There’s a slight crack in his otherwise undecipherable mask of a face, and he sighs. “We should talk about this in the house.”
Playing up my reluctance, I don’t budge.
When he adds, “Just in case the guy followed you here,” I still don’t budge.
I want him to have to work for it. That way, when he eventually suggests that I move in, he’ll think everything is his idea—from the moment he had to convince me to step into his home to the moment he has to convince me to stay.
At my silence, the lingering bit of suspicion in his face evaporates, and he looks more human. “I don’t bite.”
I sigh and add, “Fine. But I still think we should go to the cops.”
“Let’s talk it out first and see what our best options are.”
“Okay,” I agree, sighing as if I’m doing him a favor.
I walk up the steps and past the threshold of his front door, but he stops me with a soft touch of his hand on my shoulder. The contact sends a jolt of thrill down my spine, and I can’t help but wonder…
When was the last time I was touched by a man I was attracted to?
Never.
Well, not since he touched me last, but that hardly counts. He did that to prove a point. To prove that I was attracted to him and not John. And unfortunately, it did too good of a job at proving his point, and now I’m painfully aware of that each time I’m around him, as I’m helplessly rendered into a mess of confusing hormones just at the sight of him.
Since my gold digging campaign began, I’ve only once tried to go for a man that I was even remotely attracted to. Once upon a time, I tried to go for Asher, who I was more than attracted to. I saw him in an off-campus bar with Aimee and Lucy and thought he’d be the jackpot. He’s young, handsome and more believable than me being with someone like John.
He also has more clout in this city than anyone I’ve ever met. No way would a custody request from the Asher Black be turned down by Social Services.
But Asher shut me down almost as soon as I approached him. He treated me like there was something wrong with me, and maybe there is. Not because of my gold digging. I’m not ashamed—nor will I ever be—of exhausting all options possible to get Mina back.
What I am ashamed of is how I let my anger and jealousy and frustration get the best of me. And how poorly that made me treat Lucy, Aimee, and so many others who have crossed my path.
And for a split second, I indulge my attraction to John’s neighbor. I allow myself to wonder what would happen if we were normal, and I was being invited into his house under normal circumstances.
Would he want me?
Would he press me against the wall and kiss me?
Would he lead me upstairs and shower my body with praises, like John did with my lookalike?
“Hold up,” he says, giving me an odd look when he catches sight of my expression and, thankfully, shaking away my distracting thoughts.
I watch as he walks to a wall opposite of us and presses a few buttons on what’s probably his alarm system.
“Okay. All clear.”
I take a few steps forward, and as soon as I do, the door behind me swings shut automatically with a loud thud. I hear a few strange sounds, one of which sounds like a hydraulic whish, before I can’t help but turn around.
I watch as a steel plate, painted to look like a dark wooden door, slides over the outer door, forming a second protective layer. Seconds after, there are three loud clicks that sound like the turning of several locks.
Holy cow.
I knew, walking into his brownstone, that this man probably has ties to the mafia. But this security system? What would necessitate it?
This is crazy.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Sixteen
Anger is never
without a reason, but
seldom a good one.
Benjamin Franklin
Un. Fucking. Believable.
Someone is following Red Junior, and the fact that she’s been able to catch him tells me that it’s another talentless hack, trying his hand at the five million dollar hit.
And it’s unlikely they would be following her if they didn’t see her with me the night of the shooting. Which means Jax, the guy who shot at us that night, was lying to me when he said he didn’t have a partner.
I’m actually impressed.
I didn’t think he had it in him. When I questioned him that night, he was blabbering like a little boy. By the time I was done questioning him, I had his social security number, the name of the woman who broke his heart, and a promise to name all of his future offspring after me.
I had heartily declined the last offer.
But he just kept going.
T-the first b-boy will be Niccolaio.
The next w-will be Nicholas.
The n-next will be Nico.
The one after th-that will be Nikolaus.
And a-after that, Niklaus.
And if it’s a g-girl, I can do Nikki.
Or m-maybe even Nikita.
Nicole is b-beautiful, also…
I’d left my basement, where I was and still am holding him, after he said, “Niccolaio,” but I watched him go on for hours on the video footage, stuttering his way through hundreds of variations of my name until he finally fell asleep on the hard floor.
He’s still downstairs, and if I walk past the open stairwell to the basement, Red Junior will probably hear him crying, because he does that. He cries a goddamn lot. To the point where I have to wonder if he’s got some developmental issues I should be considerate about.
So, I steer clear of the area and take her into the kitchen.
I offer her a bottle of water from the fridge, and we both take seats on the barstools at the end of the kitchen island.
“My name is Minka,” she finally says.
I nod my head in acknowledgment.
The name suits her. It’s strong but feminine and unique. I’ve certainly never met anyone like her. One moment, she’s an angry ball of fire, and the next moment, she’s this woman before me—not quite meek but not quite fearless either.
And I don’t know how she can be both.
Things are usually black and white in my life.
I have clear priorities and, for the most part, am able to live my life efficiently, making decisions easily and with little fanfare. Take Uncle Luca’s life, for instance. I loved him. I truly did. But I loved Ranieri more, so the choice between Uncle Luca and Ranieri’s life was a simple one.
It was easy to make.
And if that decision didn’t have me struggling to come to terms with life, acting differently and out of character, like a complex human would, then I don’t know what will.
Now, being so near to this woman is almost overwhelming me. She acts so differently each time I see her that I can’t help but wonder how she can be so dynamic. How can she be so complex?
Are there this many layers to every person?
I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind, because if I entertain it, it might make my job of killing people harder.
I kill guys who kill.
It’s that simple.
Black and white.
No complexity.
No layers.
It’s easy, and I like it that way.
“Nick,” I say after a long period of silence, giving her the name I give everyone nowadays.
“Nick,” she repeats, playing with my name in her mouth, and I can’t help but wonder how it’d sound like shouted from her mouth in the midst of an orgasm.
I adjust the baby chub that perks up at the thought, taking note that I need to get laid. I haven’t forgotten how fucking turned on I was when I caught her leaving John’s, and she’d almost fallen down the steps. She was wearing jeans that showed off her long legs and perfect ass, and her shirt had ridden up as she stumbled, revealing a Hell of a lot of skin.
> Maybe she’s actually that hot or maybe I really, really need to get laid. After all, it’s been awhile, since there aren’t very many opportunities to do so when you have a hit on your head and stay in your home all day.
I don’t even go out to get groceries. I either have one of the guards get them or I have them delivered, switching services randomly and using my fake name, Nick Andrews, for security reasons.
“How about I hire guards for you?” I say, cutting straight to the chase.
“What?” Her eyes widen in surprised, and for some reason, I think I see panic in them.
Perhaps the idea of more men with weapons following her around scares her?
I try to sell it. “You won’t even know they’re there. My men are well-trained. They can follow you at a distance, where they won’t be intrusive. They can stay outside your room at night or even outside your home. Whatever you want. You’ll never even have to see them if you don’t want to, but they’ll be there to protect you, should you need it.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “No, I don’t want that. Definitely not.”
“Well, it’s better than going to the cops. At worst, they’ll laugh you off. At best, they’ll give you a security detail. One guy, who will park outside your apartment or home for two weeks and leave when nothing happens. I’ll give you a well-trained security detail for as long as you feel like you need it.”
“And what if that’s forever?”
“Then, it’s forever.”
She gives me a disbelieving look.
I gesture around the home, which is clearly a byproduct of wealth. “I’m good for it.”
And I am.
Sort of.
I get a healthy amount of money per hit, ranging from two hundred thousand dollars to as much as five million dollars, depending on how difficult the hit is. But on top of that, I managed to empty my portion of my trust fund before Ranie decided to go after my assets.
I may not be Asher Black rich, but I’m easily wealthier than I’m related to a Rothschild even though it’s through a great great great grandfather’s cousin eight times removed John and tech millionaire and blue blood Dex.
The problem, though, is that I can’t access that money.
It’s hidden in dozens of offshore accounts in case of emergencies. I was stupid when I made the accounts. They’re all under my name. My real name. And if I access the money, I’ll be telling the Andrettis where my money is, in which case, I might not be able to drain all of the accounts before they access them.
I’d rather not risk it.
As is, Asher was the one who bought this house. In a city I’m allowed to live in because the Romano capos allow it. And I’m living off of money I get from hits for the enemy of my family. Hits that Vincent Romano generously hires me for. Under a false identity, Nick Andrews, that Asher’s techies created for me.
I depend so much on the goodwill of the Romano family, and I still can’t help but be amazed by it, given the rough history between the Andretti and Romano families.
But still, I’m good for the deal.
I can’t pay for a lifetime of security, but I can call in some favors from friends of my security guys. Or maybe even use this as a training exercise for some trainees from Asher’s security company, Black Security.
The offer I’m making is generous.
But for some reason, she gives me a resounding “no.”
She doesn’t even tell me why.
She just crosses her arms and frowns at me, full of attitude that I’ve come to realize is just so her. I barely even know her, but in all the times I’ve met her—literally, every single time—she’s been full of attitude. It’s the most consistent thing about her.
Is she still pissed about the construction noise?
I narrow my eyes at her. She looks like the type to hold a grudge.
“It’s a good deal,” I say.
“Well, I don’t want it.”
“Why the Hell not?”
She cringes at the curse, and I regret saying it. I’m a curser. I swear like a motherfucking sailor. In my mind, aloud, and even in my dreams. And apparently, she’s not. I remember what she said when I first met her—darn.
She crosses her arms again. “I don’t want some strange men following me around, going where I go.”
I look her up and down. “And where is it that you go?” I can’t help but ask, remembering her walk of shame to John’s house and my suspicion that she’s a gold digger.
Antagonizing her right now probably isn’t my greatest decision, but it’s not like I judge her for it, since I do some questionable things for money, too. But I want her to say what she is aloud.
For some reason, a reason that likely has more to do with how fucked up I am than what I actually think of her actions, I want to know if she’ll own up to it.
I want to see this gorgeous, angry woman tell her truth to me without shame.
But when she doesn’t, when she says, “none of your darn business,” I sag a little in my seat in seat.
Disappointed.
But I can’t blame her.
I don’t talk about myself.
I don’t talk about my past, present or future.
I don’t even let people call me Niccolaio anymore, unless I’m about to kill them or they’re too high up in the Romano family for me to correct.
I sigh, because I don’t need her to confirm it to know my suspicions are correct. And if she’s gold digging, she’s probably in need of money.
Money I have but can’t access.
Sure, I can dip into my savings from taking out hits, but she can also easily ask for more and more and more once I begin to indulge her.
And it’s not like I’m killing enough people to be this woman’s sugar daddy.
So, I offer the one thing I think she might accept.
“You can live with me, and I’ll protect you.”
And damn, I hope I’m not making a fucking mistake.
I’ve made too many in this life already.
Chapter Seventeen
Beware the fury
of a patient man.
Publilius Syrus
twenty years old
It’s cold in Maryland this time of year.
But it’s only been a month since I left Florida, and I still haven’t gotten used to the change in climate.
And it certainly doesn’t help that I’m homeless.
There’s a bridge along the Potomac that I sleep under, and for ten dollars a month, I have access to showers and the gym equipment at the nearest Planet Fitness. I spend hours at the gym every day to escape the cold and get a daily shower.
The gym employees think I’m some kind of fitness buff, and I don’t correct them. I certainly look and act the part. After a month of daily four hour gym sessions, my body is almost unrecognizable. I was built before, but now, there are muscles on my body in places I didn’t know could have muscles.
Usually, the Andretti capos like us built but lean. Too many muscles can make you slow. But with the amount and type of training I do, I’m quicker than I’ve ever been and stronger, too.
It’s a shame that I won’t ever have the opportunity to use my enhanced skills.
And given where I am, I hope I don’t either.
What makes Maryland the perfect place for me to hide out also makes it the worst.
Maryland is a border state for the Romano and Andretti territories. The problem is that the two families have never quite figured out where the border starts and ends. And it doesn’t help that, because Maryland is on the fringes of both territories, both families send the nobody tenentes—lieutenants—to control the area.
These are men and women that don’t mean shit to either family but are still Hell bent on trying to prove their worth.
Damaged egos are a dangerous weapon.
And in the border, a damaged ego causes the tens to do crazy shit.
Like start border wars in a never ending pissing contest of Whose Penis is Bigger?
But despite how dangerous living in a border area is, it’s also safe because it’s on the outskirts. I know firsthand that my dad doesn’t give a damn about this area, and he’s the head of the Andretti family.
If the head doesn’t give a damn, no one else gives a damn.
And that makes this the perfect place to lay low.
Plus, it’s not like I can go anywhere else. When I left Uncle Luca’s, I ran. I didn’t stop to get money or my passport. All I had was the money in my wallet and cards that have already been cancelled.
I couldn’t flee the country, and I still can’t now. I don’t have the connections to get a new passport with a new identity. And I sure as Hell don’t want to leave Andretti territory, given the other threats out there for someone who bleeds Andretti blood.
The United States and parts of Canada are split into five territories, each controlled by one of the five syndicates—the De Luca family, the Camerino family, the Rossi family, the Romano family, and the Andretti family.
My family’s territory is in the South. Aside from the Romanos, we’re pretty much left alone. Obviously, the Romanos are out of the question. The Romano family has been our enemy for hundreds of years, and I’m as good as dead if I step into their territory.
Even if I finished out a hit on my own uncle.
I may not be welcome by the Andretti family anymore, but I still have the Andretti last name and Andretti blood still runs through my veins. And that means I’ll always be the greatest enemy of the Romano family.
Some prejudices are too strong to overcome.
I can’t go into Rossi territory either. Their territory is on the West coast, so I’ve never had to deal with them. That means I have no fucking clue how they run, which makes it a bad idea to enter their territory without adequate intel.
And the De Luca territory? That’s not even an option. The De Lucas are fucking bat shit. They’ll kill you first and ask questions later. They’re the only family of the five syndicates that have abandoned the original mafia code—innocent women and children are off limits.
Niccolaio Andretti: A Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 2) Page 10