Niccolaio Andretti: A Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 2)

by Parker S. Huntington

  Unease seeps into my skin, trickling up and down my spine until I have my gun drawn and eyes alert. I curse myself for leaving my phone in the guest room. This could be nothing, but I’m not about to take any chances with Ranie’s life. And if something happens, there will be no way to alert him.

  For the first time in twenty years of privileged living, I’m angered by the size of Uncle Luca’s place. Two days ago, Dad moved me and Ranie here because the smaller size is easier to fortify than our estate, but it’s still an absurdly large monstrosity of marble and gold.

  I’ve never complained about it before, but as I slowly make my way towards Ranie’s room on the opposite side of the Floridian compound, I can’t help but curse the distance. My foot slips past the marbled floor, my socked feet silent after years of training. I stay close to the wall, clearing each corridor I pass, each lonely step more urgent than the last.

  I should have passed at least eight guards by now, but I haven’t. Whatever threat is here, looming over us, is ghostly, made far more mysterious by the unknown. And it is unknown. We still don’t know how the Hell the Romano’s head of enforcement is alive.

  Vincent Romano should be dead. We planned it to a tee. We accounted for all foreseeable variables. Something went wrong, and while we’re scrambling to figure out what, everything is silent on the Romano side.

  That’s almost worse than an all-out declaration of war.

  At twenty years old, I’m supposed to take over the Andretti family in the decade to come. I’ve been trained to handle a gun. I’ve been trained to strategize a turf war. I’ve been trained to plan a hit. I’ve been trained to run a mafia empire.

  But this? Waiting idly? I’m not trained for this. Everything in me is anticipating action, stir crazy at the thought of being cooped up in this gilded prison for a second longer. I’m almost grateful for the idea of an impending threat, as long as Ranie isn’t the one being threatened.

  The restlessness feels weird beside the tension in my body as I clear each hall and room. It’s the last hallway leading to Ranie’s room that has goosebumps rising out of my tanned flesh. Trusting my body’s reaction, I stop, pausing behind the bend and extending my hearing as far as it can go.

  The silence is there, but in a half beat of a second, I hear the softest of sounds. A slight scuffle that shouldn’t be here. And in this world, anything unusual is not to be trusted. That sound, that barest hint of exposure might as well be a slew of war cries.

  Someone is going to die tonight, and I’ll be damned if it’s me or Ranieri.

  Chapter One

  A quick temper will make

  a fool of you soon enough.

  Bruce Lee

  Seven years later….

  Lucy is laughing at me.

  Why? I don’t know, but I do know that Lucy and laughing are never good things—both separately and together. I’ve only met her once, but I’m pretty sure she’s a nutcase, and I’m also pretty sure bad news stalks her like Norman Bates does his mother.

  The last time I saw Lucy, I helped her fake fiancé kill nineteen well-armed men, aided in the takedown of a high-ranking board member for a Fortune 500 company, and had to lay low in the fucking boonies for a month.

  I just got back from Nowhere, Oklahoma—seriously, that’s what it’s called. And I don’t want to have to go back to Nowhere.

  Now, Lucy is standing in my living room, uninvited and unannounced. It’s kind of like last time, except Asher isn’t with her. Speaking of that dumbass, he wants to marry her for real. So, why is his girl standing in my living room?

  And how the fuck does she know where I live?

  Last time she was here, I was sure to take precautions to prevent this very situation. I stuck her in a box, and when it was time to move her again, I had one of my men drive us around aimlessly for half an hour.

  Yet, here she stands—in the middle of my living room, a disgusted expression on her face as she eyes my overnight bag, which is caked in hardened Nowhere, Oklahoma mud. I have no doubt my tanned skin and dark hair are equally repulsive after a month of unreliable shower water and body wash as shampoo.

  She shifts her gaze onto my face. “I heard you’re back.”

  There’s a tilt to her lips that’s more smirk than smile.

  I’m immediately suspicious.

  “…Okay…” It’s clear in my tone that I don’t know why she’s here, and I don’t want her here.

  In fact, I don’t even know how she’s here in the first place. I have a state of the art security system. Even though my guards have been off-duty given my absence, she still shouldn’t have been able to break in.

  What the fuck is she?

  Houdini with a nice rack and a homicidal fiancé?

  There’s that irritating grin again. “I picked your door lock.”

  “There’s no door lock.”

  To get into my house, you need to bypass the retinal scanner and hand print lock. And on the off chance that happens, there’s an alarm that needs to be disarmed with a passcode upon entrance and panels under the floor that measure the gait print of the person walking on them.

  But you know what there isn’t?

  A door lock.

  Lucy is up to something.

  I know it.

  Her grin widens. “I know, but you should’ve seen your face.” At my scowl, she laughs. “Relax. Gosh, you’re wound up so tightly.”

  In the backdrop of the wainscoted walls and hardwood floors in my brownstone, Lucy looks like she belongs. Dressed in a white dress that compliments her pale flesh, evergreen eyes, and black hair, I wouldn’t guess that she came from the foster care system.

  In fact, I only found out after a deep web search I conducted once I learned her real name—Elena Lucy Reeves. Before that, the search I had done towards the end of last September had come up empty.

  Nothing.

  The woman was a ghost.

  No social media.

  No employment history.

  No birth records.

  Now, after surviving three very public attempts on her life; setting a wedding date with Asher Black, the Romano family’s former fixer and the CEO of Black Enterprises; and publicly humiliating René Toussaint, the former CFO of Black Enterprises, Lucy is one of the most well-known women in the tristate area.

  Which means she’s only making my situation worse by being here.

  She needs to get out of here.

  Now.

  In fact, I wish she never got in here in the first place, and as soon as she leaves, I plan on rectifying that situation immediately.

  “How did you get in?” I repeat, my patience waning.

  Well, it was never there in the first place, especially when it comes to this woman. Inherently curious and abnormally intelligent, Lucy isn’t someone I have the desire to deal with. How Asher does it is beyond me.

  She shrugs. “Asher’s company made the security system you used. It wasn’t hard to find a master access code at the R&D lab.”

  That fucker.

  I abandon that line of questioning, already planning some upgrades for my security system. “Why are you here?”

  “I was in town and wanted a cup of tea with a friend.”

  See what I mean? Loon. She’s an absolute, psychotic loon. Asher is making the biggest mistake of his life, tying himself to this chick. In just three months, too.

  She has the audacity to roll her eyes at me, though I haven’t said a thing. “I never had a chance to thank you for what you did.”

  “You could’ve texted.”

  Or left me alone entirely.

  Again, she rolls her eyes. “Gosh, you’re a real piece of work. You know that? Thanking someone for risking their life to help your fiancé isn’t exactly something you do over text. I wanted to thank you in person. Plus, I also came to say that, should you ever need a favor, I owe you one.”

  My arms cross. “What could I possibly want from
you?”

  I know I won’t like her answer when she throws her head back and laughs.

  Her ever present grin is troubling, and she has a look on her face, like she knows something I don’t. “Here’s my favor. A warning—be careful with that one.”

  And with those puzzling words, she’s out of the door.

  It’s official.

  Asher’s fiancée is better off in a psych ward than roaming the streets of Manhattan.

  Chapter Two

  For every minute

  you remain angry, you

  give up sixty seconds

  of peace of mind.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One month later…

  I wake up to the cursed sound of screeching. It’s loud and sharp and grates on my delicate ears. It’s the sound of metal cutting metal, and I know the source of it immediately. This isn’t the first time it has happened since I started sleeping at John’s swanky brownstone by Central Park.

  Speaking of, John’s meaty arm is sprawled across my body, his pudgy fingers gripping onto my tanned flesh. Slowly, I pry his fingers off of my right breast, careful not to wake him up so he doesn’t get any ideas. I don’t want to be disgusted by him too soon. It would put a damper in my plans.

  Because he’s the one.

  The one I’m going to marry.

  I’ve hit the jackpot with this guy. He’s in his late fifties, doesn’t have any anger issues, has a small sexual appetite, and thankfully wears a condom whenever he actually does slip inside of me.

  And at this point in my life, that’s all I can hope for.

  Carefully, I slither quietly out of the bed and easily slip away from the bedroom door with the practice garnered from years of being the other woman. Sneaking around is a near daily occurrence in this lifestyle, where women rotate in and out of lives quicker than New York City fashion dos become fashion don’ts.

  Thankfully, John doesn’t have a wife. He only has me. And we’re going to get married… He just doesn’t know it yet. Figuring how to get from point A—sleeping with him—to point B—a rock the size of my molars—is a problem for a later date.

  Right now, I need to deal with the inconsiderate neighbor that thinks it’s appropriate to have a construction crew working at this early hour—again. I’m beyond pissed off at the 6 A.M. wakeup call. It’s been happening almost every day for the past month, and I can’t take it anymore.

  It’s the weekend. I need my sleep. In fact, I need a lot of it to deal with the headaches I encounter on a daily basis. And this elusive neighbor, whoever he is, is taking that away from me with his nightly construction crew, which works from the late hours of the nighttime into the early hours of the day.

  How the rest of the neighborhood—and even John, who is far worse than me when it comes to complaining—hasn’t stopped this is beyond me. There are city violations to prevent these sorts of things from happening. I would know, since I’m a pre-law major at Wilton University, an Ivy League school and one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

  Once upon a time, the idea of attending Wilton would have been laughably out of reach. Now, it’s a necessity—one I can’t mess up. Just like my situation with John. I spare another glance behind me, grateful to see the hallway empty before I bound down the stairwell.

  When I enter the kitchen, I grab the dress off of the kitchen floor, where John threw it last night after he had stripped me bare, and clothe myself. I grab one of my heels off of the couch and huff in annoyance, searching for my second heel, an unwanted casualty from last night’s sexual foray.

  When I finally find it, the screeching has stopped, but it doesn’t prevent me from marching out there, eyes blazing in fury. My auburn hair is disheveled from sleep, my jade eyes are red from the sudden wakeup call, and my dress is on inside out.

  Nevertheless, I proceed.

  “This is unacceptable,” I growl to the nearest worker.

  He looks at me, eyes my heels, dress and bedhead, then shrugs. My mouth gapes open when he picks up his hammer and begins to sink a nail into the wood before him. Unbelievable. This is why I hate people, why I have no tolerance for anyone other than Mina, my little sister.

  “Hello?” I wave in front of his face.

  He spares another glance at me, shrugs, and continues working. A few feet from him, another worker snorts. I narrow my eyes at him, the anger in me rearing its ugly head tenfold. I’ve always had a temper, but my inability to get along with others means that very few are ever around for me to target.

  But this man?

  He’s asking for it.

  I lean forward and sneer at him. “This. Is. Un. Accept. Able.” I make sure to speak slowly, breaking my words into smaller clumps of syllables, so my words can seep through that thick skull of his.

  He stares blankly at me.

  I try again. “You can’t make noise this early. I will report you to the city if this continues. I’ll do it, too. You’ll lose your license to work. You’ll be investigated.”

  He stares at me with a slight twitch of the lips and lifts his right shoulder in a small shrug.

  What is wrong with these people?!

  I frown, studying his face. He’s older than me by at least twenty years, so probably somewhere in his mid- to late-forties. He doesn’t look to be anyone important, yet he’s sitting here, amused, like he thinks he’s untouchable.

  I’ll show him untouchable.

  I jerk forward, ready to get up in his face and give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime, but I stop when I feel someone approaching us out of my line of sight. Both of the workers widen their eyes before averting them, fearful for the first time.

  I frown. They’re supposed to fear me. I’m the one who’s being wronged. I deserve to revel in their fear. Ugh. Life is so unfair sometimes.

  “What’s going on here?” says a voice from behind me, deep and masculine.

  I snap, sick and tired of this morning. I swivel around, ready to give someone—anyone—a much-needed verbal lashing, one that I’ve had coiled and pent up inside of me for weeks now.

  But as soon as I see his face, I stop.

  Gorgeous dark eyes, tan skin, black hair, and a jaw line capable of cutting through glass are introduced to my hungry eyes. And all of that is packaged in a muscular body about half a foot taller than my five feet and eight inches.

  The owner of the voice is leaning against the railing to the brownstone, his arms casually crossed and an insouciant expression on his face. And as much as I hate to admit it, I stop and study him.

  It’s unfair to be that gorgeous and to reek of this much self-assurance and self-confidence on top of that. Especially in the face of my anger, which is a stark contrast from this man’s calm, assertive appearance.

  Goodness, and his coldness.

  The overwhelming darkness in his eyes suits the darkness of his expression. And from the prominent display of cheekbones to his sharp jawline and smooth, expressionless features, I wonder briefly if he’s even real.

  If he’s a statue—detached and hardened like stone.

  Or perhaps he never smiles.

  Then again, who am I to judge?

  Smiling is rare for me these days, too.

  After looking at him in all of his icy, perfect glory, I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to fix my hair and dress and whatever else I can do to make myself more presentable. The urge takes me by surprise, which of course, is only met with even more anger.

  I’ve never been like this before.

  Angry? Of course.

  Calculated? Always.

  But lustful? Never.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve always gone after one type of man—wealthy, powerful and usually older. I’m certain this guy isn’t old, and I’m unsure if he’s wealthy or powerful. Yet, here I am, reacting to the mere sight of this handsome stranger.

  And I hate it.

  I harden my eyes, forci
ng a steely glare into them as I strengthen my resolve again.

  Lust serves me no purpose.

  I’m here to secure a better future for me and my sister, and everything in me is telling me that lusting after this man—this gorgeous, beautiful, indifferent man—will only get in the way.

  And I won’t let that happen.

  Chapter Three

  You will not be punished

  for your anger. You will be

  punished by your anger.

  Buddha

  It's one of those things you can just tell—the sky is blue, puppies are stupidly cute, and this woman is a raging bitch. With flashing green eyes, vivid red hair, and a curvy figure, she’s also every man’s wet dream.

  But I’ll let you in on a little secret—Prince Charming doesn’t want to marry a raging bitch.

  And judging by the fire in her eyes, the same fire that matches her red hot hair and the insane amount of sass she’s been dealing to my stoned-out-of-their-minds security technicians, she has a bone to pick.

  With me.

  I look at her, hiding my unease like a seasoned professional. She’s a new entity, and new is never good. It occurs to me that this, whatever this is, can be a trap. An elaborate ruse connected to the fucking bounty on my head.

  I take a moment to feed on my paranoia, allowing it to fester, build and consume me. After all, it’s what has kept me alive this long.

  And against ridiculous odds, too.

  I hide my suspicion well behind a familiar mask of indifference, and instead, I casually arch my brow as if to say, “Well?”

  After all, she still hasn’t answered my question.

  She juts her hip out and places a slender hand on it, the epitome of sassy. She even manages to look poised while doing so, which tells me all I need to know about this woman. “Who are you to get into my business? Go away. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this”—she gestures to the guys behind her—“by myself.”