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

by Parker S. Huntington

  I’m distinctly aware of my last name embroidered on the right breast pocket of the sweater. Even though it’s unaccompanied by my first name, the idea that he has even the slightest glimpse into my identity is disconcerting.

  Not because of his potential mafia connections, but because any knowledge that isn’t mutually shared between us affords him a sort of power over me that I’d rather I retained. It’s a stupid and childish notion, and I’m probably overthinking things, but can I really be simply imagining this seductive power struggle between us? The way our words are like hands, tugging back and forth on an invisible rope.

  I’m telling myself that this is hatred. That hatred is a never ending game of tug-a-war between two people that are better off leaving things alone but lack the maturity to do so. But I don’t particularly see him being immature, and thanks the metaphorical revolving door my sperm and ovary donors had installed in my childhood apartment, I know what true hatred is, and it isn’t this.

  This is something else entirely.

  “Why are you here?” he asks the same question he asked last time I saw him, and for a split second, I wonder again if he knows that I’m gold digging.

  I never said that I was sleeping with John, but it’s not a stretch to assume that a woman sneaking out of a man’s house around midnight is sleeping with said man. And that’s pretty much what just happened, except I left to go get my LSAT study guide and was planning on coming back.

  Now? I’m not so sure.

  I’m stuck in front of this man, and not because he’s not letting me leave. I’m sure if I tried to leave, he wouldn’t bother to stop me. He wouldn’t care enough to. But I’m stuck in front of him, because I don’t want to leave.

  I want to be here.

  I want to see where the intense magnetism between us takes us.

  And I don’t know why this is happening.

  I hate him. From the second I met him, I hated him. Given my body’s traitorous response to his presence, I knew he would be trouble for me; for my future; and most importantly, for Mina. Yet, I’m standing in front of him.

  And worse—I want to be here.

  I want the world to pause for just one darn second, so I can stay forever in this moment, where a man I’m attracted to is looking at me like he’s attracted to me, too.

  Is that too much to ask?

  “Why are you here?” he asks again, taking another step toward me. “What’s your angle?”

  My eyes widen, but I don’t take a step back as he invades my personal space. And for a split second, I relish in the proximity, allowing myself to succumb to the bone deep ache I feel for him. But God help me, I won’t let this man see how much of an effect he has on me.

  “What?” The word escapes my lips as a whisper, because I have no clue what he’s talking about.

  My angle?

  Surely, he’s not referring to my gold digging. Because what stranger, even him, would be so forward in such a line of questioning? He may as well have said, so are you a gold digger or what? But something tells me that’s not what he’s asking me, which leaves me with one word—what?

  “Why are you here?” he repeats slowly, like he thinks little of my intellect despite his knowledge that I attend Wilton for law. “Why are you in this neighborhood?”

  I tamper down my racing heart, which is pounding at our proximity. At the fact that, if I breathe too hard, my chest would brush against his body. It takes me a second to register that he repeated himself, and when I do, it takes me another second to realize what he may be talking about.

  If he’s involved in the mafia, he’s likely paranoid. I’m a stranger, an unknown entity, and I’m in his terrain. But… I’ve been sleeping at John’s for about two months now, and he’s just now confronting me? That doesn’t make sense.

  And how have I only just recently met him?

  I met Dex my second day sleeping over at John’s, yet it took two months to finally meet him. That means he’s either never here or always in his home. Either way, he’s involved in criminal business, so I shouldn’t be indulging him and his invasive questions.

  But I do, because I can’t stop myself with him, and I don’t know why.

  I reply, “I’m here for John. I’m with John.”

  I don’t know if I’m trying to convince myself or him.

  Probably both, because I don’t want to be with John, but I can’t be with someone like him.

  There’s a centimeter of space between our bodies, but when he leans forward, he extinguishes it. And that first contact between us has my senses soaring. Waiting. Anticipating. His face slants towards mine. Slowly. Teasingly.

  Seconds pass before his lips brush against my jaw, and then he’s trailing a teasing path up the sensitive curve of my neck with the very tip of his nose, his touch so, so light but so, so there.

  And when he finally reaches my ear, he opens his mouth, his lips brushing sensually against my delicate skin, and whispers, “I can feel you reacting to me. I can feel your nipples, stiff against my body. You want me. You’re not interested in John. I’ll figure out why you’re really here.”

  He steps back from me immediately after and walks away.

  Even though he’s gone, I can still feel him, pressed against me.

  And his words?

  I have no idea what they mean, but I do know that it doesn’t bode well for me.

  Chapter Seven

  Anger is one letter

  short of danger.

  Eleanor Roosevelt

  The darkness is welcome.

  It is my freedom.

  It is my friend.

  It is my family.

  When the blackness of night approaches, I greet it with open arms. Already dressed in my uniform of all black, I’m ready to leave the safe confines of my self-made prison. After slipping two guns into the holsters under my hoodie, I exit my brownstone.

  Though I’m jogging down the steps, the streets remain silent, oblivious to my presence. My steps are quick yet light, a byproduct of the way I was trained to move. Like a panther, though I’m certainly more lethal.

  In New York, people fear the name Asher Black, but they should really fear mine. Haunting and formidable, my name is but a myth, rarely whispered as anything other than the prelude to a merciless death.

  In the vigilant presence of daylight, I am Nicholas “Nick” Andrews. Come nighttime, I am Niccolaio Andretti. But the only ones who call me by that name are either ordering death or greeting death.

  Both of which occur at my hand.

  Tonight is a night for the former, and it will inevitably lead to the latter.

  Usually, I take a car to meet Vincent Romano, but for some reason, we’re meeting at Central Park tonight. As risky as it is, my mind has been craving open air, and this is as good an excuse as any.

  Remaining close to the shadows, I slow my pace, savoring each deep breath of warped freedom.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  It’s just air I’m breathing in, but it’s air a few blocks away from my brownstone. And that little bit of distance from my self-made prison is enough to free the piece of my soul that withers in its cell at the sight of the home.

  With each breath I take, I relax.

  But with each breath I take, another part of me tenses, always wary and always vigilant.

  I eye the street, scanning the trees, the homes, the windows, the cars, the license plates, the scents, and the sounds. I take everything in, analyzing my surroundings in an instant, because if I take a moment longer, I may end up dead.

  With a hit on my head, I can never be too safe. Take last night for instance. I saw that girl leaving John’s home for the third time in less than a week. Before that, I saw flashes of her in the neighborhood on my security cameras almost half a dozen times since I got back from hiding out in Nowhere.

&nbs
p; Something about her and John just isn’t sitting right with me, and it’s not because I’m attracted to her. That part likely has more to do with not getting laid in a few years than her actual beauty.

  Yes, she’s fucking gorgeous…

  But so are a million other women.

  There’s just something about her that’s instinctively caught my eyes and isn’t letting go, and that has me suspicious. That, combined with the hit, has me paranoid as fuck. I almost want to add another damn layer of security to the system the boys finally finished installing, but that would involve putting up with the annoying hesitant stares they give me when they think I’m not looking and the heavy marijuana-scented cloud that travels behind them in their wake. No fucking thanks.

  And above all, I need to find out why she’s roaming around this neighborhood if I want to sleep at night. No fucking way is it for John. I don’t believe that shit. Whatever her reason for being here, I’ll find out. I’ve always been one to trust my instincts, and they’re telling me that she’s hiding something, and for the life of me (literally), I won’t ignore them.

  After all, back when I was with the Andretti family, our greatest assassin, Allegra, was a girl. A guy could be ugly as fuck with an even uglier personality, but a few well-placed sultry looks and sweet words from Allegra, and the dumb fucks would actually be convinced that she wanted them.

  I’m not a dumb fuck, and sultry looks and sweet words do nothing for me. But damn, John’s girl has my blood pumping. With a seven-figure hit on my head, the lust she has running through my veins is suspicious enough.

  Like I said, you can never be too safe.

  When I decide that I’m alone on the street, I continue my movement, crossing the street quickly and quietly until my feet connect with the opposite sidewalk. As soon as it can, my dark figure reunites with the shadows, hiding in the depths of its obscurity.

  I quicken my steps when I feel as if I’m being followed. As soon as I reach an opening to Central Park, I take it, swerving silently to the left and dipping into the trees. My feet are light as I walk on the grass, being sure to tread lightly.

  No footprint.

  No sound.

  Nothing.

  I was never here.

  As soon as I see a tree wide enough, I duck behind it and remain hidden, making sure the wood protects me on all sides against any impending threats. My hands reach beneath my hoodie and lock onto the weapons, but I keep them holstered.

  Sometimes, weapons only complicate things.

  But as soon as I hear the gentle thud of a shoe kissing the grass, too gentle for the gait of an untrained civilian, my weapons are drawn and pointed in the direction of the sound. Slowly, I emerge from the shadows, never one to kill behind cover.

  People call me many things, but a coward will never be one of them.

  “Lower your weapons, boy,” says a gruff voice in the direction of the sound.

  I lower them as soon as I recognize Vincent’s voice, but I don’t relax my stance. Instead, I do a careful sweep of the area before I dip behind the trees again, nestling myself in the cove of trees, which is surrounded by greenery on all sides except the one I entered through.

  “Damn it,” Vince says, the annoyance clear in his voice as he shuffles under a particularly low hanging branch. He mutters something that sounds like “fucking paranoid oaf” before he meets me behind the trees. He catches sight of me scanning the darkness behind him and rolls his eyes. “It’s clear. My men cleared it.”

  “You can never be too careful,” I reply, keeping my eyes steady on the darkness behind him.

  “I trust my men.”

  “I don’t.” Satisfied, I return my gaze to his, and I study him.

  Though we’re unrelated, Vincent Romano has the same eyes as me—dark brown, cold, and calculated. They’re usually alert, but right now, they just look tired. In fact, everything about him feels off right now. I don’t know what it is exactly, and given the type of man Vincent is, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out, but it is sounding all sorts of warning bells in my head.

  At my words, Vincent sighs, but the sound is light.

  Expectant.

  As if he expected as much.

  As if he knows me, though that’s impossible.

  I don’t even know myself.

  “It’s good to see you, son,” he finally says.

  I’m not your son.

  “You, too, Vincent.”

  “Vince.”

  “Right,” I pause, “Vincent.”

  He grunts again in displeasure, but I ignore it. If I stop drawing the lines between myself and the Romano family, I’ll sink myself deeper into this mess. People may think I’m a traitor to the Andretti family, but I’m merely doing what I need to survive.

  And when I can, I limit my connection to the Romanos.

  Unfortunately, it’s not often that I can.

  So, I settle on these little moments, where I can do things like refuse to call the Romano’s enforcer by his nickname. It’s a small action, but it speaks volumes. Sometimes it feels like the smallest victories are greater than the largest feats.

  I do another scan of my surroundings, perking my ears up for any signs of threats—aside from the man standing before me.

  Finally, I ask, “Why did you call me here?”

  I want to ask who he wants me to take out this time, but I refrain myself.

  He might be wearing a wire.

  He arches a brow. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Vincent.” I cross my arms impatiently.

  As much as I like the freedom of the outdoors, we both know that it’s a risk for me to be so exposed like this. A risk he has selfishly asked me to take. And as much as I like to deny it, I’m quite aware that some part of Vincent cares about me enough not to ask me to take these sorts of risks.

  So, whatever this is, it must be important.

  And that has me on edge.

  Vincent makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, and I sigh before spreading my arms and legs out. He uses a device to sweep me, ignoring the sound that emits from the stick when it passes my weapons.

  He’s not searching for them.

  He’s searching for bugs.

  I don’t take offense to it. In fact, I welcome the action wholeheartedly. It’s standard protocol. Plus, it’s another much needed line drawn between us. It speaks volumes that he doesn’t trust me enough not to scan me.

  I’m not his family.

  I’m not a Romano.

  I’m still an outsider.

  And that’s as close to being an Andretti as I’ll get these days.

  When he’s done checking me for bugs, he lowers the device to his side and straightens up. “I didn’t come here with a kill order.”

  I nod calmly, though I’m raging inside. If he doesn’t need me for a job, he better have a damn good reason for asking me to meet him when there’s a one point five million dollar hit on my head.

  I’m not an easy man to kill, but I’m certain some talented individual will attempt it for that sum of money.

  And so will the low lives. The ones with less finesse.

  Those are the ones that are truly dangerous, because they don’t care about collateral damage.

  They’ll bomb a sold out movie theater if I’m in it.

  They’ll fire shots into a crowd if there’s a chance a bullet will reach me.

  They’ll hurt anyone they need to in order to kill me.

  If I had any friends, they would go after them.

  If I had any family, they would go after them, too.

  It’s a good thing I have neither. And my brother doesn’t count. Ranieri is the one who ordered the hit in the first place.

  I resist the urge to cross my arms, instead tightening my grip on the loaded weapons resting in each palm. “Then why am I here, Vincent?”

  “Careful, boy,” he warns at the attitude in my voice.

 
; Rightfully so, too.

  Sometimes I forget that I’m no longer Niccolaio Andretti.

  I’m hardly even Niccolaio.

  I’m just Nick.

  And being Nick means that I shouldn’t mouth off to a caporegime for the Romano family.

  Even if I really, really want to.

  I sigh. “Will do.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  That’s another frustrating thing about Vincent. He treats me like I’m not expendable. He asks me how I’m doing. He tries to get to know me better. He tries to help. He tells me to be careful out there as if I’m not one of the greatest threats in this city.

  I think he’s genuine about it, too.

  My father tried to kill him, and Vincent Romano still helps me. He keeps me employed. He keeps the cash flowing. He checks up on me. It’s a complicated situation, one full of lots of give and take on my part, Asher’s and Vincent’s.

  But that doesn’t mean Vincent needs to do this for me.

  That doesn’t mean what Vincent does for me isn’t generous.

  He can easily find another fixer. Probably not one as skilled as I am, unless Asher is looking to return to the mafia business. But still. I’m not the only fish in this town. Yet, here Vincent is. In front of me.

  And it’s not to give me another name, another death.

  He’s here to help me, and I don’t think I’ll ever know what to do with that.

  I fidget uncomfortably, my regular poise waning. “Why do I need help?” I ask, the words sounding uncannily similar to what I said to Lucy a while back.

  “Your brother increased the hit on you. Five million dollars.”

  And with those words, the violent storm in me thunders until I’m unsure if this anger inside of me is a fleeting occurrence or permanently me—an inevitable explosion.

  Chapter Eight

  Darkness cannot drive

  out darkness; only light

  can do that. Hate cannot

  drive out hate; only love

  can do that.

  Martin Luther King Jr.

  twenty years old