Page 39 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
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.
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.”
