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

by Parker S. Huntington

The caveat?

  Though Dex is hardly innocent, he, of all people, thought it necessary to enact an added layer of protection when he installed the system. Protection from us. And that means that every time I need to use it, I have to call these fucks to join me.

  I enter in my passcode, a series of random numbers, and stand up from my seat for John and Dex to do the same. When they’re done, they leave me to work, giving me the power of an all knowing god.

  And for a brief, startling moment, I’m tempted to abuse it.

  I’m tempted to use it to learn more about Red Junior, and I have no clue as to why.

  Maybe Dex was right.

  People need protection from us.

  From me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We think that hating

  is a weapon that attacks

  the person who harmed us.

  But hatred is a curved blade.

  And the harm we do, we

  do to ourselves.

  Mitch Alborn

  Everyone else is smiling but me.

  Well, there’s a smile on my face, but it isn’t genuine like theirs.

  It’s fake and ugly and tense.

  Usually, I’m a great actress. Just ask my marks. I’ve pretended to orgasm under the grossest of men—both inside and out—and if you ask them, they would probably tell you that they’re the best sex I’ve ever had.

  But the truth is, I’ve never had good sex.

  And that’s an odd thing to think about as the Dean of Wilton’s Roosevelt School of Law announces my name, my concentration, and the words “Suma Cum Laude.”

  After taking a deep breath, I plaster the fake smile on my face again and saunter across the long stage, focusing on not falling on my butt and making a fool out of myself in front of potential sugar daddy prospects, employers, professors and coworkers alike.

  I keep a sexy sway to my hips as I shake the Dean’s hand and wink at the live streaming camera on the side of the stage. There are hundreds of millionaires and billionaires in the crowd right now at Wilton’s commencement ceremony for law majors.

  It’s probably wishful thinking, but a well-placed wink might garner the attention of one of them. Which I desperately need, since I have until tomorrow to move out of Vaserley Hall, and I still haven’t found a place to live.

  The thought sends another forced edge to my smile, and the Dean whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes,” I lie unconvincingly.

  He doesn’t comment, because let’s be real—he doesn’t actually care.

  No one but Mina does, and that makes the idea of failing to obtain something on my checklist to get her back even more difficult to stomach.

  There’s not a genuine smile on my face as I pose for one last photo for the commencement photographers positioned at the base of the stage. As soon as the last picture is taken, I wipe the contrived smile off of my face before exiting on the opposite side of the stage and joining the rest of the graduates that have already been called on by the Dean.

  I sit down beside a stranger, and after another moment, the next graduate to walk on the stage sits down on the other side of me. She’s a stranger, too. And as I sit between them, wedged between two people I don’t know on what should be one of the proudest moments of my life, I can’t help but feel miserable.

  These two probably have family members and friends in the crowd.

  Me?

  I have no one.

  I can’t bring Mina without anyone to watch her during the ceremony. I have no idea where my dad is. The woman who birthed me is about as reliable as Dollar Tree condoms. My only friends had their commencement ceremonies yesterday and have already left the state.

  That just leaves me.

  This is my greatest personal accomplishment, and I’m alone.

  How did I get here?

  After the commencement ceremony ends, I’m forced to choose between mingling in the crowd of wealthy patrons and honoring an appointment I made with a potential roommate I found on Craigslist two days ago.

  The Craigslist post calls for a female roommate to live in an extra room in an apartment on Broadway and White—rent free in exchange for cleaning services. I would have to clean the entire apartment, wash dishes every day, and cook meals three times a day. The groceries would be paid for by the other roommate/tenant.

  If it’s just me, this would be a sweet deal.

  But it’s not.

  I have Mina.

  And doing this gig means there will be no time to get a full time job, which I need if I’m going to be able to afford a Social Services approved apartment, earn a stream of income stable enough to support a handicapped preteen, and acquire a steady living environment.

  Oh, and pay for a lawyer to file for custody. I would do it myself, but I don’t have a J.D yet, which I might need, should I have to sue for custody.

  But living at this place will give me time to find a decent job, study for my LSATs, and wait for an affordable apartment to open up.

  On one hand, this is the best deal I’ve found that allows me to live near Mina’s state run group home without having to pay an obnoxious amount of New York City rent.

  On the other hand, if this is anything like the last Craigslist post I answered, I’m better off finding a rich man to leech off of in the crowd of wealthy New Yorkers attending the Wilton commencement ceremony today.

  But I can’t take the risk that I might not find someone, so as soon as I am able to, I race back to my dorm and change into navy blue dress pants and a cute, white blouse. I brush my hair quickly and look in the mirror, satisfied that I look respectable without looking like I have a stick lodged up my butt.

  If I was looking for a roommate, this is how I’d want her to look like.

  I wince when I look at the time. I don’t have enough time to walk to the appointment, so I call an Uber, which is thankfully still connected to John’s black AmEx. I slipped the card in John’s mailbox the day after the fiasco, but I forgot to delete the card from my Uber account.

  I’m thankful for that now when the Uber driver pulls up and gets into the car. I give him the address and spend the car ride thinking about what happened less than a week ago.

  Maybe I should have called the cops.

  After all, there were guns involved.

  But I don’t need it on my record that I was involved in something shady when I’m trying to prove to the state that I’m capable of taking care of my little sister. And with that thought, I put my game face on when the driver pulls up to the apartment building.

  The receptionist greets me and lets me up when I enter. The building is nice, but it’s not as nice as some of the ones I’ve been in with my marks. Even so, it’s far nicer than what I can presently afford, and that lifts my spirits as I enter the elevator and press “6.”

  But after I exit the elevator on the sixth floor and knock on the right apartment number, I am greeted by a leery eyed man, and my spirits sink. I immediately feel like a fool, blinded by my desperation.

  I saw the sentence, “Seeking a female roommate,” on the Craigslist ad and assumed, like many of the other ads, the poster was a girl.

  I was so wrong.

  Dressed for the roommate interview in a stained wife beater and torn jeans, this guy looks sketchy. When he takes an intrusive step forward, entering my personal bubble without an invitation, I take a hurried step back.

  If I’m being honest, I’m desperate. That means, until he invaded my personal space, I was still considering living here. And when he pulls out an itty bitty maid’s costume, small enough to fit in his back pocket, I quickly and wordlessly flee for the elevators, knowing I have to get out of here.

  I can’t get Mina back if I’m dead.

  And I definitely think that’s a possibility living here.

  Because what sane person would start a roommate interview by thrusting a sex costume in
to his potential roommate’s hands?

  Then again, I’m not sane either.

  Because what sane person wouldn’t be suspicious when answering a Craigslist ad that reads:

  Subject: SEEKING FEMALE ROOMMATE

  I m a twenty year young person looking for a girl roommate around the same age as me, must be willing to clean the apartment every day, must be a good chef and be cook every day three times a day for breakfast lunch and dinner, i will provide the groceries but u must pick them up or order them online, i will give a strict cash allowance for the groceries, again must be young. hurry. this rent FREE gig wont be available long. lots of people in new york city. lots of people want to live here in new recently renovated apartment on broadway.

  Grammatical errors and typos aside, this guy is far from twenty, and there are so many red flags in the ad. But this was my last hope, and I was and am so desperate, and…

  Another idea pops into my head, perhaps more ludicrous than answering this Craigslist ad, but nevertheless, I endeavor to do it.

  Like I said, I’m desperate.

  And because of that desperation, twenty minutes later, I find myself in front of a familiar brownstone, my finger hovering over a doorbell.

  It’s stupid.

  It’s rash.

  It’s insanity.

  But maybe, just maybe, this might just work.

  Chapter Fifteen

  You can’t shake hands

  with a clenched fist.

  Indira Gandhi

  “Someone has been following me.”

  The lie escapes my lips with ease, my voice an impressive act of anger, fear, annoyance and frustration. Perhaps it’s because I actually am feeling all of the above right now.

  I’m angry at the way I’m spending my commencement day. Everyone else is out celebrating, and I’m here, trying to trick someone who’s basically a stranger into allowing me to move in. I’m also trying and failing to trick myself into believing this is a good idea.

  You saw Lucy enter this building without her guard a month ago, and Asher wouldn’t let Lucy go anywhere dangerous. She knows him. He’s safe. Plus, Minka, it’s not like you have any other options. Don’t be picky. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  I’m also fearful of what homelessness will mean for Mina’s future.

  What happens if Social Services asks me where I’ve been living since graduating?

  What would I say that would convince them that Mina won’t end up homeless, too, under my care?

  Hi, my name is Minka Reynolds. I’ve been homeless for a bit, but don’t worry, guys. As soon as I sleep with the right guy, Mina and I will find a home and live happily ever after. I promise!

  I doubt that’d go over well.

  I’m also annoyed at my situation. Social Services should have never butt in in the first place; my sperm donor should have never left; Mina’s sperm donor, whoever he is, should have never left; and the good for nothing woman who gave birth to us should never have left either.

  And some days, I feel like I belong in the category of people who have left.

  After all, Mina and I aren’t together, and that means I’ve left her.

  Even if it’s not of my own volition.

  And lastly, I’m frustrated with myself right now. Here I am, on the steps of John’s neighbor’s brownstone, waiting for his response to my words. Whatever he says may determine my future—it may determine Mina’s future.

  Yet, I can’t help but notice the unsympathetic expression in his dark brown eyes and feel winded.

  He’s just that beautiful.

  He’s like a precious statue in a museum. One that you can gape at from afar, but you’re not allowed to touch or even approach. And it’s not because he’s fragile. It’s because he, in all of his aesthetically perfect, stony glory, is worth more than you can even fathom, let alone ever dream of making in your lifetime.

  So, I’m lucky I was able to get the words out before he even opened the door fully. Because one look at him dressed only in sweatpants, the deep grooves of his muscular chest bare for me to see, and I’m stunned into silence.

  My brain chooses to replace that silence with memories of his lips against my jaw, his body pressed against mine, and his confusing words whispered into my ear. I try to force the memories out of my head and focus.

  I feel vulnerable all of sudden as I wait for him to react.

  To tell me to leave or tell me to stay.

  And I don’t know which answer I would prefer.

  After a solid minute of frozen silence, John’s neighbor frowns, hovering in front of his doorway, an unflinching boulder as he takes in my words. I watch wordlessly as his cold, brown eyes darken, and both of his brows dips slightly.

  Whether it’s in disbelief or confusion or shock, I don’t know.

  He’s as unreadable as ever. His expression shifts and moves, reacting to words and things like a normal person would, but unlike a normal person, I can’t read him.

  I don’t know what he’s thinking when his full lips form a straight line.

  I don’t know what he’s thinking when he runs his large hand through his thick brown hair.

  I don’t know what he’s thinking when he sighs.

  And all of this uncertainty is making me nervous.

  It’s making me second guess my crazy plan, which I’m already second guessing enough.

  I endeavor to sell the act better, because I need to be on my A game if I’m going to trick this guy. He’s indescribable in ways I’ve never encountered, and in this moment, the one thing he reminds me most of is a vault.

  And you can’t trick a vault into giving you its password.

  You can’t trick a vault into letting you stay at his home.

  “This is your fault,” I add, making sure to furrow my brows in irritation, my insinuation about that night last week clear.

  “Why would they follow you?” he finally asks, and I hate his ability to stand there so composed in the midst of his own silence—and my insinuations and accusations.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know who they are. But what I do know is that, a week ago, I wasn’t being followed. But someone just had to trail me out of John’s home, I was shot at, and now I’m being followed by a big, sketchy man.” I cross my arms. “Does that sound familiar?”

  He studies me for a moment. “That sounds like your problem. What do you want me to do about it?”

  My brain feels like it’s exploding in the face of his audacity.

  “Seriously?! That’s all you have to say to me?” And then I pull my biggest trump card, and I put all of my lying skills into selling this bluff. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked.” I turn around and am halfway down his steps when I mutter softly but just loud enough for him to hear, “I’ll just go to the cops for help.”

  A few seconds pass, and my feet have hit the pavement of the sidewalk by the time he says, “Wait.” His voice is cool, like I’m inconveniencing him by merely existing.

  I give an exaggerated sigh and cross my arms again before turning to face him. “What now?” I ask, my voice a perfect cocktail of attitude and annoyance.

  “Describe him.”

  I make up a fictitious description without hesitation, describing a younger version of the guy that tried to date rape me months ago. “Tall. Heavyset. Eyes wide apart. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Falcon-like nose. Maybe in his thirties?”

  He nods his head, as if urging me to continue.

  I do, pulling ideas from the movies I saw in my Introduction to Entertainment Law elective course last year. “He had a hat pulled low over his eyes. When I saw him the second time, it was a hoodie. Black. After that, he kept wearing the hoodie. Or maybe he changed hoodies, and they just all happened to be black.” I shrug, as if that’s all I know and I’m sorry if it’s not enough.

  But in my head, I’m cheering and mentally awarding myself an Oscar. Because, wow, that was a worthy perform
ance.

  He crosses his arms, the thick muscles of his biceps bulging and abdominal muscles rippling from the movement, both of which are laid bare for me to see without a shirt getting in the way. “How many times have you seen him?” His voice is all business, but I take it as a good thing.

  As a confirmation that he believes me.

  I mimic the tone of his voice when I speak, hoping that it’ll make him take my lies seriously. “I’ve caught him five times. Two of the times were in the same day, but except for the hoodie, he was wearing different things both of those times. He could have been following me more often than that, but I don’t know. That’s how many times I’ve caught him.”

  “And what would you do when you’d catch him?”

  “The first time I kind of freaked out, but I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice him. I was better at it the other times.”

  He nods in approval, and I consider what to say. I should work in going to the police again, because I suspect he won’t like them getting involved in his mess, given the whole mafia thing.

  I lower my voice, so it’s barely above a whisper, “Well… The first few times, I considered going to the police and filing a report.” I take in his dark expression and urgently say, “But I didn’t. They’ll probably think that I’m crazy. I have no proof of being followed. I should’ve taken a picture.” I add a hint of vulnerability to my voice. “But I was so scared.”

  I pause deliberately, giving him time to consider his options before I finish, “Maybe if you go with me and tell the police what happened here a week ago, they’ll believe me. Actually, what’s your name? I can just file my report about that night and have them come here. You won’t even have to leave your house. I promise.” By the end of my sentence, I’m doing a convincing job of begging.

  That’s the biggest bluff I’ve ever made yet. I can’t go to the police. I can’t involve them in my life when I want to file for custody over Mina. But… he doesn’t know that. So, I keep my face straight and my lies convincing.