Niccolaio Andretti: A Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 2)

by Parker S. Huntington

  He laughs loudly, startling me. “Honestly, I don’t know why we’re at war, but it’s always been that way. Been that way since before I was born, too. Sometimes anger is learned, and that’s all you know because it’s all you’ve been taught. That’s where Ranie, my brother, is at right now, and there’s no getting through to him in that state. That’s why I said that Ranie calling this off is impossible. There’s no way it’ll happen.”

  “But you said there’s another way.” I hesitate when I see the somber expression on his face. “W-what is it?”

  “The blood debt must be repaid.”

  “What’s a blood debt?”

  “Blood is currency in this world. If you take a certain amount of blood, you’ve gotta give it back. It was the only way that kept us from killing back then, when it was easy to get away with it with the law enforcement.”

  “And how much blood did you take?”

  “I killed some guy named Angelo. He wasn’t even an associate yet. They’re lowly ranked, ranked lower even than soldiers. And now, I guess, Naz.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad. You just have to give two lives worth of blood back? I’ve already seen you shoot two people.”

  “It’s not so simple. Angelo was a recruit. Nobody big. Not even fully an Andretti yet. His life doesn’t matter to anyone high up. The situation with Naz is complicated, because he’s a nobody, but his father was a somebody to my Dad.” He sighs. “But my dad is dead, and unless Ranieri is suddenly getting close to old ass men, it won’t matter. Plus, Naz was in Romano territory when that happened. That’s enough to escalate into an all-out mob war if a blood debt is called for that. Nobody will win if that happens, so that will go unretaliated.”

  “So that leaves your Uncle Luca.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But the Romanos were in Andretti territory when he was killed.”

  “But a Romano didn’t kill him. I did.”

  “So, how do you pay that blood debt?”

  “He was a caporegime for the Andretti family. For the blood debt to be repaid, another caporegime has to sacrifice his life.”

  I gasp. “Like Vincent Romano.”

  Niccolaio reluctantly nods. “Yes, but I would never let that happen. Neither would Asher for that matter.” His eyes meet mine. “There’s another way to pay the blood debt.”

  “How?” I ask, though judging by his expression, I know I won’t like the answer.

  “When a mafia heir is born, he is automatically and permanently given the title of caporegime. Regardless of excommunication.”

  “What are you saying, Niccolaio?”

  But I suspect I know what he’s implying. That he can pay the blood debt.

  And as mad as I am at him right now, the blood drains from my face when he confirms it.

  “If I die, the blood debt is repaid… If I die, all of this ends.”

  Chapter Thirty

  To err is human,

  to forgive, divine.

  Alexander Pope

  twenty-four years old

  I don’t mind the hard punch to the stomach.

  In fact, I welcome the physical pain. I relish it. I just wish my brother’s smug fucking face could be anywhere else but here, gleefully witnessing my brutal beating, as one of his soldiers rains punch after punch on my already sore and bruised body.

  Ranie’s eyes are full of triumph, as if he caught me, when in reality, I didn’t bother hiding. Perhaps it was a mistake to attend my father’s funeral, but the old man had been a good father to me before everything went to shit. Four years of banishment didn’t erase twenty years of decent parenting, so I figured I’d pay my respects.

  And I wasn’t going to do it hiding from afar like a fucking coward.

  Instead, I arrived to the funeral in the car my father had bought me on my sixteenth birthday, a black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 396. A car I stole back from the Andretti compound an hour before the funeral.

  It wasn’t exactly hard.

  Almost everyone was either preparing to leave for the funeral or was already on their way to it. And when I stepped out of the car at the cemetery, slipping on black aviators that matched my fitted black suit, I saw several slack-jawed faces turn my way.

  Not much had changed since I left, and I could immediately tell everyone’s rank by their reaction to my presence. The soldiers tensed, their hands automatically reaching for the weapons they undoubtedly had holstered underneath their suits.

  The caporegimes, while tense, put a considerable amount of effort into not reacting, which was a telltale reaction itself. They’re ambitious little fucks, and any display of fear regarding my appearance would be tantamount to cowardice.

  And finally, standing beside my father’s closed casket was Ranieri; my dad’s old consiglieri, or chief advisor; and the new capo bastone, the underboss or second-in-command of the Romano family.

  The latter two had stoic but resigned expressions on their somber faces, but Ranie graced me with a slight, devilish smirk, which was entirely inappropriate for the occasion and therefore a very Ranieri thing to do.

  A murder, an excommunication, and four years later, and all I got from Ranie was a damn smirk.

  He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, welcoming me to join him beside our father’s grandiose gold- and marble-embedded, jet black-stained casket, a lavish and colossal thing, which was the pretentious variety of shit my father had been known to prefer while he was still alive. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that my father had chosen it long before he croaked, unwilling to let us mere mortals fuck up choosing one for him.

  If my brother and I were on better terms, I would have whispered some witty joke about it in his ear, and we’d make a competition out of hiding our laughter in front of the thousand strong crowd that came out for my father’s funeral today.

  Instead, I was greeted with a mocking smile and the immense pleasure of a murderous glint in Ranie’s eyes. I suspected that he was letting me attend Dad’s funeral out of respect for our father, but I had no doubt that, after the funeral was finished, he had plans for me that involved a cathartic spilling of my blood.

  Which brings me to now.

  Not even a quarter of an hour has passed since the funeral ended, and I’m already in the basement of the funeral home, kneeling in a pool of my own blood, the blood loss causing my vision to go blurry and my head to pound.

  “Release him,” Ranie demands, a surprising level of self-confidence in his voice that hadn’t existed when I last saw him.

  “Why?” I ask crossly, looking a gift horse in the face and not giving a damn that I’m spitting on it.

  I study Ranieri, taking in the tense set of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth. Behind him stands Luigi, my father’s consiglieri, and Mattia, my older cousin and the new capo bastone, thanks to Ranie’s promotion to capo famiglia.

  Mattia’s discomfort at the proximity between him and my blood is clear on his face, but he’s always had a queasy stomach. My father always said that he wasn’t cut out for this life, but Dad, Uncle Luca, and Uncle Gabriele, who passed shortly after Mattia was born, are all gone. And aside from Mattia, we don’t have any other cousins. That means that Ranie doesn’t have very many choices for capo bastone if he wants to stay within the dwindling gene pool.

  In his place beside Mattia, Luigi has a stern look on his face, one that’s fixated directly onto Ranie. Interesting. Luigi’s presence means that there’s still business my dad wanted complete before he died. Otherwise, Luigi would already have been replaced, given a ridiculous sum of money, and peacefully retired in a lavish Floridian mansion by now—per Andretti tradition for a consiglieri that has served his boss and family well, which I have no doubt Luigi has.

  I study the body language between Ranie and Luigi, quickly surmising that there’s a secret they’re keeping from me. A big one. One that, given the situation and date, likely involves my father and most definitely
involves me.

  Unable to help myself, the corners of my lips turn up into a smirk. “What did Dad say that’s got you so pissed off, Ranie?” The glower Ranie sends my way is confirmation enough, so I continue to goad, “Did he tell you I’m his favorite son? Admit it to you on his deathbed?” I feign disbelief. “Are you jealous, Ranie?”

  Of course, I know it’s nothing of that sort. Dad would never make a declaration like that. Ranie was always Dad’s favorite and I was Mom’s, but Ranie never knew that, and I doubt that Dad ever told him. But I suspect that if I piss Ranie off enough, he’ll let what my father said to him slip. At least the young Ranie from four years ago would have. I am curious to see how Ranie has grown up since I’ve been gone.

  Ranie impresses me by brushing off my remarks and saying, “You never know when to shut up, do you, Niccolaio?”

  Mattia chimes in, a nostalgic smile on his face, “We all know you’re the talker, Ranie.”

  I snort, the sound coming out like a pig’s oink, given the present condition of my face. But pain aside, for a brief moment, everything feels normal. I’m not getting beat up in front of my family in my childhood home by men that used to serve me. I’m not on the run from the people I love, and my dad hasn’t died. I’m just a guy, laughing at a joke his cousin told, one that speaks of a familiarity, a kinship between the three of us.

  And damn if that doesn’t blow up my walls into a million sharp pieces.

  I suspect that Ranie feels the past trickling in, too, because his face is a conflicting mixture of pain, humor, and anger. He takes a deep breathe before his resolve visibly hardens, and I watch him overcome whatever internal turmoil he was struggling with.

  “Clear the room,” he commands, and the lone soldier and two caporegimes that were carrying out my beating immediately leave.

  Luigi and Mattia, however, remain in the room.

  Ranie doesn’t bother turning his body when he repeats, “Clear the room.”

  Mattia leaves, but Luigi remains. I narrow my eyes at the unspoken implication. Whatever Dad told Luigi to make happen, involves what’s happening right now. Ranie’s treatment of me. I’m sure of it. The curiosity is eating at me, and I wonder yet again what my dad told Ranie. The man sent a clear message when he excommunicated me, so I doubt it was anything good. But still…

  “What did Dad say?” I repeat.

  Ranie ignores me and turns to Luigi. “I won’t repeat myself,” he warns.

  It dawns upon me that I might not know the Ranie in front of me. The Ranie I knew would never have talked to Luigi like that. While I was never particularly close with Luigi, Ranie was. At least they had been when I left. The revelation that I no longer know my little brother is far more painful than the cuts and bruises on my body.

  “La Volontà del re,” Luigi begins, saying the Italian phrase for “The King’s Will,” “follows the predecessor, even in death.”

  And with that, Luigi leaves, parting one last stern look at Ranie and sparing me a sympathetic glance. But clearly not sympathetic enough to remove my binds, though Ranie did say that I could go earlier.

  I study Ranie carefully. The King’s Will refers to the last wishes of a mafia boss, a list of things or even a single wish that is forced upon his predecessor. Not every mafia boss gives his predecessor a King’s Will. Some die before they get the chance to. But my dad died slowly in a hospital bed after a car crash, of all mortal ways to die. There had to have been plenty of time to dictate a King’s Will. Given what I’ve seen, whatever he said has to do with me. And judging by Ranie’s reluctance, he doesn’t want to do it.

  My heart quickens at my sudden, painful realization—Dad’s King’s Will was to order my death. It has to have been.

  “What’s eating at you, Ranie?” I soften my voice, because as much as I hate this situation right now, I have to sympathize with my brother.

  He lost his father, and now the man who took his uncle from him is in the same room as him. And perhaps he’s been given the directive to be his own brother’s executioner. I know I wouldn’t be able to do it.

  “You don’t have to do it,” I tell him quietly. “You don’t have to kill me. No matter what anyone tells you.”

  I’m urging him to go against the King’s Will. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m not doing it for me. I’m not begging for my life. I’m begging for the boy I knew four years ago. The one whose sleepy eyes flashed with heartbreak at the sight of his older brother’s betrayal. The Ranieri I knew back then could never do this, and I don’t want him to have to.

  But again, Ranie surprises me when his eyes flash with cold anger and he says, “It may not be today, but you will die. It can be tomorrow or ten years from now, but you’ll die, Niccolaio, and it’ll be from my hands. Make no mistake, you’ll answer for your sins.”

  My eyes widen. “The King’s Wi—”

  He cuts me off, “He was your uncle.”

  “And I’m your brother.”

  “I have no brother.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I could easily forgive his pride,

  if he had not mortified mine.

  Jane Austen

  present

  Minka is angry at me, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.

  Since we relocated to the safe house a few weeks ago, we came to a tentative truce, but that ended last night when I told her that she couldn’t go to her sister’s play. Hell, that probably ended the night before that when I ditched her after she came.

  But I couldn’t stay in the same room with her. Not when she was so fucking tempting, her perfect, naked body pressed against me and her face flushed from coming harder than I’d ever seen a woman come.

  I shouldn’t have even indulged my attraction to her. I should have left as soon as I came into the safe house and saw her touching herself. But I couldn’t. She was like the best gift I’ve ever received, laying on the bed for me to unwrap and play with.

  And when I finally saw her come undone, I forcibly reigned myself in as well as I could until I couldn’t stay in the same room as her any longer. I dashed out into the alleyway; whipped myself out; and like a fucking scumbag, jerked off in the empty alley to the image of her pretty pussy opened up in from me. The only saving grace was that I was hidden from view of the street by the giant blue trash container.

  The real surprise, though, was yesterday, when she didn’t suggest that I give myself up to the blood debt. I’m still surprised that she hasn’t brought it up, especially since I can feel her anger radiating off of her in waves right now, as I park the car in the full graveled parking lot of an abandoned miniature market.

  “What the heck?” she asks, smoothing down the dress I gave her earlier, a smoking hot, formfitting red number that reaches down to the middle of her thigh. Earlier, I had to force myself not to tear it off of her and demand a repeat of last time. “This is where they’re getting married?” For the first time since yesterday, she looks me in the eye. “Lucy’s not normal. At all.”

  “None of this is normal,” I mutter, referring to us, but obviously I agree with her.

  Ever since I met her, I’ve noticed that Lucy continually flirts with the border between sanity and insanity, but whatever. She’s happy, Asher’s happy, and I suppose at the end of the day that’s all that matters.

  I give Minka my arm, and she reluctantly takes it, knowing she doesn’t have a cat’s chance in Hell of walking in her heels on this cobbled road unscathed without my help. I lead her to the front of the rundown, dilapidated building and knock on the door three times—one long knock, followed by two quick ones. The eye level slit on the door slides open, and we’re met with silence on the other end.

  “Siamo qui per il matrimonio,” I say in perfect Italian, telling the guy that we’re here for the wedding.

  “Nomi?”

  “Niccolaio Andretti e Mink—”

  The sound of the slit sliding shut cuts me off, and the door imm
ediately opens after. My reputation must precede me, because the guard, probably an associate but no higher than a soldier, averts his eyes as he leads us down the musty hallways into a stairwell that only goes down.

  Minka’s grip tightens on my arm, and I refrain from patting her hand reassuringly. She’d no doubt find a way to take offense to such a gesture. I slow my pace, so she can keep up on the wobbly stairwell in her spectacularly high heels. Once we reach the bottom, we’re greeted by a maze of tunnels.

  “Where are we?” Minka whispers, but the resounding echo of the tunnels carries her voice loudly.

  “During the prohibition era, the Romano boss had the bright idea of building tunnels that connected his businesses. They’re all over New York City. They used them to smuggle alcohol, which made them even more money than drugs did. We’ll be going to one of the old smuggling stops right now,” I reply, helping Minka into the golf cart.

  “And where’s that?”

  “The church.”

  Minka mutters something, and knowing her, it was probably a PG-rated curse. We’re both silent as the guard drives us to the stairwell that exits into the church. As soon as we’re out of the golf cart, the guard, with his eyes still averted from me, murmurs a quiet salutation in Italian and leaves without another word.

  “Why all the cloak and dagger?” Minka asks as we make our way up the stairs.

  “To avoid paparazzi. We were assigned to that post, but there are several assigned routes for today in order to get all of the guests to the church in a timely manner.”

  When the guard stationed at the top of the staircase opens the door for us, we’re greeted by the sight of John with Red Senior.

  He glances past us quickly before doing a double take and approaching us, a resigned and reluctant expression on his face. “Nick. Minka,” he says, inclining his head slightly to each of us. “I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced you to Ashley.”