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

by Parker S. Huntington

“Why not? I helped you. You helped me. And you haven’t been mean to me ever since. I don’t think you will be in the future either. So, what’s the point of us hating each other? It kind of drained my energy avoiding you back then.”

  I snort, because she may have avoided me, but I avoided her, too.

  And she’s right.

  She has a point, but at the same time, extending an invitation to her wedding goes beyond the call of civility. We can be friendly without the wedding invitation.

  In fact…

  “We can be nice without being friends.”

  She laughs. “Minka, just accept the damn offer of friendship. If you haven’t noticed, Nella and what’s her face are gone. You probably will never see them again. And honestly, I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are, nor as bad as you pretend to be. Anyone can see that you’re just lonely. Just accept the friendship and think about the wedding invitation. I’ve forgiven you. I promise.”

  And when she leaves, I press my back against the hallway wall and stare up at the ceiling.

  Conflicted.

  Lucy has forgiven me, but can I forgive myself?

  Chapter Twenty

  There are two things

  a person should never

  be angry at, what they

  can help, and what

  they cannot.

  Plato

  eighteen years old

  As he trails sloppy kisses down my body, I wonder again if what I’m doing is the right thing to do.

  But then I remember all the money he has and what tying myself to him can do for me and Mina. I think of last Saturday, when I saw Mina’s heartbroken face, her eyes streaming with tears when the time came that I had to leave her after seeing her for the first time since she was taken from me.

  And with that shattering image freshly etched into my brain, I know without a doubt that I have to do this.

  So, I steel myself, and I let out a convincing moan when he touches me in a way that would make me lose control if I was even a little physically or mentally attracted to him.

  But since I’m not, I cringe in my head, struggling to keep the disgust at bay.

  I’m not one of those girls that cares about her virginity, but it still kind of sucks that this is the way I’m losing it. With the life I lived and the people I grew up around, I never expected to have candles and rose petals scattered across the floor of some fancy hotel I’m staying in when a man enters me for the first time…

  But I also didn’t expect to be underneath a man three times my age as I let him paw ravenously at my virgin flesh.

  Yet, here I am, and that’s exactly what’s happening.

  He takes his plump right hand and drags it slowly and firmly across the inside of my right thigh, and I whimper. I feel him grin against my neck, probably assuming that the sound was one of pleasure not anguish.

  And for the rest of the night, that’s exactly how I feel.

  Anguish at each touch.

  Anguish at each lick.

  Anguish at each thrust.

  But somehow, in the midst of it all, that anguish turns into anger.

  And I feel better.

  I find refuge.

  “Minka.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well?”

  “Sorry. What did you say, Mina?”

  Mina groans, her cheeks puffing out in a way that makes her look younger than her eight years. “Stop ignoring me!”

  “I’m not ignoring you.” I hold up some fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “What’s scout’s honor?”

  “Never mind,” I say, my mind already straying.

  I eye the giant bottle of Costco Kirkland hand sanitizer, sitting next to the sink that’s behind Mina. I wonder what would happen if I steal it. Would they catch me? Would I even care if they catch me?

  Last night, after losing my virginity and being told immediately after that I was no longer wanted, that I had been played, I went home and showered.

  But when that one shower wasn’t enough, I showered again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I showered thirteen times, and I still felt dirty.

  No matter how many times I scrubbed my body raw or how many times I scoured shampoo through my hair, I didn’t feel clean. I could still feel the bruising touch of his hands on my skin and his breath against my neck. No amount of soap and water was going to wash the dirtiness of it off.

  And finally, I had to stop.

  After all, I couldn’t afford to take that many showers.

  Thanks to the millions of showers I took yesterday, I’ll have to use less soap and take shorter showers for the next three months to make up for all the shampoo, body soap and water I wasted last night. Maybe I’ll even have to pick up a few extra shifts at the diner I work at full time to pay for the bump in the utilities bill.

  But still, I have to do something.

  My skin feels itchy and gross, even though I know in my head that it’s clean.

  I eye the hand sanitizer yet again and wonder if I can fit it in my little bag. It’s a big bottle, probably the height of my forearm and double the width. So, I doubt it would fit… but man, do I want to take it home with me, pour it in the bathtub, and lay in it for days and days until I feel cleansed.

  “MINKA!!!” Mina says again, shouting directly in my ear this time.

  I wince and recoil from her. “Jesus! WHAT? What do you want?” I ask, sharply.

  As soon as I say it, I regret the words, but I can’t take them back.

  Mina—my beautiful, innocent, incredible baby sister—shatters before me, and I feel like the biggest monster on the entire planet for doing this to her. I’ve never been like this before. Ever. Sure, I have a short temper—the shortest. You would, too, if you had my sperm and egg donors as parents.

  But I’ve never snapped at Mina.

  Never.

  Not even once.

  Yet, here I am, watching my baby sister splinter before my eyes.

  And I did this.

  I’m breaking her.

  I should have protected her better.

  I should have dropped out of high school and gotten my GED years ago.

  I’m smart enough to have done that. But I was delusional. I thought that maybe, if I finished high school, I could go to a community college for a couple of years while working and caring for Mina. Then, I’d transfer to a good school in the area, like NYU or Columbia or maybe even Wilton.

  Then, I’d be able to get a good job, and we’d be able to live better.

  It was a pipe dream, and I risked everything for it.

  I risked Mina for it.

  I should have gotten my GED. I should have spent the extra time out of school homeschooling Mina and taking extra shifts at the diner. It wouldn’t have been the life I wanted for myself, but I would still have Mina, and I would have made sure that she had a better future than me.

  But I chose not to do that.

  Instead, I chose to be selfish.

  I decided that I deserved to finish high school and go to college when I should have been focusing on Mina and her future. I should have been making decisions that were best for her, not us. Not me.

  And now, Mina is suffering because of my actions.

  She’s here because of me. Because I didn’t hide our situation well enough.

  She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need to bear the brunt of my anger and heartbreak and despondency from last night. Not now, when she’s staying here, at a strange place, under the care of total strangers.

  I shouldn’t be taking what happened out on her.

  “Hey,” I say gently to Mina, grateful when her tears slow and she turns to face me again. “I’m sorry, Mina. I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired. I love you, okay?”

  She nods her head, and despite her tears, a tiny smile lif
ts at the corner of her lips. “I love you, too.” And then, her lower lip trembles, and she says, her voice so full of vehemence for such an innocent, little thing, “I hate it here. I hate it here so much! I wish I could go home with you, Minka.”

  I reach forward and cradle her head against my chest. “I know, Mina. I wish you could, too.” And then I whisper, my lips pressed against the crown of her head, “We’ll be together again. I promise.”

  And when the time comes to leave her again, I no longer feel dirty. I let the pain inside me darken to anger, embracing the familiarity of it. And I let that fury fuel my resolve.

  I can do this.

  I have to.

  For Mina.

  I just hope I don’t lose myself along the way.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sharpest sword is

  a word spoken in wrath.

  Guatama Buddha

  present

  When Minka moves in, it’s almost pitiful how few things she brings with her.

  There’s one small box of clothes, about the size of a carryon luggage; an even smaller box full of knickknacks, a couple of textbooks and some romance novels, which I find completely out of character from what I’ve seen of her; and a medium sized purse that looks like it’s on its deathbed, and judging from the two sole items in it, Minka doesn’t trust it to carry anything heavier than a wallet and keys either.

  I can’t help but let a bit of the old Niccolaio out as I stack the boxes on top of one another, throw the bag on top, and lift the three things easily at once. “Damn. We should have hired a moving crew,” I joke, out of character and feeling like my old self in that moment.

  She scowls at me, the irritation in her eyes familiar. “Are you making fun of my poverty?” She looks around at my place from our spot in the grand foyer, slowly taking everything in. Everything is nice, shiny, and sparkly, but that’s how having money works. “Not everyone is as privileged as you are.”

  I shrug, because if you don’t include the bloodshed and being disowned by my family, she’s right. For the most part, I’ve lived a pretty damn privileged life. Even though the past seven years have been spent in hiding, for most of it, I’ve lived in luxury, except for that one cold ass month when I was homeless and living under a goddamn bridge for a bit.

  “You’re shameless,” she mutters, though it sounds deflated.

  In fact, she doesn’t seem like her sassy self. Sure, she’s not exactly meek. But over the past twenty-four hours or so since I offered to let her move in, I was preparing myself for a spitfire. For a sassy hellion. For battle after battle with her sharp tongue.

  And the woman before me isn’t the woman I was expecting.

  She looks almost… contemplative.

  Like she’s somehow went from a woman who knows who is to a woman who’s still trying to figure it out.

  For some reason, that disturbs me deeply.

  I think I like her better when she’s angry at the world and especially me.

  What’s wrong with me, I’ll never know. Call it boredom or call it attraction, but her typical sass excites me. Seeing her like this, though, is almost draining. I resist the urge to press her body against the wall and watch her eyes flare with excitement and lust, anything other than the despondency I’m witnessing right now.

  “Where’s my room?” she asks, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to drop her off and rid myself of her in this odd state of hers.

  I lead her upstairs to the bedroom across from mine. It’s a generous sized room with a queen sized bed, a flat screen television mounted to the wall, a large bathroom, and a walk in closet capable of holding ten thousand times the amount of clothes she actually owns.

  I place the boxes on the floor by the opened door. “Want a tour of the place?” I ask, because I don’t want her wandering where she doesn’t belong later.

  When she nods, I lead her around the brownstone, pointing out some spare bedrooms, my room, the office, the library, the gym, the theater, living room, and the security room, which is empty, since I already sent everyone home for the day.

  Judging by her reaction when I suggested hiring personal security for her, I thought it might be safer not to risk freaking her out. As I lead her toward the kitchen, I hear a loud groan coming from the stairwell.

  The one leading to the basement.

  The basement where I’m illegally holding the guy who shot at us prisoner.

  I hope she didn’t hear that.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  Fucking Hell.

  “Nothing,” I reply casually, hoping my prisoner stops acting like a little bitch.

  “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

  “Don’t,” I say, but she’s already heading towards the stairwell.

  And honestly, other than that halfhearted “don’t,” I don’t bother stopping her. Because she’ll figure it out eventually when she sees me bringing food and water down to him. It would be exhausting hiding him from her for the duration of her entire stay.

  Plus, maybe she can help me change out his pissing bucket every now and then.

  Then again, probably not.

  I eye her and roll my eyes at the way she walks. She has her chin held up and her back prim and straight, walking like she’s the Queen of fucking England or some shit. I don’t know where she learned to do that, but it’s at odds with what she insinuated to me about her upbringing.

  Her “poverty,” as she called it.

  When we round the corner to where I’m holding Jax, I study her, waiting to see how she reacts, knowing that I’ll be learning a lot about her from her reaction. And damn, if I’m not a little curious to learn more about her.

  And at the last second, I force myself to turn away.

  Because what the Hell kind of thought is that?

  She’s not here for me to learn more about her, like we’re on a fucking dating show or whatever. She’s here because she threatened to call the cops on me, and I’m not shitty enough of a person to kill an innocent civilian just to keep them quiet.

  That’s all.

  A gasp leaves her lips, and I see her stopping beside me from my peripherals.

  “Why is he here?” she asks, her voice calm and not even a little incensed.

  And honestly, that takes me by surprise, because it’s a far tamer reaction than I expected.

  This girl’s got spunk. Any other girl, and I can guarantee there would have been screaming. Maybe even some crying. Because Jax’s face is a fucking mess, caked in dried blood and ugly green and purple bruises.

  Both of his bullet wounds were clean shots, through and through, so I sewed him up, and that’s about all the upkeep he’s gotten from me since.

  He hasn’t even showered.

  In my defense, I spray some Febreeze on his skin every now and then when the stink gets to be too much.

  Good as new.

  I turn to her. “You’re not angry? Disgusted?”

  She shrugs. “He shot at me.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, but my mind is reeling.

  Because this chick is badass.

  “He’s here because I’ve still got questions for him,” I continue, answering her earlier question. I kick at his feet, ignoring his whimpers that are loud despite the tape on his mouth. “Jax, here, is a liar.” I turn towards him and look him in the eye. “Aren’t you?”

  He mumbles something unintelligibly through the tape, and I tear it from his mouth, unfazed by his screams at the tape ripping from his skin. He has got to be the biggest baby I have ever met. If I even step in his direction, he’ll shriek. I’m almost offended that he thought he could kill me.

  I’ve seen ex-girlfriends sit through Brazilian waxes with sultry smiles and bedroom eyes on their faces.

  In fact, the girl beside me seems like someone who can take pain like a champ.

  At that thought, the part of me that hasn’t gotten laid in too long wonders ho
w rough she likes sex.

  “I’m not a liar,” Jax groans, drawing my attention back to him.

  I turn to Minka. “He told me that he doesn’t have a partner. He claims he only works alone.” I shift my attention back to Jax and say, “But Minka told me that someone’s been following her. Who am I supposed to believe? You, an F grade, bottom of the barrel, wannabe hitman, or Minka?” I lower my voice to a false whisper, “I’ll give you a hint—I’m more inclined to believe her.”

  My voice returns to a normal volume, and when I turn to Minka to ask if she wants to have a go at questioning him, I see something in her eyes that confuses me.

  I see guilt.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Not the fastest horse

  can catch a word spoken

  in anger.

  Chinese Proverb

  “You lied to me,” Nick says, turning his body away from the sorry shell of a man tied onto the floor beside him.

  “What are you talking about?” I laugh out convincingly, like I think what he’s saying is ridiculous.

  But inside, I’m staggered, a frantic mess.

  I know he’s smart. I knew that from the moment I saw him. It was something I could just tell. No matter what he’s saying or doing, pure intelligence seeps out of his eyes and through his mannerisms.

  But still…

  How did he figure me out already?

  I’ve been here for less than half an hour, and my gig is already up.

  “You lied to me,” he repeats, his already callous eyes darkening and something in his voice akin to disbelief.

  Maybe he’s even impressed.

  Like the fact that I was bold enough to try to trick him and able to do so, even if it was only for a brief amount of time, is the most fascinating thing in the world.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deny, my mind racing, wondering how I can spin this in my favor.

  I’ve been in a lot of bad spots over the years, but I’ve never been homeless. I’ve been lucky to have a full scholarship at Wilton that paid for tuition along with room and board, but now I have to get back to the real world.