Page 18 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I do another scan of my surroundings, perking my ears up for any signs of threats—aside from the man standing before me.
Finally, I ask, “Why did you call me here?”
I want to ask who he wants me to take out this time, but I refrain myself.
He might be wearing a wire.
He arches a brow. “Hello to you, too.”
“Vincent.” I cross my arms impatiently.
As much as I like the freedom of the outdoors, we both know that it’s a risk for me to be so exposed like this. A risk he has selfishly asked me to take. And as much as I like to deny it, I’m quite aware that some part of Vincent cares about me enough not to ask me to take these sorts of risks.
So, whatever this is, it must be important.
And that has me on edge.
Vincent makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, and I sigh before spreading my arms and legs out. He uses a device to sweep me, ignoring the sound that emits from the stick when it passes my weapons.
He’s not searching for them.
He’s searching for bugs.
I don’t take offense to it. In fact, I welcome the action wholeheartedly. It’s standard protocol. Plus, it’s another much needed line drawn between us. It speaks volumes that he doesn’t trust me enough not to scan me.
I’m not his family.
I’m not a Romano.
I’m still an outsider.
And that’s as close to being an Andretti as I’ll get these days.
When he’s done checking me for bugs, he lowers the device to his side and straightens up. “I didn’t come here with a kill order.”
I nod calmly, though I’m raging inside. If he doesn’t need me for a job, he better have a damn good reason for asking me to meet him when there’s a one point five million dollar hit on my head.
I’m not an easy man to kill, but I’m certain some talented individual will attempt it for that sum of money.
And so will the low lives. The ones with less finesse.
Those are the ones that are truly dangerous, because they don’t care about collateral damage.
They’ll bomb a sold out movie theater if I’m in it.
They’ll fire shots into a crowd if there’s a chance a bullet will reach me.
They’ll hurt anyone they need to in order to kill me.
If I had any friends, they would go after them.
If I had any family, they would go after them, too.
It’s a good thing I have neither. And my brother doesn’t count. Ranieri is the one who ordered the hit in the first place.
I resist the urge to cross my arms, instead tightening my grip on the loaded weapons resting in each palm. “Then why am I here, Vincent?”
“Careful, boy,” he warns at the attitude in my voice.
