Page 1 of Hostile Vows
1
ANDRÉ
Well, fuck—last night’s events took an unusual turn.
I prop myself up on my elbows and check out my surroundings. The jeans I’d struggled to remove a few hours ago are in a heap on the floor. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a full ashtray both suggest a heavy session.
Surprisingly, there aren’t any sexy panties lying about. Not even a pair of high heels, or any sign of a female guest, for that matter. I drag a hand over my scruff and recall the impulsive decision I’d made last night, letting it soak in. That’s the reason I’ve woken up alone, and it rocks the contentment of my typically chaotic world.
An insistent pounding in my skull has me reaching for a couple of painkillers from the bedside table. I grind them into a chalky paste with my back teeth and swallow. A glass of water would be helpful, but I’m feeling hard-core this morning.
I’d knocked back a shitload of booze last night—all because I randomly found the one person I’ve never forgotten.
There’s nothing unusual about this hazy, motherfucking hangover, except for the prickle of shock sparking my muscles—that’s a new thing. My over-the-top world rarely shakes.
I grab the remote control for the automatic blinds and squint at the sun-drenched balcony beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows when they move up. Usually, I love the epic ocean view from my penthouse master suite. However, this morning it doesn’t impress like it normally would. Something else of natural beauty haunts me.
Black hair.
Green eyes blended with blue.
Defiance.
The aquamarine seascape was worth the premium price tag. A few million dollars is loose pocket change for a Souza. This is my base, my main bachelor pad, and the princely throne where I run the entire Miami drug scene. Now my home will have to become something else.
The wide empty space next to me in my super-sized bed is a surprise given my new circumstances. A chuckle rumbles from inside my bare chest and dissipates into the cavernous creamy corners of the high ceiling. Papá had always said I was dangerously unpredictable, like a defective firework. Guess I’m always hunting the highs.
The irony in his criticism wasn’t missed when the egotistical fucker had raised me to be just like him. Hungry for power and fully capable of taking it, but in my own way.
Where he had acted like an AWOL patient from a psych ward, I am more self-aware of my rebellious streak. Except, in the aftermath of last night’s bombshell, perhaps I’d marginally agree with his assessment. This time, my spur-of-the-moment decision has a major kickback.
Something catches my attention when I flick back the Egyptian cotton sheet, and it’s not my unsatisfied boner. It’s a chunky black band, the width crammed with diamonds twinkling up at me from my wedding finger.
A straight flush. The winning hand in a game of poker. All the cards in the same suit—hearts.
Fuck. It’s all coming back to me.
I bounce to my feet and half jog across the gunmetal-colored carpet, wearing nothing more than leather bracelets, a few rings, and a shitload of tattoos. Broken memories of my recent adventures crackle beneath a cruel headache. My recollection is patchy apart from one very clear vision, and I’ll never forget the mental picture for the rest of my life. It’s a combination of complete power, hostility, and a surrender.
Quick strides take me out of my suite, along the hallway where a large-scale Jean-Michel Basquiat painting hangs and saunter past my best friend’s bedroom door. The room he crashes in when our partying gets out of hand. Letterman had tried to talk me out of raising the stakes during my winning streak until he realized it wasn’t that straightforward.
Flashes of the pending prize come hard and fast, confirming what I can’t believe to be true. I run a hand through my disheveled black hair and take a deep breath. A buzz of wicked adrenaline tingles all over me.
At the top of the floating staircase that’s sandwiched between a frameless glass balustrade, spontaneity burns inside me like fuel. The charge is more powerful than my usual daily dose of stamina. A never-ending energy source that races through my veins from the second I wake to the minute I crash.
But this immoral thrill of ownership is more addictive than any narcotic my family would sell. It’s a lethal adrenaline hit.
My purposeful, light-footed descent carries me directly into the open sitting room doused in daylight. I squint as it temporarily blinds my hungover eyeballs, wishing I had a pair of sunglasses. And then I stop dead. Rock hard for the Irish woman who had given me the biggest fucking head rush a few hours ago—while I shot my load over her swollen lips. She had pretended it didn’t get her panties wet, but we both knew she was lying to herself. I’d always thought I would strangle the bitch if I saw her again. However, that resentment had mutated into something far more infuriating. Filthy fucking lust.
Last night had kicked off with an invitation only, offshore poker game on a yacht belonging to a family acquaintance, Don Sapori, head of the Italian crime syndicate, Cosa Nostra. We cross paths every now and again.
Sapori’s advisor had sat with us around the table too, but he didn’t leave a lasting impression. Not like the showstopper of the evening. The dark-hairedbellezawho caught me off guard—Sapori’s estranged daughter. Our families have been allies for years and never once did he mentionher.
That very same woman is lying on my white leather couch, framed by an azure sky, the backdrop visible through a wall of windows stretching the entire breadth of my lounge. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt, all black except for a silvery skull and gold crown motif. I’d left it outside the bathroom door after she had locked herself in—leaving her to shower the blood out of her hair. A thin wooden door with a flimsy steel lock wouldn’t have kept me out if I’d wanted in. With her, though, I’ll take my sweet fucking time.
A bottle of Jack and a few blunts later, and she’d still refused to come out. Her brazen tenacity had me chuckling. There’s nothing more satisfying than a tease finally meeting her master.
The thigh-high hem shows off the pale skin of her legs. Her stretched-out position gives the illusion they’re long, except I know for a fact she’s short—and makes up for it with a feisty-as-fuck spirit.
