Chapter Sixteen
Anger is never
without a reason, but
seldom a good one.
Benjamin Franklin
Un. Fucking. Believable.
Someone is following Red Junior, and the fact that she’s been able to catch him tells me that it’s another talentless hack, trying his hand at the five million dollar hit.
And it’s unlikely they would be following her if they didn’t see her with me the night of the shooting. Which means Jax, the guy who shot at us that night, was lying to me when he said he didn’t have a partner.
I’m actually impressed.
I didn’t think he had it in him. When I questioned him that night, he was blabbering like a little boy. By the time I was done questioning him, I had his social security number, the name of the woman who broke his heart, and a promise to name all of his future offspring after me.
I had heartily declined the last offer.
But he just kept going.
T-the first b-boy will be Niccolaio.
The next w-will be Nicholas.
The n-next will be Nico.
The one after th-that will be Nikolaus.
And a-after that, Niklaus.
And if it’s a g-girl, I can do Nikki.
Or m-maybe even Nikita.
Nicole is b-beautiful, also…
I’d left my basement, where I was and still am holding him, after he said, “Niccolaio,” but I watched him go on for hours on the video footage, stuttering his way through hundreds of variations of my name until he finally fell asleep on the hard floor.
He’s still downstairs, and if I walk past the open stairwell to the basement, Red Junior will probably hear him crying, because he does that. He cries a goddamn lot. To the point where I have to wonder if he’s got some developmental issues I should be considerate about.
So, I steer clear of the area and take her into the kitchen.
I offer her a bottle of water from the fridge, and we both take seats on the barstools at the end of the kitchen island.
“My name is Minka,” she finally says.
I nod my head in acknowledgment.
The name suits her. It’s strong but feminine and unique. I’ve certainly never met anyone like her. One moment, she’s an angry ball of fire, and the next moment, she’s this woman before me—not quite meek but not quite fearless either.
And I don’t know how she can be both.
Things are usually black and white in my life.
I have clear priorities and, for the most part, am able to live my life efficiently, making decisions easily and with little fanfare. Take Uncle Luca’s life, for instance. I loved him. I truly did. But I loved Ranieri more, so the choice between Uncle Luca and Ranieri’s life was a simple one.
It was easy to make.
And if that decision didn’t have me struggling to come to terms with life, acting differently and out of character, like a complex human would, then I don’t know what will.
Now, being so near to this woman is almost overwhelming me. She acts so differently each time I see her that I can’t help but wonder how she can be so dynamic. How can she be so complex?
Are there this many layers to every person?
I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind, because if I entertain it, it might make my job of killing people harder.
I kill guys who kill.
It’s that simple.
Black and white.
No complexity.
No layers.
It’s easy, and I like it that way.
“Nick,” I say after a long period of silence, giving her the name I give everyone nowadays.
“Nick,” she repeats, playing with my name in her mouth, and I can’t help but wonder how it’d sound like shouted from her mouth in the midst of an orgasm.
I adjust the baby chub that perks up at the thought, taking note that I need to get laid. I haven’t forgotten how fucking turned on I was when I caught her leaving John’s, and she’d almost fallen down the steps. She was wearing jeans that showed off her long legs and perfect ass, and her shirt had ridden up as she stumbled, revealing a Hell of a lot of skin.
Maybe she’s actually that hot or maybe I really, really need to get laid. After all, it’s been awhile, since there aren’t very many opportunities to do so when you have a hit on your head and stay in your home all day.
I don’t even go out to get groceries. I either have one of the guards get them or I have them delivered, switching services randomly and using my fake name, Nick Andrews, for security reasons.
“How about I hire guards for you?” I say, cutting straight to the chase.
“What?” Her eyes widen in surprised, and for some reason, I think I see panic in them.
Perhaps the idea of more men with weapons following her around scares her?
I try to sell it. “You won’t even know they’re there. My men are well-trained. They can follow you at a distance, where they won’t be intrusive. They can stay outside your room at night or even outside your home. Whatever you want. You’ll never even have to see them if you don’t want to, but they’ll be there to protect you, should you need it.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “No, I don’t want that. Definitely not.”
“Well, it’s better than going to the cops. At worst, they’ll laugh you off. At best, they’ll give you a security detail. One guy, who will park outside your apartment or home for two weeks and leave when nothing happens. I’ll give you a well-trained security detail for as long as you feel like you need it.”
“And what if that’s forever?”
“Then, it’s forever.”
She gives me a disbelieving look.
I gesture around the home, which is clearly a byproduct of wealth. “I’m good for it.”
And I am.
Sort of.
I get a healthy amount of money per hit, ranging from two hundred thousand dollars to as much as five million dollars, depending on how difficult the hit is. But on top of that, I managed to empty my portion of my trust fund before Ranie decided to go after my assets.
I may not be Asher Black rich, but I’m easily wealthier than I’m related to a Rothschild even though it’s through a great great great grandfather’s cousin eight times removed John and tech millionaire and blue blood Dex.
The problem, though, is that I can’t access that money.
It’s hidden in dozens of offshore accounts in case of emergencies. I was stupid when I made the accounts. They’re all under my name. My real name. And if I access the money, I’ll be telling the Andrettis where my money is, in which case, I might not be able to drain all of the accounts before they access them.
I’d rather not risk it.
As is, Asher was the one who bought this house. In a city I’m allowed to live in because the Romano capos allow it. And I’m living off of money I get from hits for the enemy of my family. Hits that Vincent Romano generously hires me for. Under a false identity, Nick Andrews, that Asher’s techies created for me.
I depend so much on the goodwill of the Romano family, and I still can’t help but be amazed by it, given the rough history between the Andretti and Romano families.
But still, I’m good for the deal.
I can’t pay for a lifetime of security, but I can call in some favors from friends of my security guys. Or maybe even use this as a training exercise for some trainees from Asher’s security company, Black Security.
The offer I’m making is generous.
But for some reason, she gives me a resounding “no.”
She doesn’t even tell me why.
She just crosses her arms and frowns at me, full of attitude that I’ve come to realize is just so her. I barely even know her, but in all the times I’ve met her—literally, every single time—she’s been full of attitude. It’s the most consistent thing about her.
Is she still pissed about the construction noise?
I narrow my eyes at her. She looks like the type to hold a grudge.
“It’s a good deal,” I say.
“Well, I don’t want it.”
“Why the Hell not?”
She cringes at the curse, and I regret saying it. I’m a curser. I swear like a motherfucking sailor. In my mind, aloud, and even in my dreams. And apparently, she’s not. I remember what she said when I first met her—darn.
She crosses her arms again. “I don’t want some strange men following me around, going where I go.”
I look her up and down. “And where is it that you go?” I can’t help but ask, remembering her walk of shame to John’s house and my suspicion that she’s a gold digger.
Antagonizing her right now probably isn’t my greatest decision, but it’s not like I judge her for it, since I do some questionable things for money, too. But I want her to say what she is aloud.
For some reason, a reason that likely has more to do with how fucked up I am than what I actually think of her actions, I want to know if she’ll own up to it.
I want to see this gorgeous, angry woman tell her truth to me without shame.
But when she doesn’t, when she says, “none of your darn business,” I sag a little in my seat in seat.
Disappointed.
But I can’t blame her.
I don’t talk about myself.
I don’t talk about my past, present or future.
I don’t even let people call me Niccolaio anymore, unless I’m about to kill them or they’re too high up in the Romano family for me to correct.
I sigh, because I don’t need her to confirm it to know my suspicions are correct. And if she’s gold digging, she’s probably in need of money.
Money I have but can’t access.
Sure, I can dip into my savings from taking out hits, but she can also easily ask for more and more and more once I begin to indulge her.
And it’s not like I’m killing enough people to be this woman’s sugar daddy.
So, I offer the one thing I think she might accept.
“You can live with me, and I’ll protect you.”
And damn, I hope I’m not making a fucking mistake.
I’ve made too many in this life already.