Page 56 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
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.
