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

by Parker S. Huntington

  I press down on the area anyway, because it’s the only thing I know to do—put pressure on the wound.

  “Fuck, Lucy!” Asher cringes away from the firm pressure of my hands. “Stop! Babe, stop.”

  My mind doesn’t even register that he called me “babe.”

  I gape at him as he gently pries my fingers away and rubs at his chest. Asher tears the ruined fabric of his button down a little and sticks his finger in, pulling out the bullet. My eyes widen when I see that his undershirt doesn’t even have a mark on it.

  But I’m so relieved he’s alive, I don’t think as I crawl into his lap and hug him. There may be tears streaming down my face, but I’m too prideful to admit it. I pull back, look at the place on Asher’s chest where he was shot, and hug him again.

  And then I lean back and slap him.

  He catches my wrist when I move to do it again. “Hey! What was that for?” He’s frowning at me, a look of sheer bewilderment in his blue eyes.

  “Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?!” I gesture to my cocktail dress. “What about me? What if that bullet had hit me?”

  I move to slap him again with my free hand, but he takes both of my wrists and uses them to pull me back against him. I’m still straddling his waist, pressed into his body, so I can’t see his face. He’s shaking, which causes me to frown.

  Wary, I wrap my arms tightly around him. I don’t want him to cry. Is he thinking about what would happen if I was the one that got hit? It’s unexpected but not unwelcome to learn I mean so much to him.

  Then, I realize he’s not crying.

  He’s laughing.

  It’s a deep rumble, and in between breaths, he says, “What you’re wearing is bulletproof.” His laughter subsides, but he’s still holding onto me. “It’s sewed into the corset and skirt of your dress. It’s the same fabric the lining of my suit and button down are made of.” And then he laughs again. “And you wouldn’t have gotten shot either way. I was moving to shield you when you went all Inspector Clouseau on me and knocked me over.”

  I feel a shadow over us and turn to find Xavier, who’s now hovering above us. He has a quizzical eyebrow cocked at our position. I’m still on Asher’s lap, and we’re still hugging each other.

  I try to move, but he tightens his hold on me. I can’t help but let him, allowing his presence to calm me. To make me feel safe again, because at this point, no one else but him can.

  It all makes sense now.

  Asher has been protecting me from the start. He didn’t let me out of the penthouse until Tommy was done with my clothes. My bulletproof clothes. It wasn’t because I wasn’t dressed nicely. It was because I wasn’t dressed safely.

  I swoon a little.

  He wants me safe.

  He jumped in front of a bullet for me.

  How can I not be affected by that?

  I’m only human.

  I know it’s intimate, but I’m interested to know. It’s a burning curiosity and the remaining adrenaline rush that gives me the nerve to run my hands down Asher’s chest. I examine his suit thoroughly, feeling the smooth fabric beneath my fingers. I think it’s identical to the fabric of the slip lining my dress.

  “How is this possible?” I ask.

  “We manufacture bulletproof fabric at one of our R & D labs. I give some swatches to Tommy to make our clothes.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that bulletproof clothes exist.”

  “It’s been out for at least a decade now. President Obama wore a bulletproof suit to his first inauguration in 2009.”

  I don’t reply. I’m still in his arms, hugging him. I’m trying to remain as invisible as possible, because I’m not ready for him to let go. Getting shot at is surreal, and I’m still unsettled. Asher rubs my arms, fighting away the goosebumps caused by fear and replacing them with goosebumps caused by our proximity.

  “What do you have?” Asher asks Xavier.

  Meanwhile, I’m still clinging to him like a koala bear.

  “The two perps have been tied up.”

  I look past Asher and see the two guys on the ground, tied together. There’s a bit of blood on the sidewalk beside them, and one of them is slouched dangerously low. Asher’s personal bodyguard is hovering above them, leaning against their bike, which has been pulled onto the sidewalk opposite of ours.

  “What do you know about them?” Asher’s arms are still around my waist.

  I inch even closer, resting my chin on his shoulder, and he tightens his grip. I don’t know if he knows he’s doing this, because this position, sitting on his lap, feels so natural. Too natural.

  “They have no IDs on them. I don’t think they’re mafia.” Xavier’s voice sounds concerned. “Maybe corporate?”

  I want to scoff, because really? What corporation hires a hit on someone?

  “Do you know which one of us they were after?”

  I pull back at that. “You think they might be after me?”

  Who would want to hurt me?

  I’m a nobody.

  “We can’t rule anything out.” Asher’s voice is firm but gentle, yet I still tense at his words. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I’m taken aback when he kisses my forehead. There are sirens in the distance, coming closer and closer, but I remain seated in his lap. Tense. Because if they consider me as a target, they may look into my past.

  Into Steve.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  History shows that courage

  can be contagious and hope

  can have a life of its own.

  Michelle Obama

  I’m not surprised the cops were called. Since we left the cocktail party before dinner was served, it’s still pretty light outside. This happened in broad daylight, and there are a lot of witnesses. Someone was bound to call the cops.

  What does surprise me is that Asher doesn’t seem to care.

  Xavier gives me a knowing look. “Asher shot them in self-defense. We did nothing illegal, so we can call the cops. It’s okay if they come.”

  “It actually helps prove my legitimacy.” Asher’s voice caresses my ears. “If I was still in the mob, I’d call a cleaner and we’d handle this internally. Calling the cops means I’m out. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Oh,” I say, as I see the first police car round the corner and park on the curb.

  Two uniformed officers step out, and their weapons are drawn as they walk towards Asher’s guard, who holds his hands up in surrender. Another unmarked vehicle pulls up, and the man and woman that step out and head in our direction are wearing street clothes. They must be detectives. Behind them, the shooters are being loaded into an ambulance that has just arrived.

  “Mr. Black,” the older of the two detectives greets us.

  I scramble off Asher’s lap as gracefully as possible, allowing Xavier to help me up. When Asher stands, the female detective eyes the hole in his shirt warily. At her look, he hands her the smashed up bullet for evidence. She takes a latex glove out of her pocket and uses it to place the bullet into a little Ziploc bag. I watch as she scribbles something onto the bag with a black Sharpie.

  “Can you two give us your statements?” the male detective asks. “Separately?”

  I go with the female detective, Xavier trailing closely behind. He stays back a safe enough distance, but he still remains close. The cop sends him a suspicious look, and he gives us a few more yards of distance.

  The detective begins grilling me, her tone an odd mixture of firm and gentle, but I’m able to answer all of her questions easily. Except one.

  Who were they after?

  I’m feeling guilty when I approach Asher after we’re both done being questioned. A crowd has gathered around us, and paparazzi are stationed behind the police barricade, obnoxiously shouting questions our way. No way will this turn out to be good press for him.

  “Sorry,” I say when I reach him.

  “What for? It’s not your fault we got shot at.”

  I shrug.
“It’s my fault we’re here. Still, it was sweet of you to get me into the event tonight. I really appreciate the invitation.”

  Asher stiffens, and his face hardens. “I didn’t get you into this event. What are you talking about?”

  I falter. “I-I got an invitation through my email. It’s a senior networking event, and I’m a junior. I thought you had something to do with the invitation, that maybe you pulled some strings for me.” I pause, taking in his frown. “If you didn’t, then who did?”

  Asher sweeps his gaze over me, taking in my disheveled appearance. His eyes are a frosty navy blue as he says, “I don’t know. That’s what we need to find out.”

  It doesn’t shock me to learn that I have trouble sleeping that night. It’s not images of the shooting that are plaguing my mind, though. As soon as I close my eyes, I dream of Steve at the edge of my bed.

  I’ve had this dream before. It’s been awhile, but as soon as I’m immersed in the familiar bedroom, I know what will happen. This dream is a replica of what happened in real life, except in my dreams, there are two Steves.

  I’m always unable to move as one remains at the foot of the bed, stroking himself, and the other approaches me, his hand reaching out to touch my body. This is the part where I usually wake up and stay super still with my eyes closed, convinced that if I open them, I’ll see both of the Steves there. And they’ll tell me which one of them is real—the one who doesn’t touch me or the one who does. I always hope it’s the former, but I’m too scared to ask. Not knowing has become a torment of its own, no doubt a byproduct of my cowardice.

  This time, when I wake up, I keep my eyes closed tightly like I always do. But when I feel the bed dip, they fling open in alarm, relaxing instantly when they lock onto Asher’s concerned face. He hovers nearby before I close the distance, snuggling into the safety of his arms, remember how sheltered I felt when he hugged me after the shooting.

  “Nightmare?” he asks.

  I nod, but I don’t say anything, letting him assume that it’s from what happened earlier today. I’m not about to tell him about the unanswered questions I have for Steve Who Likes to Watch and Steve Who Likes to Touch.

  “If I let you sleep on the bed, can we not talk about it tomorrow? Or ever?”

  There’s a rumbling of laughter in his chest before I feel him pull me tighter against him. “Yeah, Lucy. I just want you to sleep well.”

  I miss half of my lab the next morning. Sleeping in Asher’s arms was so comfortable, we both slept in later than we normally would. It helps that Monica didn’t come in at 5 A.M. to wake Asher up like she usually does.

  Maybe she decided to let him rest after the whole getting shot in the chest thing.

  Or maybe she lost her keys.

  Or maybe—fingers crossed—she’s finally rethinking her job here.

  Who knows what goes through that woman’s mind?

  By the time I make it to lab, about an hour has passed, and there’s only two more hours left in the class period. I’m already feeling awkward after missing so many classes without a reprimand, so when I show up, I take my punishment like a champ, not even bothering to ask for a makeup lab. A normal student wouldn’t get one, so it’s only fair if I don’t either.

  There are eyes on me as I start extracting DNA from a tomato for PCR. It’ll take almost two hours in the machine before the thermal cycling is complete, and by that time, the class period will be over. I do it anyway, so I can at least get partial participation points.

  The write up for this lab, which I can’t do without the data from a completed lab, is worth fifteen percent of my overall grade in the class. At most, I’ll get half credit for it, which means the highest grade I can get in the class is now a 92.5%. And that’s assuming I get a perfect score on everything else I turn in for the rest of the semester.

  A 93% is an A-. I need a 3.7 GPA, which is an A- average, to maintain my scholarship. I’ve been gunning for straight As, because getting an A- is a little too close to my GPA cut off for my taste. I already have enough excitement with Asher in my life.

  Which basically means that this sucks, and the guaranteed plummet of my GPA is enough to sink my spirits. Between the shooting, the nightmare, and the grade, I’m in a really shitty mood.

  It’s almost enough to make me rethink this whole charade.

  Once I enter Rogue, I leave Xavier to talk to some of his guard friends about whatever super buff security guards like to talk about. Probably about how many people they’ve killed and how they’ve gotten away with it. Xavier looks like he’s got at least a dozen under his belt.

  There’s only one guard in front of the stairwell leading to the VIP floor when I approach the bottom of it. It’s the middle of the day, so it’s not operating hours. The music isn’t on, and the dancers aren’t in their cage-stages, but the security is certainly there in spades. There are even more guards than there usually is, which isn’t surprising given the shooting that happened a few days ago.

  When I reach the guard, one of the Romano guys, he smirks and says, “Let me guess. Model? Actress?”

  “Fiancée.”

  I shove past him, ignoring his widened eyes. I feel him following behind me, so I quicken my pace until I’m practically running up the stairs.

  When he sees me, Asher’s eyes widen. “Lucy? Whoa! What happened? Was there another shooti—”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand.

  His eyes grow wary, and they cut to the guard that followed me up there. I wait impatiently, my right foot tapping a rude rhythm against the floor, as he shakes his head at the guy, who soundlessly retreats back down the stairwell.

  When Asher’s eyes come back to me, he says cautiously, “Me? What did I do?”

  “My lab, Asher.” I cross my arms and try to plaster a fierce look onto my face.

  I hope it’s scary, because the pastel pink blouse I have on doesn’t exactly scream: FEAR ME. Though he should be scared, because I am pissed the fuck off right now. I can practically feel my cells humming in sheer anger.

  I try not to yell, but I do anyway. “My fucking lab!”

  “Oh.” His face relaxes. “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re welcome? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s what you say to me after interfering with my grades?”

  “Wha—” Asher’s jaw drops a little. “You’re mad about that?”

  “Of course, I’m mad,” though my anger is quickly dissipating. I’m just tired now, and with that comes a newfound vulnerability. “Wilton is the only valuable thing I have in my life that’s completely mine, and it’s already tainted.

  “People stare at me when I walk into class now, and I know they’re angry about all the special treatment I’m getting. They won’t say anything, because you’re you, but I know they’re thinking it. I don’t even blame them. I can’t blame them. The special treatment I’m getting is unfair for them. That’s a fact.

  “The worst part is that I can’t even decline your help, because without it, I’m just a random girl that missed dozens of classes and deserves to be placed on academic suspension not to mention have her scholarship revoked.

  “But this? This lab? I didn’t ask you to help me with that. I could have taken the hit to my GPA. I deserve to take the hit.”

  Asher’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry. I just thought… It was my fault you overslept and failed the lab, so I fixed it.”

  He still thinks I was up all night with nightmares about the shooting—not the two Steves.

  I don’t correct him.

  “This is my life, Asher! Mine. There’s nothing to be ‘fixed,’ especially not by you.” I sigh, forcing myself to release my residual anger, since his heart was in the right place. “Look, I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but I would appreciate it if, from now on, you don’t interfere with my life any more than necessary.”

  “And the aspects that I need to interfere with?”

  “There’s nothing that you ‘need’ t
o interfere with.”

  “We’re engaged, Lucy. There are aspects of our life that are intertwined.”

  “Consult with me first.”

  He looks at me, his eyes taking in my face and then my body. I struggle to control my body’s reaction to his perusal.

  Asher nods stiffly. “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not doing this with you, Asher.”

  A boyish smirk etches itself onto his face. “Fine.”

  I don’t bother answering. I turn and leave.

  But my heart is pounding, because even though I don’t want his help, he went out of his way to do something nice for me.

  And damn if that doesn’t make me like him a little more.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Success is not final,

  failure is not fatal:

  it is the courage to

  continue that counts.

  Winston Churchill

  My jaw drops at the sight of the pair in front of us. Asher and I are in his penthouse, surrounded by his security team. All twenty-six of them. In front of us are a man and a woman that look just like Asher and I. Sure, there are some noticeable differences, but from afar, no one will be able to tell us apart.

  I study my female doppelganger. She looks like me, but not quite. Whereas my chest is fuller and I’m a little taller, she’s far paler than I am. She’s also missing a lot of hair and has eyes that are dim and sunken in.

  Asher’s double is the same height as him, but the double’s eyes are brown, his hair is blonde, and his ears aren’t quite right either. He’s also wearing thick reading glasses and is bouncing around the room like he’s tweaked out of his mind. Yet, when I caught sight of his pupils, they looked fairly normal.

  When the two are ushered to a team of stylists, I pull Asher aside. “Do they know what you’re asking of them?”

  I try not to blush as Asher studies my face. We almost died together, and he used his body to shield mine. I don’t care that he was wearing a bulletproof suit. It was still incredibly brave, an act of bravery I never in a million years would have imagined someone doing for me.