Page 81 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I barely refrain from scowling. “I don’t have a crush.”
“Then, what do you call this?” she asks, gesturing to our proximity and the way I’ve angled my body to ward off other unwanted assholes.
I sigh in resignation, putting a little distance between us, not even bothering to wonder why she says half of the shit she says. She wasn’t complaining when I was watching her come undone in front of me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?” I ask.
Her eyes widen slightly, like she’s just remembering that she doesn’t like me, and she returns her attention to the wedding. Aimee, Lucy’s maid of honor, and Asher’s best man, some friend he knows from his childhood, have finally reached the end of the aisle, and everyone has turned their attention to the entrance, where Lucy is now standing.
Sometime in the past ten minutes, Vincent exited the room from the side and made his way to the entrance, where he’s now escorting Lucy down the aisle. When she passes the first row, Lucy sends a beaming smile to one of the older ladies sitting on the pew, who I recognize as Lucy’s former social worker from one of the background searches I conducted when I finally learned Lucy’s real name.
When I return my eyes to Asher, I see something flash in his eyes. Nerves, maybe? I doubt it. Then again, he is about to hitch himself to Lucy, who’s weird as fuck, for all of eternity. And that’s exactly what’s happening.
For. All. Of. Fucking. Eternity.
After all, Asher doesn’t do things half assed.
I know this because when he offered me refuge in Romano territory after I saved his life, he set me up with a forty million dollar brownstone, a high-paying job and eventually two security guards from Black Security. And just when I thought that was the end of the surprises, he took me by surprise again by befriending me.
And as Lucy and Asher exchange vows and give each other genuine promises of forever, I find myself pushing aside my derision for marriage and wondering what it would be like to find someone who I’d like to spend forever with. Or, baby steps, the type of woman I’d like to date to begin with.
Whoever she is would have to be able to put up with my asshole tendencies. She’d have to be fierce and capable of one Hell of a mean streak. Nice girls are overrated. Sure, I want a woman who can be kind, but I also want her to have a spine. One hell of a backbone. Preferably one that leads to an ass as fine as Minka’s.
Hell, who am I kidding?
It’s Minka I want.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Forgiveness is an act of
the will, and the will can
function regardless of the
temperature of the heart.
Corrie ten Boom
I fidget in my seat at my table in the banquet hall, remembering the odd looks Niccolaio sent my way during the wedding, which is just about the worst occasion to be sending a girl looks like that.
Gone was his usual blank mask and in its place was a distinct look of wonder. He tried to hide it, but I saw it, lurking beneath the depths of his eyes as he studied me when he thought I didn’t notice.
But the problem is I did notice. I notice everything about him. I’ve been trying to chalk it up to lust, so I can dismiss it as nothing more than a meaningless crush, but I don’t think that’s what this is.
At least, I can’t reduce it to lust when my heart pounds at the thought of him and I feel my throat swelling in so much feeling when I think of all he’s done for me. Like going out of his way to call in favors with Asher, so I can talk to Mina every single day. And making Mina laugh whenever he’s there while I’m video chatting with her. And being someone I can talk to about my past—and present—without feeling judged by every wrong (and right) decision I’ve ever made. And giving me a place to stay when we both know he doesn’t need to do this, since I’m not going to go blabbing my mouth about him.
I
sigh, swirling my soda in my glass as I watch him talk to the mayor across the banquet hall. Yeah, the mayor. And earlier, I think I saw Beyoncé and her daughter running around this place. I shouldn’t be surprised that Asher knows all of these people or that Niccolaio is so casually talking to them, but I am.
In his hand is a glass of tea, filled a third of the way. Earlier, he asked a waiter for a glass of whiskey, poured it into one of the nearby plants, and refilled the whiskey glass with some tea from the table’s pitcher. Sly Devil.
“Having fun?” a voice asks from beside me, causing me to jump.
The Sprite in my hand splashes outside of the cup from the movement. Asher hands me a napkin, and I hastily wipe the spilled liquid off of my hand.
“I didn’t hear you sit,” I say the obvious.
