Page 13 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
Never go to bed mad.
Stay up and fight.
Phyllis Diller
A few nights later, I stumble down the last step outside of John’s home and grasp for the stair’s railing, righting myself just before my face hits the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.
When I’m upright and balanced again, I look forward and am startled to find a dark figure, looming in the shadows a few feet away from me. I take an immediate step back in the direction of John’s home, mentally gauging the distance between myself and the door.
Should I run or am I better off screaming at the top of my lungs?
I open my mouth to scream, because honestly, I’m not exactly in the best shape. I may be skinny, but my exercise solely consists of sex with a man I can hardly muster enough enthusiasm for, save for a few fake moans and some hip thrusts here and there, and walking around campus and New York City, but only when I absolutely have to. Which basically means I’m definitely not a runner, let alone a sprinter.
And since John entered my life, I’ve been letting him pay for my Ubers. Outside of campus, I haven’t walked a block for over a month. The last time I walked, it was to go from my dorm room to the dining hall… to grab a cupcake.
My eyes widen as the figure takes a step closer to me. I open my mouth to scream, but the man speaks first.
“Relax.”
I recognize his voice instantly, though I’ve only heard it twice. It washes over me like a tsunami—deep, dangerous, and all-consuming. John’s mysterious neighbor steps out of the shadows and eyes me critically.
Though I recognize him, I don’t relax my body. After my last interaction with him, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him lately—and I’ve tried to stop often. I have my suspicions about him. I saw Lucy letting herself into his brownstone about a month ago. At first, I thought she was cheating on Asher, but then I realized two things.
One, no one in their right mind would cheat on Asher Black. (To be fair, I’m not too sure Lucy is in her right mind. But… she also waved brightly at me from the front steps of John’s neighbor’s brownstone, which she wouldn’t have done if she had something to hide.)
And two, Lucy wasn’t accompanied by her bodyguard, the tall, muscled man that usually follows her around everywhere she goes. Since I doubt Asher would let her put herself in danger, I’m betting John’s neighbor is safe.
But safe in Asher and Lucy’s world is relative.
Because I’m also betting that, like Asher, John’s neighbor is somehow related to the mafia. After all, he has more than a working knowledge of the law; I’ve never seen Lucy hanging out with anyone other than Asher and Aimee; and judging by the intensity and intimidation always radiating off of this man in powerful, gushing waves, it’s Asher this guy is connected to.
And that suspicion has me on high alert.
I’m not worried for my safety. He’s never threatened me, nor has he ever made me feel worried for my physical safety. Plus, growing up in a gang infested neighborhood afforded me with a pretty good scumbag radar, and I don’t think he’s one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let my guard down.
So, I wait patiently and observantly as he takes me in, and I wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are unfriendly and aloof, but he’s the one who’s approaching me. Not the other way around. What that means, I’m not sure.
But I wait for him anyway, because I can’t not wait for him.
Again, I’m struck by the realization that everything about this man is magnetic.
His face, his body, his voice, his aura—all of it entices me and draws me in, until I’m no longer listening to the voice in my head that’s begging me to think of my little sister and her future.
The way I react to this man is pathetic and disgusting, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it all the same. Even with the words Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina on repeat in my head, I can’t seem to remind myself of how bad it is to lust after him. At the very least, I force myself not to draw my body closer to him, to allow myself to be pulled in by his unreasonable magnetism.
And I just stand here, lacking the willpower to do anything other than watch him watch me, and I hate myself for it.
I hate him for it, too.
“What do you want?” I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence.
Like last time we talked, I don’t expect an answer to my question.
“John Clinton?” He arches a condescending brow and nods his head in the direction of the brownstone behind me.
“He’s a friend.” I cross my arms defensively, the movement drawing his attention to my chest. I narrow my eyes in an attempt to convince him—and myself—that I don’t like the way he stares at me. And just because I hate the way he has me reacting, I add some extra attitude in my voice when I ask, “What’s it to you?”
He smirks, the lift of his lips so beautiful and foreign and wasted on such an irritating person. “He’s a friend of mine.”
