Page 60 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
Plus, I still need a place to live, and until I find another one, Nick’s is all I have. So, when I walk through his door, which he even arrogantly left unlocked and unarmed for me, I’m ready to beg him to let me stay, to apologize for leaving or whatever else he wants to hear from me.
Which is why I’m surprised when I enter the kitchen and he looks up at me with that expressionless face of his and asks, “How are you so calm about all of this? And don’t give me that bullshit ‘I grew up in the Bronx’ excuse. Yeah, that’ll probably make you tougher than some suburban princess, but not to this extent.”
He gestures to me and continues, “You’re not shaking; you didn’t blink an eye when I killed someone earlier; and down in the basement, you saw a guy tied up and gasped. Softly. I’ve heard people whisper in movie theaters louder than your gasp. So, spill.”
I glare at him, my attempts at acquiescence forgotten, because this is the one topic I don’t want to talk about.
Ever.
I force myself to sound bored when I say, “None of this bothers me. The guns, the violence, and your broody cloak and dagger routine? It’s not impressive. It doesn’t bother me. That’s it. There’s no story. I just don’t give a darn.”
He scoffs and leans back against the backrest of his seat at the kitchen island. “You expect me to believe
that someone who says, ‘I just don’t give a darn’ is also someone unfazed by killing?” His eyes narrow, and he shoots me a sinister look that’s both alarmingly handsome and alarming disconcerting. “Get real.”
I cross my arms across my chest defensively. “Why should I say anything to you? You’re being a jerk.”
“Fine, don’t say anything.” He gestures towards the foyer. “The door’s that way.”
“So, if I don’t talk about my personal life, I have to leave?”
He nods.
My fists clench tightly, and my eyes flash in anger. So much for begging him to let me stay. I refuse to talk about this, so I pull my trump card. “What’s to stop me from leaving and calling the cops?”
The corners of his lips lift in a beautiful, wicked smile, full of threats and promise. I instinctively take a step back. He responds by standing from his seat and approaching my spot on the other side of the island. I stand my ground, unwilling to relent on this. No way am I indulging him with my past. There’s just absolutely no way that I’ll do it.
Standing in front of me, he places an arm on the counter on either side of my body, effectively trapping me in, yet not touching me.
His smile widens as he says, “You wouldn’t call the cops.”
I scoff, forcing myself not to react to his proximity. “Because you know me so well?”
He shrugs, causing his arm to brush up against mine. “Go ahead and call the cops. Tell them all about me and how you witnessed me shoot a guy in the leg and imprison him in my basement.” The smile turns into a menacing smirk. “Then, how about you tell the cops about how you agreed to move into my home? How you stood there, uncaring and nonchalant, in front of a tied up man? How you watched me kill someone without screaming? And maybe we’ll see how Social Services likes that.”
I stiffen, everything in me becoming completely rigid at this revelation. “What… what did you just say?”
He leans in closer and whispers, “Mina” into my ear, like someone would whisper, Boo!
It’s a taunt.
It’s an evil taunt.
I succumb to his earlier demand, because if there’s one person I’ll suck it up and do anything for, it’s Mina.
And darn him, he’s figured this out.
Looking him dead in the eye, I glare at him and begin with a voice full of hatred, “My biological father used to supply the woman who birthed me with drugs in exchange for sex. He left for a while after I was born, so he wouldn’t have to take care of me, and by the time I was five and he came back, my,” I wince, “mom had dropped me off at a neighbor’s—Mrs. Rosario’s—years ago.
“When he came back, though, he brought my mom with him, and they took me from the neighbor, who actually did a decent job of raising me. Her daughter died young, and she was lonely. I think she actually wanted to keep me, but she wasn’t going to go after my biological parents for custody.”
I shrugged. “Mrs. Rosario didn’t have the money for it. So, the three of us—my biological mother, father and I—moved to another apartment building, where they decided I was old enough to run drugs for Daddy,” I say the title bitterly. “After all, who would arrest a five year old selling chocolate bars for money? Except they weren’t chocolate bars.”
Nick nods slightly in understanding, like he knows the con, which wouldn’t surprise me given his background. Not that I think my “dad’s” set up would be done by someone affiliated with the mafia. Someone like Nick.
My dad was small time. A tadpole in an infinite ocean. Nick, on the other hand, strikes me as the type to dominate whatever pool he’s swimming in. And that probably means knowing all of the cons, all of the games, out there. Like the one my dad used to have me run.
I continue despite Nick’s familiarity with the gig, for some reason needing to talk about this, “They were just drugs wrapped in gold foil, and it worked. I was running drugs for Daddy dearest until my mother got pregnant with Mina by another man. My father left after that, but I was already exposed to the guns and violence and killing that came with drug dealing.”
