Page 92 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
But I don’t.
I don’t know that.
Am I supposed to abandon my gut and trust everyone? All evidence points toward Vincent. He’s the only person that knows both the location of my brownstone and the safe house. I chalked it up as a coincidence that I was found by both Jax and Naz in the first place, but after today’s attack, I’m no longer so generous.
And I’ll be damned if it happens again.
I wait for ten minutes until Vincent rouses with a violent, hacking cough that causes my lips to tug downwards. When he opens his eyes, he blinks them slowly, the confusion evident in his face, and I wonder for the first time if he had always been like this—slow, weak—and, too distracted by the feel of a fatherly figured, I never noticed.
“Good,” I say, straightening up and double checking the ropes binding Vincent’s arms and legs to the dining room chair with my eyes. “You’re up.”
“What is this?” he asks, his voice calm and strong despite the situation.
And that’s the Vincent Romano I, and the world, knows.
“What have you been up to, Vincent?”
“Vince,” he says, a smile on his face, and I gotta hand it to him.
He’s got balls bigger than I’ve ever seen.
I straighten up, inching closer and drawing the knife I nabbed from the kitchen out of my sleeve. Against the wall, Sergio jerks forward, a growl more feral than a wolf could manage escaping his mouth.
“Now, now,” Vincent says, his eyes on Sergio. “We’re all friends here. Right, Niccolaio?”
“No, actually. I don’t think we are.”
And with that, I wind up my fist and punch Vincent straight in the face. Sergio reacts, thrusting himself off the ground but falling straight on his face, thanks to the way I’ve hogtied him. I was never a boy scout, but I’ve got some mad skills when it comes to rope and, apparently, zip ties.
“Now that’s just cruel,” Vincent says, but his voice doesn’t have as much strength now.
Instead, he wheezes a little, and I frown. I thought he could take a punch better than that. He’s not that old. Come to think of it, that ill-omened feeling I got at Asher’s wedding is still there, and I study him again.
He’s lost a lot of weight in the past few months. His face, which used to draw women in like catnip, is now slightly sunken in. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is a little less fuller. Not a lot less, but still… It’s noticeable when you really focus on him.
I noticed these things at the wedding, but it was more like a passing observation. After all, one doesn’t just stare at Vincent Romano unless they’re looking to fuck him or looking to get their teeth kicked in by an eager Romano soldier.
And it isn’t like Vincent is some sort of attention shy dictator. It’s just that everyone—and I mean everyone—he’s ever met has an immense amount of respect for him. I don’t think he’s ever met someone he couldn’t charm.
Yet, here we are—my fist dripping with his blood and accusations on my tongue that I can’t turn back from. What would Asher think? He went into the heart of Andretti territory, which should have been a suicide mission, after a botched hit on Vincent. No one even touched a hair on Vincent’s head that time. I, on the other hand, drew blood.
And I’d be lying if I said my reaction isn’t stronger, more violent, because Minka was involved. Because I’d put her in danger, and I’d rather lash out than accept it. Nevertheless, Vincent leaked my location, and there’s hell that needs to pay.
“Why did you do it?” I ask him.
“Do what?” he has the guts to ask, a look of pity in his eyes that I don’t understand.
Why would he pity me?
Perhaps this is how Vincent became the head of enforcement. Playing fucked up mind games like this.
“Leak the location of the safe house.”
“Where you attacked?” he asks, a convincing amount of concern in his voice. “Are you alright? Minka?”
Somebody hand this man a fucking Oscar.
“We’re alright.” My voice is dripping with venom. “No thanks to you.”
