Chapter Thirty-Five
Forgiveness is not an occasional
act. It is a constant attitude.
Martin Luther King Jr.
The street is ominously silent as I park my car in front of Vincent’s brownstone. I reach behind me and grab my go bag, sifting through it for the plastic canister I’m looking for. When I find it, I slide it between my sleeve and the inside of my forearm, hiding the extra bulk with another coat, thankful that it’s appropriate for the weather.
It’s one of those odd summer days, where it’s hot as balls, but it still looks like it’s going to storm. I suspect that it’s going to happen sometime tonight or early tomorrow, and the thought excites me. I’ve always been a dramatic fuck, and I can’t think of better weather than one that matches the storm brewing inside of me.
I knock on the door, and after a brief moment, it opens. “Sergio,” I greet, slapping the guard on the back, schooling my features so everything appears normal.
“Everything good, bro?” he asks, making a gesture for me to spread my arms and legs.
I hand him my guns first before spreading my arms and legs, grateful I paid a little extra for a plastic canister of the sleeping gas. As he runs the metal detector across my body, I say, “Not really, man. Safe house was just breached.”
“Asking Vince for another?” he asks.
“Yeah. Is he here?”
Serg nods and leads me to Vincent’s office, where he leaves me with a “he’ll be down in a moment.”
I nod my head, and as soon as he’s gone, I grab the canister and unlock it, placing it into the air vent at the top. I inject myself with the counteragent as the sleeping gas makes it’s way through the house, and I hear the thud of Serg’s body dropping from his guarding post outside of the door.
I wait another minute before I leave. I grab a few zip ties from Sergio’s back pocket, where I know every Romano guard keeps a few, and tie him and the nearby guards up in case they come to before I’m done with everyone else.
I do the same with the men around the house before I reach Vincent. I carry him over my shoulder, fireman style, and haul him into the dining room, where I’ve gathered the rest of his men and lined the twelve of them up in a row against the wall.
Vincent’s guards wake up before he does, and I can feel Serg’s betrayed glare on the side of my face. I shut it out, letting my anger fester. I barely even know the guy. I’ve only talked to him when I needed to see Vincent, and that’s it.
But still… the betrayal bothers me, and I can’t help but remind myself that at least Minka trusts me, and I care a hell of a lot more about her opinion than Serg’s.
Still, I say, “He gave out the location of the safe house.”
A glare still in his eyes, Serg says, “You know he didn’t.”
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.”
Vincent sighs, a resigned look on his face. “You know what your problem is, son?”
“I wasn’t aware that I have any.”
He ignores my attitude. “You’re too guarded.”
“And I have reason to be.” I look pointedly at the tied up men surrounding Vincent, all willing to and happy to lay down their lives for him.
The hypocrisy, to me, is obvious.
Again, he ignores me. “Yet, in the oddest of moments, you’re willing to sacrifice so much for people.”
“Perhaps that’s why I’m guarded. I’ve sacrificed too much for others. Maybe I’m sick of being burned?” I say, referring to the sacrifices I made for my brother and even Naz.
“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But that’s a sad way to live life, no?”
I grunt in agreement, because how can I argue with that?
“Look, Vincent. Cut the bull shit. We can stand around all day or we can end this now. You gotta know I won’t let up. Why did you leak our location?”
“I didn’t, son,” he says, and his voice is so damn earnest that I believe him for a second.
But who else could? Aside from my guards, who I monitor without their knowledge, no one else, not a single other person, has the location of the safe house. No one. Only Vincent fucking Romano, and here he is telling me he didn’t do it?
Fucking bull.
“Doesn’t the lying get old?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Does it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You lie to yourself every day, Niccolaio Cristiano Andretti. You miss your brother, but you hide behind your anger for him.” I suck in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t relent. “You’re lonely, but you refuse to spend time with me or Asher when we offer. And we do. Often. You look at me like a father figure, but you push me away every time we talk. Hell, I bet you do the same with that girl of yours. Minka. You love her, don’t you? What do you do there? Weave a grand tale of woes and danger? Tell yourself you can’t be with her, that one of you isn’t good for the other?”
Jesus. Vincent Romano is tearing me apart. He’s taking the man I think I am, and he’s dismantling it. I want him to stop, but I don’t have any words in me to speak out. Why is he saying this? Why does he even care to say this? Is this some sort of reverse interrogation tactic that I’ve never in a million years thought of employing?
And that stuff about Minka. Christ. I don’t love her. I can’t. And I am bad for her.
At my silence, he pauses and looks me in the eye. “When will you let yourself be happy, son?”
“How can I be happy with there’s a goddamn hit on my head? A hit my own brother put out on me.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Niccolaio. You’re angry. I get that. But at some point in your life, you’ve gotta learn how to forgive. Otherwise, your anger will eat away at you until the only thing left is that pride of yours that’s done you no good anyway.”
“Stop,” I demand. “Stop it and just answer my fucking question. Why did you release the address?”
“I didn’t. And if you’d stop, you’d realize that I care about you too much to do that. Just look at me.”
“What?”
“Really look at me, and what do you see?”
I see… a man who’s strong of mind but not of body. How the hell did that happen?
“What… what are you trying to tell me, Vince?”
Vince.
Not Vincent.
What’s wrong with me?
“Look at me and then look at that picture on the wall,” he says, referring to the large canvas framed of him with his family.
And I look at it, but I don’t really look at it. Instead, my mind is reeling, because I’m an idiot. I’m a hotheaded idiot that got angry and didn’t think. Didn’t stop to realize that there are other ways to track me without following me. Cameras. Like the ones Dex, John and I share.
And this sure as hell isn’t Dex.
How did I get this so wrong?
Regret churns violently in my stomach, and I force myself to look at the picture, because it’s the least I can do. In it, Vince is vibrant. He’s full of life. Healthy. The man before me isn’t frail—I don’t think Vince could ever be frail—but he certainly doesn’t look like the man in the picture.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. The changes were so gradual, happening in such little, tiny baby steps that after a change happened, I’d get used to it, and then the next and the next and the next and so on. And now, here I am. Feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.
The biggest asshole.
“Are you sick?” I ask Vince as I lean forward to cut his binds.
I hand him an extra knife, and together we make our way to the guards, but as soon as I cut Sergio’s binds, he tries to restrain me. Since I deserve it and worse, I don’t even put up a fight, though we both know I can easily best him in one.
“Let him go,” Vince orders, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sergio does.
“Are you sick?” I ask again. “What’s wrong with you? Why haven’t you told anyone?”
He sighs. “I have cancer. It’s late stage, and it isn’t going away. I have time left, but it’s not much. I don’t want to put myself through chemotherapy, and I wanted to give Asher and Lucy time to enjoy their honeymoon before I tell anyone.” He looks at me expectantly.
“I won’t tell Asher until you’re ready to,” I promise, though the promise makes me uneasy.
Asher would want to know. Right away.
“And you won’t tell anyone about what you did tonight,” he orders.
“But—”
“Asher is going to need you when he finds out. He won’t say anything to you, but he will need you. If you must, you can tell him later. Much later.”
“I’m so—” I start to apologize, but the words get stuck in my throat, strangled by the emotion there.
“It’s okay,” Vince insists. “You didn’t know.”
But it’s not okay.
Because Vincent Romano has always been kind to me. He’s always treated me like a son, and ever since I met him, he’s had my best interests at heart.
And this is how I repaid him.
Fuck, I’m a monster.