’s the mob.” I continue to push Zeke and Aimee until we are a comfortable distance from Rogue.

  Aimee rolls her eyes. “Relax, Lucy! They have no idea we exist.” Then, her eyes light up, and she squeals. “But ohmigosh, did you see that?! That was so cool. I love New York!” She sighs a contented sigh. “Best. Night. Ever.”

  Zeke rolls his eyes and calls an Uber for us, but I am too out of it to really pay attention to what is going on. I distantly see them exchanging numbers before Zeke leaves in his own cab. A car comes, and I’m ushered into it. Aimee and I are alone in the back of the car as the driver rounds the vehicle to his side, having just shut the door for us.

  “Relax,” she says again.

  But I can’t relax. Even when we arrive back to the dorms and I’m tucked into bed, I can’t relax. As I go to close my eyes, I realize that my hands are bleeding. They’ve been curled into fists for the last half of the night. I clenched them so tightly, my nails pierced my skin, leaving crescent shaped grooves across my palms.

  I never go to sleep that night.

  Chapter Five

  Man cannot discover

  new oceans unless he

  has the courage to lose

  sight of the shore.

  André Gide

  The following morning, nothing happens. I go to class, but I can barely focus. I should be excited about my first day at Wilton. It’s the top school in the nation, and I’ve worked my ass off to get here. But the thrill of a stellar education is overshadowed by my fear that I won’t live long enough to complete it.

  The day after passes by uneventfully, too. I am still alive, which is nothing short of a miracle after messing with the Romano family. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. I go to class like I should and even receive an interview request from the campus coffee shop, which I applied to online before moving to New York.

  And the next day is normal again. I go to my classes. I even do well in the interview and get the job. Days pass, and eventually, I am finally able to breathe normally. The fear of death subsides, but I still remember that night. From the hookup to the police call, it’s pinned to the back of my mind, but at least I’m able to move on with my life. A part of me starts to consider that they’ll leave me alone. That the Romano family doesn’t care enough to retaliate.