Chapter Thirty-Eight
Forgiveness has nothing to do
with absolving a criminal of his crime.
It has everything to do with relieving
oneself of the burden of being a
victim—letting go of the pain
and transforming oneself
from victim to survivor.
C. R. Strahan
It dawns on me that I can leave at any time I want. I no longer need to gold dig, I don’t need to find a Social Services approved place to live, I don’t have to study for my LSATs, and I’m not in danger if Niccolaio takes care of the only threatening person who knows about my involvement with him.
But as we head towards John’s brownstone to deal with him, I’m certain that, more than anything, I want to be by Niccolaio’s side. And earlier, when I told him that I’m falling for him, I meant it.
This thing we have is realer than I ever thought possible, and I can’t picture my life without Niccolaio. I don’t care if danger follows him wherever he goes. I don’t care if I’m put in danger by the hit his brother called on him.
I want to be with him in any way I can.
And that thought has me pulling him in for a kiss after he parks the car in front of his brownstone.
“What was that for?” There’s a cocky glint to his eyes, and I realize that I quite like it there.
“Felt like it.”
He smirks, “Because you’re falling in fucking love with me?”
I scowl, shoving his shoulder with my hand as hard as I can. His massive body doesn’t even budge an inch.
His smirk dies down, and he says, his voice genuine, “You know I feel the same way, right?”
I preen at his words, and I’m smiling even as John opens the door with Ashley—or Red Senior, as Niccolaio calls her—at his side after Niccolaio’s incessant knocking.
John scowls. “What do you want? You could have called.”
“Hey, asshole,” Niccolaio says, before greeting John with his fist.
John’s face snaps back, and I leap forward, covering Ashley’s mouth with my hand to mask her scream. Only after she stops screaming do I release my hand, and by that time, Niccolaio already has John’s hands and legs zip tied.
I zip tie Ashley, my face apologetic as I sit her on the couch beside John. At least the couch is comfy.
I hold up the ball and gag that Niccolaio picked up from Dex before we walked to John’s. Apparently, Dex is into some kinky stuff, and honestly, the thought reminds me that I’m down to try anything with Niccolaio at least once.
Except maybe the ball in gag.
With it still in my hands, I say to Ashley, “Scream, and this will go into your mouth.” I grimace. “We got it from Dex, so who knows where it’s been?”
Even now, I’m holding it by the end of the leather strap, unwilling to touch more of it than I need to.
Can I get an STD like this?
To her credit, Ashley’s face remains neutral, and when she nods, John seethes, “You fucking bitch. If you touch a hair on Ashley’s head, I swear to God, I will slap a lawsuit on you so fast, your grandchildren’s grandchildren will still be paying it off.”
I smile brightly. “I think we’re beyond lawsuits.”
And Niccolaio, I kid you not, slaps John. Like an actual slap. Flat palm and everything. John opens his mouth, and Niccolaio slaps him again.
“You… You slapped me,” John splutters, as if he can’t believe it.
To be honest, neither can I.
Niccolaio shrugs. “You don’t deserve my fists.”
John lunges for Niccolaio, but it’s a pathetic attempt, especially with his limbs all tied up. He ends up falling on Ashley, who groans under the weight. I wince sympathetically and move to push John off of her.
In the back of my mind, I register happiness at the fact that I no longer have to touch John, and other men like him, out of my warped sense of need. I no longer have to gold dig, and that makes my good mood even better.
Niccolaio says, “I met your friend David.”
John replies, “I have no idea who you’re referring to.”
I lean back and watch the exchange, curious as to how Niccolaio will get John to talk but confident that he will.
“I found your number on his phone.”
John’s eyes flash. “Impossible! I blocke—” his voice falters as he realizes his mistake.
“You blocked it. Is that what you were going to say?” At John’s silence, Niccolaio continues, “You know, at first I thought you used our cameras. But then I saw the picture of me on David’s phone again and realized the quality was shit. You had someone hack into the city’s CCTV cameras, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Now the question is why.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Your fiancé here is beautiful.” Niccolaio winks at me before turning to Ashley. “Ashley, is it? This all started when she showed up that first time.” He inches closer. “If it isn’t you, John, was it your girl?”
I know Niccolaio won’t hurt Ashley, but John doesn’t, and Niccolaio is a pretty damn good actor.
John’s nostrils flare, and he struggles against his binds, the rigor of the movement causing me to forget his age for a moment. “You fucker. Leave her alone. I did it. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
“Why?”
“Because Ashley came back into town, and we picked up where we left off. Because I was determined to make sure our relationship had no problems this time around, and you were a problem. Or you were going to be. I’m going straight, and I was just tying up loose ends. Nothing personal, okay? I didn’t need you coming after me now or in the future, so I came after you first. Helps that there’s a hit on your head. I saw an opportunity and I seized it. You can’t fault me for that. You would have done the same.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wouldn’t have come after you. You’re not important enough. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
John flinches, his face red from embarrassment. “I—you would have.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“B-because we have past dealings.”
“I have past dealings with a lot of people, and most of them are they’re still alive.”
“You live next door to me.”
“And how often do you ever see me leave the brownstone?’
He sighs. Resigned. “Rarely.”
“Exactly. You fucked up. I wouldn’t have come after you. I don’t give a shit about you. Now, on the other hand, I have to do something about you.”
“I-I won’t… It was a mistake. I won’t come after you again.”
“Are you familiar with the Syndicate?” Niccolaio asks, his tone ruthless.
John nods his head, dread filling his face. Before we came here, Niccolaio explained to me what the Syndicate is. No matter how often the five syndicates—De Luca, Andretti, Romano, Camerino, and Rossi—fight, they’re still part of one larger Italian syndicate, run by one godfather and counseled by the the five capo famiglias (bosses) of each individual family.
Like a normal company, the Syndicate has receptionists, and part of what they do is process hit orders. Like the one out on Niccolaio, which was approved thanks to the blood debt. And like the one Niccolaio put out on John, which was approved because John came after him first.
“I put a hit out on you,” Niccolaio says, causing John to pale. “Contingent on my death. If I die, you die.”
“B-but what if you die before me, and it’s not because of me?”
“You better pray to God that I don’t die.”
“Please. Call it off.” John is begging now. “I won’t do it again. It was a mistake. I just wanted to make everything safe for Ashley.”
“And that would have worked if you had killed me, but you didn’t. Now, look where we are. You stepped wrong, John. This is the consequence.”
And then, Niccolaio and I exit John’s brownstone, leaving him and Ashley tied up. As we walk past the door, Niccolaio gets a phone call from Asher, and the blood drains from his face, causing me to tense.
John is dealt with. That’s one problem less. We should be feeling better, even though there’s still a $5 million hit on Niccolaio’s head. But his expression right now? It doesn’t look like everything is going to be okay.
“What happened?” I ask, breathlessly waiting for a response.
“Vincent Romano is missing.”
Fourteen days.
That’s how long we tear apart the town, fruitlessly scouring the entire city for one man.
That’s how long it’s been since Vincent Romano’s been missing.
And that’s how long it’s been before Niccolaio calls a meeting with Asher, Lucy and Bastian, Vincent’s nephew. The five of us meet at Asher’s penthouse, a lavish ten bedroom apartment close to Wilton, which is convenient for Lucy, since she’s still in school.
The news of Vincent’s disappearance came before Asher and Lucy left for their honeymoon, so when Niccolaio and I enter the penthouse, we find packed suitcases abandoned in the foyer. Niccolaio grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen, where Lucy, Asher and Bastian are sitting on bar stools at the kitchen island.
When Asher sees us, he immediately springs up, saying, “What is it? Why did you call this meeting? Did you find him?”
Niccolaio runs a hand through his hair, which he’s been doing a lot lately, the stress of what’s happening getting to him. “No, but we need to talk. Dex tracked down that lead we’ve been following.” He’s referring to a burner number that Vincent has called almost twice daily for the past few months. “And… God, Vince didn’t what me to tell you guys this, but given the situation, I think I should.”
Asher grits his teeth. “Spit it the fuck out already.”
“Vincent has cancer. Late stage. The number belongs to his oncologist. God, Asher, he might even be dead already. I don’t know how bad it is, but don’t you see how he’s been looking lately?”
When I found at that Vincent Romano has cancer, it didn’t hit me like it does everyone else. I didn’t know him like these people do, and even I knew through the grapevine the type of person he is. And for that, I mourned the impending loss.
I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment uninvited, as I watch Asher, Lucy and Bastian react to the news. Bastian’s face flits back and forth between sorrow and rage. Asher has a blank mask on, but his shoulders are tense and fists are clenched. Lucy is the strongest of them all, holding her head high, unashamed as fat tears drop down her wet cheeks.
I wait for someone to say something, but a ringing fills the air.
Niccolaio pulls his phone out, his eyes widening when he looks at the screen. “Holy shit, guys.” He shows us the name on the screen. “It’s Vincent.”
We all spring into action, crowding around Niccolaio as he accepts the video call. But when a face comes onto the screen that isn’t Vincent’s, I take in a sharp intake of breath. Black hair. Chocolate brown eyes. The same strong jaw. I’ve never seen him before, but I know who he is.
And when he opens his mouth and says, “Hello, brother,” my suspicions are confirmed.
This is Ranieri Andretti.