Page 79 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
My eyes widen. “The King’s Wi—”
He cuts me off, “He was your uncle.”
“And I’m your brother.”
“I have no brother.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I could easily forgive his pride,
if he had not mortified mine.
Jane Austen
present
Minka is angry at me, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.
Since we relocated to the safe house a few weeks ago, we came to a tentative truce, but that ended last night when I told her that she couldn’t go to her sister’s play. Hell, that probably ended the night before that when I ditched her after she came.
But I couldn’t stay in the same room with her. Not when she was so fucking tempting, her perfect, naked body pressed against me and her face flushed from coming harder than I’d ever seen a woman come.
I shouldn’t have even indulged my attraction to her. I should have left as soon as I came into the safe house and saw her touching herself. But I couldn’t. She was like the best gift I’ve ever received, laying on the bed for me to unwrap and play with.
And when I finally saw her come undone, I forcibly reigned myself in as well as I could until I couldn’t stay in the same room as her any longer. I dashed out into the alleyway; whipped myself out; and like a fucking scumbag, jerked off in the empty alley to the image of her pretty pussy opened up in from me. The only saving grace was that I was hidden from view of the street by the giant blue trash container.
The real surprise, though, was yesterday, when she didn’t suggest that I give myself up to the blood debt. I’m still surprised that she hasn’t brought it up, especially since I can feel her anger radiating off of her in waves right now, as I park the car in the full graveled parking lot of an abandoned miniature market.
“What the heck?” she asks, smoothing down the dress I gave her earlier, a smoking hot, formfitting red number that reaches down to the middle of her thigh. Earlier, I had to force myself not to tear it off of her and demand a repeat of last time. “This is where they’re getting married?” For the first time since yesterday, she looks me in the eye. “Lucy’s not normal. At all.”
“None of this is normal,” I mutter, referring to us, but obviously I agree with her.
Ever since I met her, I’ve noticed that Lucy continually flirts with the border between sanity and insanity, but whatever. She’s happy, Asher’s happy, and I suppose at the end of the day that’s all that matters.
I give Minka my arm, and she reluctantly takes it, knowing she doesn’t have a cat’s chance in Hell of walking in her heels on this cobbled road unscathed without my help. I lead her to the front of the rundown, dilapidated building and knock on the door three times—one long knock, followed by two quick ones. The eye level slit on the door slides open, and we’re met with silence on the other end.
“Siamo qui per il matrimonio,” I say in perfect Italian, telling the guy that we’re here for the wedding.
“Nomi?”
“Niccolaio Andretti e Mink—”
The sound of the slit sliding shut cuts me off, and the door imm
ediately opens after. My reputation must precede me, because the guard, probably an associate but no higher than a soldier, averts his eyes as he leads us down the musty hallways into a stairwell that only goes down.
Minka’s grip tightens on my arm, and I refrain from patting her hand reassuringly. She’d no doubt find a way to take offense to such a gesture. I slow my pace, so she can keep up on the wobbly stairwell in her spectacularly high heels. Once we reach the bottom, we’re greeted by a maze of tunnels.
“Where are we?” Minka whispers, but the resounding echo of the tunnels carries her voice loudly.
“During the prohibition era, the Romano boss had the bright idea of building tunnels that connected his businesses. They’re all over New York City. They used them to smuggle alcohol, which made them even more money than drugs did. We’ll be going to one of the old smuggling stops right now,” I reply, helping Minka into the golf cart.
“And where’s that?”
“The church.”
Minka mutters something, and knowing her, it was probably a PG-rated curse. We’re both silent as the guard drives us to the stairwell that exits into the church. As soon as we’re out of the golf cart, the guard, with his eyes still averted from me, murmurs a quiet salutation in Italian and leaves without another word.
