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

by Parker S. Huntington

  Where I can be booted onto the street, and literally no one but Mina would care.

  Least of all the indifferent man before me.

  He takes a step forward, and I stand still for a moment, enjoying our proximity before I instinctively take a step back, fully aware that I should have done so in the first place. From behind him, Jax watches us, still whimpering intermittently.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m impressed. And curious.” He pauses and opens his mouth to say something, but when the doorbell rings, his open mouth shifts into a frown. His eyes flash in annoyance, presumably at the interruption and hopefully not at me. “That’s probably the deliveryman for the groceries. We’ll finish this later,” he says and heads toward the staircase without a goodbye or an invitation to follow him.

  I follow him up anyway, not wanting to be alone down here with Jax. It smells absolutely disgusting in the basement. Like someone dumped a few dozen bottles of Febreeze down a sewer and thought it’d take care of the stench.

  It didn’t.

  I trail behind Nick and follow him into the foyer, because it’d be weird being alone in a room in his house. Even though I should get used to it if I’m going to be staying here for however long it takes for me to get back on my feet.

  Once we reach the door, Nick presses a button on a panel beside it, and the screen shows a man outside. His head is down, and since the angle is from above, we can’t see any part of his face past his baseball cap, which has the logo of the grocery store on it. His muscular arms are holding a large box, and in it are several bags full of food items.

  Nick presses a button, and the inner door slides open, followed by the outer door. When the doors open, the guy lifts his head and studies me for a split second before turning to Nick. The box in his hand drops, revealing the gun in his right hand, a silencer attached to the end.

  My eyes widen, but Nick is already grabbing my arm and jerking my body behind his, moving both of us away from the door right before the gun emits a muffled whish. Nick pushes me to the side and lifts himself off of me, his body still mostly shielding mine.

  When he grabs two guns from the entryway table, the fake deliveryman widens his eyes, gapes, and shouts, “Motherfucker! You kept our guns?!”

  Ruthlessly and without hesitation, Nick shoots them both, ruthlessly lodging two bullets into the intruder in quick succession.

  One in the middle of his head.

  One in the middle of his chest.

  I watch as the deliveryman sinks slowly to the ground, his gun falling from his grip onto the floor with a softer thud than I expected. In fact, aside from the deliveryman’s odd last words, the whole ordeal was silent, thanks to the silencers attached on his gun and Nick’s.

  “Huh,” Nick says, his dark eyes on mine, casually observing me as if there’s not a dead body on the floor in front of us.

  As if he didn’t just shoot that guy in the head and chest.

  As if this is just a normal day for him.

  And perhaps it is.

  Though if that’s the case, he should probably move.

  These people coming after him already know where he lives.

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t scream.”

  “I grew up in the Bronx.”

  In an apartment complex full of crack addicts, pimps, whores, and drug dealers. Some of whom were all four. They’ve knocked the building down since then, but the memories of living there are still intact.

  This isn’t the first shooting I’ve witnessed.

  It isn’t even the first shooting involving Nick that I’ve witnessed.

  Nick nods his head thoughtfully before leaning down. I watch as he picks the dead guy’s gun up and grips his shirt with a large fist. When he nonchalantly straightens and begins to drag the guy’s body, I almost laugh.

  The image is so similar to what happened last time, it’s almost laughable how crazy this is. The other shootings I’ve witnessed involved domestic abuse, drugs, or gangs. They had no finesse and were disgustingly sloppy.

  Given my suspicions about his mafia ties, I have a feeling this is none of the above.

  Nick turns his head over his shoulder and says, “Bag up the groceries, will you? I don’t want to have to wait for another delivery.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already turned around and is beginning to walk again. Sighing, I drop to my knees and pick up a few random items that fell out of the box when the deliveryman/assassin dropped it, and I’m thankful to see that there isn’t blood on anything.

  I pick up the heavy box and walk in the direction of the kitchen, ignoring the moans coming from Nick’s prisoner in the basement. Nick is already down there, presumably dropping off the dead guy’s body.

  When Nick joins me, I gesture to the box of groceries I dropped onto the kitchen island and point out, “They could be poisoned.”

  “He’s not smart enough for that.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You know him?”

  He nods, but he doesn’t add anything else.

  I sigh, eyeing the clock. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. I have somewhere to be.”

  Specifically, Mina’s. My visit with her starts forty-five minutes from now, and I have to get there on foot. I already removed John’s credit card from my Uber account, and I don’t really have the funds to pay for a ride.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Ha. Ha. Funny,” I say, brushing past him.

  “He saw your face.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He had a getaway driver.”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “You weren’t looking.”

  “It’s not me he’s after.”

  “You’re right. It’s me. And now that he’s seen you in my home, he’ll think getting to you will be getting to me. Go ahead and leave if you want, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll be alive to come back.”

  “Gosh, I hate you so much right now.”

  “You’re not exactly a Georgia peach yourself.”

  I bite my tongue to refrain from growling. “I have somewhere to be.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Are you always such a jerk?”

  “Again, not my problem.”

  I study his rugged face, annoyed beyond belief at him. Then, I stomp away and head to the door, which is still unarmed and unlocked.

  And I leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At the core of all

  anger is a need that is

  not being fulfilled.

  Marshall B. Rosenberg

  I figure I’ve got maybe ten or fifteen minutes before she stomps her way back here, realizing that I wasn’t lying.

  Someone was out there, watching.

  And while I’m pretty damn good at my job, I can’t outrun a car on foot. So, I didn’t even bother trying.

  I eye the digital clock on the microwave oven and walk to my office, ignoring Jax’s moans from downstairs. The man is impervious to everything I’ve tried.

  Tape doesn’t shut him up.

  The man, and I use that term loosely, can moan his way through cloth tied around his mouth, too.

  And sleeping pills only keep him unconscious for so long until he’s up and fucking moaning around again. I’m also running out of liquid sedatives to inject him with, so I’m saving that for when I really need it.

  I make a mental note to purchase a ball and gag set online from the BDSM shop Dex frequents.

  I didn’t even have to hack him to figure that out.

  The guy advertises his sex life every chance he gets, and though I rarely am out of my brownstone to see him, I’ve unfortunately run into him enough in the past seven or so years to know his kinks.

  He’s that bad at keeping his mouth shut.

  Once I’m at my desktop, I pull up Wilton University’s internal database, which I hacked into a whil
e back when I did a background check on Lucy for Asher. I type in Minka’s first and last name, Minka Reynolds, which she had written on the moving boxes I carried to the guestroom.

  Her file pops up, and I click on it. Looking through her transcripts, I see that she’s got straight As, and there’s nothing weird about it to merit interest or any further investigation.

  Instead, I look at the background information the school’s got on her:

  Financial and academic based scholarship.

  So, she’s poor and smart, but I already knew that.

  Boring. Next.

  I scroll through several of her admissions essays until I find one that catches my eye.

  Admissions Essay #4

  Question: In four hundred words or less, explain what has been the most significant day of your life and how it altered (and continues to alter) your perception of your future.

  It’s a Dream

  by Minka Reynolds

  Everything that’s gone wrong in my life can be narrowed down to one day. Isn’t that sad? I have just one day that I can play on repeat in my mind, over and over again.

  And it does just that, forever taunting me. I don’t even have the luxury of a movie reel, playing multiple scenes in my mind, because they don’t exist.

  There’s. Just. One. Damn. Day.

  You may be asking yourself why I’d rather have multiple bad days than just one. Because I’d rather have a variety of nightmares than the same one—over and over and over again.

  You’d feel the same way, too, if your sister was ripped away from you, and you have to see her drowning in her tears once a week.

  And the most messed up part?

  I want to see her cry more than once a week.

  Because that would mean that I get to see her more often than Saturdays from noon to two. If you offered me the opportunity of being there for my sister’s tears twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I would take it without a second thought.

  Is that messed up that I’m so desperate to have more time with my sister that I’d happily accept her tears?

  I don’t know.

  But I do know that the most significant day of my life also happens to be the worst day of my life—when Mina was taken from me. And everything I’ve done ever since—juggling a full-time job and high school, craving a college degree, searching for a better future—has been for her.

  You asked for four hundred words. I could give you four hundred thousand. But at the end of the day, my drive boils down to four—I love my sister.

  And because of that, I know there will only be one bad day in my life, for I can’t afford any more. I’ll get the degree I need, and I’ll do it with perfect grades. I’ll get an amazing job, and I’ll do wonderful things with my future. Most importantly, I’ll get Mina back and provide for her the future she deserves.

  And in ten years, when it’s my sister’s turn to write this essay, she’ll be able to tell you that the most significant day in her life isn’t a nightmare.

  It’s a dream.

  NOTES FROM THE ADMISSIONS OFFICER:

  While the student’s essay does not focus entirely on herself, she does show a selfless devotion to her sister that I believe will make her a successful student at Wilton. After all, we seek students with a natural drive and inclination for success, and in spite of her adversity, this student appears to have it in droves.

  Furthermore, the student shows a level of self-awareness unusual for students her age. She questions the ethics of wanting to see her sister so badly that she’d be willing to do so—even if it means that her sister suffers in pain.

  Most importantly, she’s honest to herself—and us—about these feelings (and flaws) and is able to channel them as motivation.

  My only concern is that she, in living her life for her sister, may begin to lose herself. In the end, she cares so much for another being that she is willing to put that person before her. But is that not what we’d want in a lawyer?

  Oh, my God.

  Is she…?

  This woman, who I referred to as a raging bitch the first time I met her, is gold digging to support her little sister. It’s noble. It’s unexpected. And it’s so, so stupid that I have the strongest, inexplicable urge to put a stop to it.

  I started the search looking for something to use against Minka, and I found it. She has a sister under state care, and she’d like to get her back. That means she can’t afford any scandals. She can’t afford to go to the police and has been bluffing this whole time.

  But I also found something I didn’t expect.

  Common ground.

  Everything Minka wrote in that essay, I’ve felt before.

  I know what it’s like to have a younger sibling. What it feels like to put him before me and get burned by doing so. With Ranieri and even Naz, who now lays dead in my basement, I’ve gladly put them before me at one point in my life.

  Also like Minka, the most significant day of my life can be boiled down to one day. The day I killed my Uncle Luca. And everything after that, every day I have lived from there on, has been a result of that fucking day.

  By the time I’m done reading Minka’s essay, I’m staggered that this woman I’ve been giving a hard time—this woman whose life I’ve been making harder for no other reason than she entered it uninvited and fate keeps bringing us together—is someone I can relate to.

  Before reading this, I was going to kick her out.

  I was going to blackmail her into shutting her mouth and leaving my life for good.

  But now?

  I don’t think I can.

  And fuck, a roommate—correction: a roommate that I’m attracted to physically and mentally—is the last thing I need right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Angry people are not always wise.

  Jane Austen

  I make it a few blocks before I start to second guess myself.

  Aside from my short temper, I’m usually a levelheaded person, but when it comes to anything involving Mina, rationality flies out of the door, and I’m one hundred percent emotion.

  I can’t help it.

  That’s what happens when you love someone.

  You think with your heart and not with your head.

  Sure, sometimes I think I’m being rational, but after a bit of time, I’ll usually realize that I’m not.

  This time around, that took about five minutes, and now, I’m walking back to Nick’s brownstone, feeling like a total idiot. I can’t go to Mina’s in the off chance someone actually does come after me. I’m not about to risk bringing killers to her doorstep.

  Plus, I still need a place to live, and until I find another one, Nick’s is all I have. So, when I walk through his door, which he even arrogantly left unlocked and unarmed for me, I’m ready to beg him to let me stay, to apologize for leaving or whatever else he wants to hear from me.

  Which is why I’m surprised when I enter the kitchen and he looks up at me with that expressionless face of his and asks, “How are you so calm about all of this? And don’t give me that bullshit ‘I grew up in the Bronx’ excuse. Yeah, that’ll probably make you tougher than some suburban princess, but not to this extent.”

  He gestures to me and continues, “You’re not shaking; you didn’t blink an eye when I killed someone earlier; and down in the basement, you saw a guy tied up and gasped. Softly. I’ve heard people whisper in movie theaters louder than your gasp. So, spill.”

  I glare at him, my attempts at acquiescence forgotten, because this is the one topic I don’t want to talk about.

  Ever.

  I force myself to sound bored when I say, “None of this bothers me. The guns, the violence, and your broody cloak and dagger routine? It’s not impressive. It doesn’t bother me. That’s it. There’s no story. I just don’t give a darn.”

  He scoffs and leans back against the backrest of his seat at the kitchen island. “You expect me to believe
that someone who says, ‘I just don’t give a darn’ is also someone unfazed by killing?” His eyes narrow, and he shoots me a sinister look that’s both alarmingly handsome and alarming disconcerting. “Get real.”

  I cross my arms across my chest defensively. “Why should I say anything to you? You’re being a jerk.”

  “Fine, don’t say anything.” He gestures towards the foyer. “The door’s that way.”

  “So, if I don’t talk about my personal life, I have to leave?”

  He nods.

  My fists clench tightly, and my eyes flash in anger. So much for begging him to let me stay. I refuse to talk about this, so I pull my trump card. “What’s to stop me from leaving and calling the cops?”

  The corners of his lips lift in a beautiful, wicked smile, full of threats and promise. I instinctively take a step back. He responds by standing from his seat and approaching my spot on the other side of the island. I stand my ground, unwilling to relent on this. No way am I indulging him with my past. There’s just absolutely no way that I’ll do it.

  Standing in front of me, he places an arm on the counter on either side of my body, effectively trapping me in, yet not touching me.

  His smile widens as he says, “You wouldn’t call the cops.”

  I scoff, forcing myself not to react to his proximity. “Because you know me so well?”

  He shrugs, causing his arm to brush up against mine. “Go ahead and call the cops. Tell them all about me and how you witnessed me shoot a guy in the leg and imprison him in my basement.” The smile turns into a menacing smirk. “Then, how about you tell the cops about how you agreed to move into my home? How you stood there, uncaring and nonchalant, in front of a tied up man? How you watched me kill someone without screaming? And maybe we’ll see how Social Services likes that.”