Page 17 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I quicken my steps when I feel as if I’m being followed. As soon as I reach an opening to Central Park, I take it, swerving silently to the left and dipping into the trees. My feet are light as I walk on the grass, being sure to tread lightly.
No footprint.
No sound.
Nothing.
I was never here.
As soon as I see a tree wide enough, I duck behind it and remain hidden, making sure the wood protects me on all sides against any impending threats. My hands reach beneath my hoodie and lock onto the weapons, but I keep them holstered.
Sometimes, weapons only complicate things.
But as soon as I hear the gentle thud of a shoe kissing the grass, too gentle for the gait of an untrained civilian, my weapons are drawn and pointed in the direction of the sound. Slowly, I emerge from the shadows, never one to kill behind cover.
People call me many things, but a coward will never be one of them.
“Lower your weapons, boy,” says a gruff voice in the direction of the sound.
I lower them as soon as I recognize Vincent’s voice, but I don’t relax my stance. Instead, I do a careful sweep of the area before I dip behind the trees again, nestling myself in the cove of trees, which is surrounded by greenery on all sides except the one I entered through.
“Damn it,” Vince says, the annoyance clear in his voice as he shuffles under a particularly low hanging branch. He mutters something that sounds like “fucking paranoid oaf” before he meets me behind the trees. He catches sight of me scanning the darkness behind him and rolls his eyes. “It’s clear. My men cleared it.”
“You can never be too careful,” I reply, keeping my eyes steady on the darkness behind him.
“I trust my men.”
“I don’t.” Satisfied, I return my gaze to his, and I study him.
Though we’re unrelated, Vincent Romano has the same eyes as me—dark brown, cold, and calculated. They’re usually alert, but right now, they just look tired. In fact, everything about him feels off right now. I don’t know what it is exactly, and given the type of man Vincent is, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out, but it is sounding all sorts of warning bells in my head.
At my words, Vincent sighs, but the sound is light.
Expectant.
As if he expected as much.
As if he knows me, though that’s impossible.
I don’t even know myself.
“It’s good to see you, son,” he finally says.
I’m not your son.
“You, too, Vincent.”
“Vince.”
“Right,” I pause, “Vincent.”
He grunts again in displeasure, but I ignore it. If I stop drawing the lines between myself and the Romano family, I’ll sink myself deeper into this mess. People may think I’m a traitor to the Andretti family, but I’m merely doing what I need to survive.
And when I can, I limit my connection to the Romanos.
Unfortunately, it’s not often that I can.
So, I settle on these little moments, where I can do things like refuse to call the Romano’s enforcer by his nickname. It’s a small action, but it speaks volumes. Sometimes it feels like the smallest victories are greater than the largest feats.
