Page 53 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
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.
