Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1)

by Parker S. Huntington

  This is mortifying. I have a mobster playing with my nipples in the middle of class, a professor who just stared at said nipples and is scared of said mobster, and 299 sets of eyes on me. 301 if you count Dr. Rolland’s and Asher’s.

  I watch warily as Dr. Rolland picks up the clicker. His hands are shaky, as is his voice. He’s rambling now about something Heisenberg is quoted to have said on his deathbed, but his words aren’t really making any sense. I can feel the tension in the room, half sympathetic and half anticipating. Many of the students have eager looks on their faces, ready to see what Dr. Rolland will do.

  He picks up a thick set of papers and scans through them. He’s still rambling about Heisenberg, and his hands are still shaking. A sheet of paper slips from his fingers and slides across the floor, landing at my feet.

  I look at Asher, hating myself for instinctively asking for permission to retrieve it. He gives me a pleased expression, which contrasts greatly with the aloofness of his eyes, and nods. And then, because I am clearly an idiot and don’t want him to think he can control me, I stick my tongue out at him. It’s quick, just a flash of a tongue lasting no longer than a quarter of a second, but still…

  I. Stuck. My. Tongue. Out.

  I’m a twenty year old woman, and I just stuck my tongue out at a mobster.

  Of course, I did.

  I’m mortified when I lean forward to grab the paper. Unable to help myself, I glance down at it. It’s part of the class roster. My guess is that Dr. Rolland was searching for Asher’s name on the list. He won’t find it, but I hand the sheet back to Dr. Rolland anyway.

  A part of me is even amused when Dr. Rolland, with his sweaty forehead and face red with fear, nods his head at the paper and continues on with the lecture. He pretended that Asher is enrolled in the class instead of kicking him out, which is university policy for lecture crashers, something that’s actually surprisingly common at Wilton. Dr. Rolland is a horrible actor, and his reaction is an unnecessary reminder of the fear Asher garners in respectable people from all walks of life.

  My amusement at Dr. Rolland’s poor acting skills fades when Asher’s arm returns around my shoulders, a heavy reminder of what’s to come. I stiffen when people around us start packing up their things. I glance at the clock. It’s 10 A.M. on the dot. I can hear the death bells ringing, taunting me in the privacy of my own head.

  I’m going to die.

  I’m going to die.

  I’m going to die.

  Chapter Six

  Courage is resistance

  to fear, mastery of fear—

  not absence of fear.

  Mark Twain

  When everyone else gets up, the girls that filled the front row linger, their eyes jumping from Asher to me. Nella even remains seated next to me until Asher stands up, swings my backpack around his broad shoulder and grabs my hand. As we get up and leave, over a dozen girls follow, Nella included.

  I never thought I would be grateful to have Nella’s company, but I am. It means that I have a witness. But at the sound of the high pitched giggles, Asher shoots a menacing glare at the girls behind us. They instantly scramble, quicker than I thought possible in their sky high heels. There go my witnesses.

  Asher and I exit, hand in hand. That shallow part of me wonders if this is what it looks like to be in a relationship, two people holding hands and walking from class. Except we aren’t even close to being a couple, and I’m trying really hard to hold myself together, so I won’t look like a mess on the outside. I don’t need Asher to know how vulnerable I am and use that against me.

  I also must look ridiculous in my shirt that’s practically lingerie. At least my jeans cover my legs. And Asher, as gorgeous as he is, looks out of place with the dangerous glint in his eye and the tailored suit he wears like a second skin.

  Okay, so we look nothing like a normal couple.

  I’m saddened by the knowledge that I will never have the opportunity to experience a real relationship. I need to find a way to save myself. There are so many things I want to do with my life, things I’ve never experienced and won’t get the chance to if I die now. I decide it can’t hurt to stall.

  I turn to Asher and say, “I have another lecture to get to.”

  I’m stunned when he nods his head. But he doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he tilts his head, as if asking me to lead the way. I sigh, and we head in the direction of Sproul Hall, where my lecture on the advanced applications of statistics in genetics is being held. This class is smaller, with less than ten people in it, and I wonder what will happen when I enter the class with Asher by my side.

  As we walk, I considered my very limited options. I know that Asher won’t be letting me out of his sight anytime soon, so whatever I do, I have to do it under his watchful eyes. I don’t know anyone well enough to pass any covert I’m-about-to-be-killed-by-the-world’s-hottest-man looks.

  Plus, if I tell someone, there’s a large chance they won’t believe me or won’t be able to do anything about it. And then I’ll be left in the same position, only Asher will have even more reason to hate me. I decide to keep an eye out for any better opportunities to get away.

  Part of me doesn’t even think I should be trying to get away. Horny Lucy perks up, and I sit her ass right back down. I have enough on my mind without adding Horny Lucy into the mix.

  Sane Lucy reasons that there’s nothing to do that isn’t worse than what’s currently happening. If he wants me dead, I would already be dead. I can’t hide from him. I don’t want to run from him and leave Wilton. Having a degree from here will almost definitely change my life for the better, and there’s no way I’ll sacrifice that.

  I can’t go to the police either. I’ve watched enough movies and read enough Romano fan blogs to know they probably have a lot of police officers on their payroll. I won’t know who to trust. It would be a gamble to turn to them. I also don’t have anyone in my life besides Aimee, whose advice would be to sleep with Asher.

  Inside me, Horny Lucy lifts her head. I mentally duct tape her mouth and force myself to stop thinking of Asher before Horny Lucy takes over my brain and body, and I do something stupid. Like try to jump his bones.

  Once we enter the class, I’m flabbergasted when Dr. Lance greets Asher with a warm smile. She’s an older woman with white hair, a round body, and keen eyes. But with the way she’s looking at Asher like she adores him, I have to question her intelligence.

  “Asher! What a pleasant surprise!” she greets. She eyes our joined hands curiously. “Have you come to brush up on your statistics? Unfortunately, this is statistics for science majors not business.”

  Ah.

  I read online that Asher completed a six-year joint Bachelor’s and Master’s of Science degree program at Wilton’s Jefferson School of Business in just three years. I didn’t believe it when I read it, but I’m starting to now. Dr. Lance teaches advanced statistics across many disciplines, including business. If Asher has a B.S. and M.S. from Wilton’s business school, they have to have crossed paths before.

  “May I sit in?” Asher asks. His voice is lacking the hard edge it usually has. He sounds almost… pleasant.

  But when I look at him, his face is as impassive as ever.

  “Of course, of course. You may sit anywhere you’d like.”

  I subtly yank my hand out of Asher’s grip, knowing he can’t grab it back with the attention Dr. Lance is giving us. She’s too sharp not to notice something like that. I briefly consider sending her a signal to call the police, but I know they’ll never arrive in time.

  And Dr. Lance is far too old to take on Asher. Hell, it’s unlikely that anyone of any age can. His body is molded into a dangerous weapon that’s probably more lethal than a loaded gun. It’s definitely scarier, and I would know—I’ve had experience with both.

  With his back turned to Dr. Lance, Asher sends me a warning glare. I try to ignore it, heading towards the seats. These seats aren’t stadium style, like the lecture hall’s are
. These are tiny individual desks, consisting of plastic chairs attached to undersized wooden desks with metal screws.

  Everyone is already sitting down, staring at us with varying looks of disbelief. I’m not sure if it’s because Asher is one scary dude or because I brought a date to class. I find an empty desk, surrounded on all sides by people. If I sit in this one, Asher won’t be able to sit near me. I take a seat at the desk, my face all sorts of smug. I’ll get another 50 minutes of peace sitting without him beside me. With the way my day is going, that’s more than I can hope for.

  My grin drops when Asher glares at the student sitting next to me. He all but jumps out of his seat and scrambles to the empty one on the other side of the classroom. Asher takes a seat at the newly abandoned chair. He reaches over, grips my desk with one hand, and easily drags it closer to him until it’s touching his desk. Then, he slings his arm around my shoulders.

  I don’t react. I’m still too stunned. He just scared off some poor guy and dragged all 125 pounds of me along with this 50 pound desk with one hand. I know that he could have done it even if I weighed 150 pounds more. I am so fucked.

  And this, sitting next to him and under his arm, is ridiculous. This is unnecessary. I’m not going anywhere, whether his arm is around me or not. I don’t have the guts. We both know that. We also both know that running is an illogical move. He’s doing this to spite me, and I know that I won’t be paying attention to yet another class.

  Not that it matters.

  Chances are I’ll be dead after this class anyway.

  Of course, I don’t pay attention to the whole lecture, but I am astonished when Dr. Lance asks questions and Asher answers all of them. Know it all. Asher is in the middle of another answer when a rare smile graces Dr. Lance’s face, because Asher doesn’t just answer the questions.

  He explains his answers with a level of depth and thoroughness that is both impressive and inimitable. Not even Dr. Lance, who has long since reached emeritus status at Wilton, can explain the concepts as well as Asher. And the stupid boys in the class are eating it up.

  I’m the only girl in the class, which isn’t exactly a shocker, because STEM fields are always heavier on the male enrollment. Couple in the fact that bioinformatics and genomics is such a specialized field, and I’m the only girl at Wilton in the entire major.

  It’s lonely and it sucks, but what can I do? Go around knocking on doors and asking girls to convert to the sciences, bible salesmen style?

  No, thanks.

  After a few minutes, the boys in the class stop caring that Asher is intimidating as fuck and affiliated with the Romano family. Hell, I wouldn’t be amazed if some of them don’t even know, given how focused these guys are on their studies. What they do care about, though, is getting an A. And Asher is someone that can explain convoluted concepts to them better than their professor can.

  I can see the worship in their eyes.

  It pisses me off.

  When class finally ends, the kid Asher scared off actually has the guts to come up to Asher and ask a question about fiduciary inference. And Asher actually answers it. Ronald Fisher, the inventor of fiduciary inference, didn’t even fully understand it. But Asher does. I’m stupefied.

  Who is this guy?

  After fielding a few more questions like a damn celebrity, Asher turns to me and says, “Are you going to talk to me or are we going to waste another hour sitting in a lecture you won’t pay attention to?”

  I sigh, unsurprised that he caught onto my plan. I don’t have another class today anyway. And then I process his words again.

  “Talk? You want to talk? I thought you were here to ‘take care of me.’” My voice dips at the end, mimicking his deep tone unsuccessfully. I sounded like the prepubescent offspring of the Cookie Monster and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  He finally removes his arm from my shoulders and grabs my hand instead. We’re standing up now, and my backpack is somehow already across one of his shoulders.

  “I said I was,” he admits. “But not anymore.”

  “Not anymore,” I parrot, disbelief coloring my words. “And why the Hell not?”

  Gosh, I’m stupid. I didn’t just say that. It’s like looking a gift horse in the face and spitting on it. And stomping on its toes and throwing ‘yo mama jokes its way.

  Why can’t I be mute?

  “Let’s go somewhere private,” he says.

  It’s then that I notice we have the attention of everyone. Even Dr. Lance. They may not know or care about Asher’s mafia connections, but drama is still drama, and these boys look hooked on ours. I’m glad that we were whispering.

  I nod to him. Asher would take my hand and drag me away if I say no anyways. I might as well go of my own volition. We leave Sproul, and Asher tugs on my hand, pulling me into another building and hallway I didn’t even know exists.

  I’m led into an elevator, where there’s a sudden and quick flash of light that startles me. He steadies me when I jump back, and I let him because I’m too stunned to stop him. Then, we’re headed downward. The elevator opens up into the basement of the building.

  It should be scary—I’m in a basement with a killer, a classic setup to just about every horror movie—but I’m way too fascinated to register the threat. The basement is a giant secret lab I’ve never seen on any Wilton map or directory.

  And it’s perfection.

  I even pass a state of the art centrifuge that’s nicer than the expensive ones stocked in the genomics building. This is incredible. It’s better than Tumblr porn.

  Don’t even think about it, Horny Lucy.

  I can’t help but ask, “How do you know about this place?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  His sharp tone snaps me out of my awed reverie. I pause abruptly at the sound of it, then continue looking around, using my wonder as a stalling tactic. I search for exits, pretending that I’m continuing my visual exploration of the lab.

  Asher’s perceptive eyes narrow at my theatrics, and I suspect he knows what I’m doing. I still pretend that I’m exploring the place anyways. He surprisingly lets me.

  There’s a door to a stairwell, but it has an ID scanner next to it. I doubt I have access to it, and my student identification card is in my wallet, which is in the backpack Asher is still holding, anyways. The only other exit is the elevator, which is already on the third floor.

  If I want to get in, I’ll have to wait for it to come back down to the basement. Plus, the flash in the elevator earlier was probably some crazy security measure, like a biometric scanner or something. I can’t know for sure, but I’m not about to take the risk.

  Which means I’m trapped.

  The look on Asher’s face tells me he knows that. That’s probably why he took me down here in the first place. How he even knows this place exists, I don’t know, but that’s a mystery for another time, even though it’s killing me not to prod. If I even live past the next few minutes. Now that I think about it, this is the perfect place to kill me—secret, isolated, and full of chemicals.

  Done with my perusal, I don’t say anything, waiting for Asher to talk.

  “You’re different than I thought you’d be.”

  My eyes shoot to his in confused interest. “What’d you think I’d be like?”

  “I thought you were a plant. A spy for one of the families. Maybe even a corporate spy, a honey pot to steal secrets. Someone with an agenda at least. But you’re not, are you?”

  My eyes widen. He thought I was a spy? For one of the five families? The idea is so ridiculous that I have to laugh.

  “You thought I was a spy?”

  I’m not even going to touch the honey pot comment.

  … Because, seriously? Me? A honey pot?

  If I was a honey pot, he wouldn’t have ditched me pre-orgasm…

  Must not think about it.

  Must not think about it.

  Must not think about it.

  His voice cuts
through my mental mantra. “What was I supposed to think?” His eyes harden with anger. “You called the cops in the middle of an importa—” He stops himself. “You called the cops on an international burner phone paid for in cash over two years ago in a remote city in Mozambique.”

  When he puts it that way, I actually sound pretty badass.

  But he isn’t done. “The sim card was in the toilet. It took my tech guys a while to recover it. They didn’t even think they could, but when they finally did, there was nothing on it. Not even a single contact.”

  That’s because I knew no one at the time. I have no family, and bouncing around from foster home to foster home makes it hard to make friends. Even now, I only have Aimee and my boss’ number. No one I met during my time volunteering has the money for a phone either. It’s a luxury most people in America don’t even realize is luxurious.

  “The phone had severe water damage, and most of its serial number had been scratched off.”

  I wince. It wasn’t scratched off purposely. I’m just horrible at taking care of my electronics. Plus, the phone was a ten dollar flip phone that I didn’t really need. It was just a precaution in case of an emergency while abroad. I didn’t even consider keeping it unscathed by my carelessness and penchant for ruining electronics.

  He continues, “And in every camera footage we had of you, your head was either down or behind that friend of yours. Aimee. I knew how you look like, but we needed an actual photograph to distribute. The sketch artist’s wasn’t good enough.”

  I don’t even register that he knows Aimee’s name. I’m too focused on how lucky I am to have avoided the cameras. I didn’t avoid them intentionally. In fact, I didn’t even consider the cameras until now.

  Aimee is just really tall, especially in heels. It doesn’t shock me that her height shielded me from the cameras. As for looking down, I was avoiding looking up because of the dancers hanging above us in the cages.