Page 103 of Hostile Vows
“Focus on getting off this yacht first. Understood?” he commands, his poker-faced expression unmoving.
“Did he know they would come for me?” I swallow a whimper, uncertainty clawing up my throat.
He shakes his head. “No. Which means they were watching the penthouse and followed the convoy to the docks. The fuckers came in on the tender boat. They waited for the yacht to anchor close to shore and knew it would need fresh supplies.”
“I need to warn André. He’s in dang—”
Whirling rotary blades cut up the cloudless sky, a mechanical engine roaring from outside.
“Christ… I should have known.” Giovanni darts to the outer deck and covers his eyes with a pair of sunglasses. “They have backup.” He weaves around the dead bodies, stopping when my startled gaze reflects in his shaded lenses. “There’s no time to fuck about, Sinéad. We have to get to dry land.”
“Wait… my phone… I need to tell André.”
“He’s my twin brother. I have the guy on speed dial.”
He takes my hand, then pulls me out of the master suite and into a private office. The cylindrical silencer attachment on his gun aims low as we descend a flight of stairs and hurry over transparent sections of an atrium floor. We don't stop until we’re on the bottom deck, staring at a seven-meter-long saltwater pool where a custom-crafted tender, doubling as a jet ski, is secured for direct sea access. Its ebony fiberglass construction mimics the high-spec design of theSin Prettyand would comfortably allow four passengers.
“Climb on board,” Giovanni orders, his sharp authority not unlike my husband. “I need you to drive the tender as fast as you can, okay?” He unhooks a key fob attached to a coiled wire lanyard and tosses it to me when I’m in position, straddling the leather stitched seat. “Don’t start the engine yet. I’ll tell you when.”
Thunderous rotors chop up the beautiful sunlight into flickering shapes when a substantial helicopter silhouette darkens the freshwater pool overhead, its position shrouding our whereabouts.
Giovanni unclips the bungee cord anchoring us to the mothership and steps onto the watercraft. “Are you familiar with jet skis?”
I squeeze the handlebars, my gaze fixed on the rippling ocean, nauseatingly aware of an unsettled seesaw motion. “It's not a jet ski. It’s a mini speed boat.”
“Yeah… my brother is a flashy fuck. Can you handle it?”
“Of course I can.”
“When the platform is fully submerged under water, I’ll tap your shoulder to signal acceleration. Head straight for the shoreline. Don’t look back, no matter what happens. Keep fucking going. Here—you’ll need these.” He drops his sunglasses over my shoulder, rotates, and flicks his leg over the tanned seat, doing a one-eighty. An ammunition-filled backpack digs into my spine, his rigid posture now pressed against me like a stone pillar, so he’s facing the wrong way.
The creeping shadows above us move with the chopper’s flight path as it leaves the stern, no doubt preparing to land on the helipad. Flecks of blazing white sunshine sprinkle the tropical pool water surrounding us like treasured gemstones, the intensity dulled when I shield my eyes with Gio’s aviators. Slowly, the pool base sinks into the depths, inviting eddy waves to carry us away from the garage, the tide granting permission to go ashore.
The marine air and far-off horizon identify with freedom. Though the midnight-blue hue we’re at the mercy of resembles a bottomless abyss that could easily imprison anyone who enters its dark depths.
“Turn on the engine,” Giovanni instructs. “Get ready…”
“Okay—” I twist the key and brace for the next order. My heart is racing, and my eyes blink wildly at the coastline, on Sky Hotel to be precise.
A flirty breeze plays with the loose lengths of my air-dried hair, carrying a few ticklish strands across my nose. Giovanni remains quietly stoic, patient in his timing. I’m bobbing about in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with André's twin. That alone should offer me peace of mind. But it doesn’t. Anxious knots tighten around my lungs, the unforgiving hold of anxiety threatening a panic attack.
His widow.
After a few painstaking minutes, when he’s certain the chopper has landed on the ship, Giovanni taps the top of my shoulder. “Now!”
In a frenzy of nerves and adrenaline, I apply the throttle, hard. The ski lifts at the front as the acceleration increases and we zoom forward, cutting through the waves on a quest to reach land. The temperature dips and chills prickle my bare legs. My hair whips all over the place and a roaring wind rushes past my ears.
Giovanni shifts. I dare a quick glance over my shoulder and curse out loud. Our enemy has spotted our heroic getaway attempt. The chopper ascends into the cyan-blue sky at the exact moment a thunderous, apocalyptic explosion suppresses the sound of its mechanical whir and overrules sea bird chatter.
My wild gaze returns to the Miami coast. The sky is stricken, the expanse of it contaminated by an evil cloud of black smoke. Shock steals my breath. I witness spewing flames that devastate the upper floors of a high-rise tower.
“Giovanni!” I yell. “Where’s Dré?” My heart rate soars, the crazed vibrations pulsating in my throat. “Miami is under attack!”
Lethal bullets whizz past and plunge into the choppy sea, narrowly missing us. Undeterred and focused on the immediate threat, I hear Giovanni fire off a few rounds. I keep my hand on the throttle and chant inwardly, begging for my husband to be at the shore when we get there. A vertical trail of turbid smoke creeps skyward, shrouding the buildings in the distance.
I scan the other towers, all of them untouched and smug in their new domination of the city. A fear so incomprehensible and sickening terrorizes me right to the core of my being. Realization hits me. My beating heart malfunctions, going deathly still as it levitates in my aching chest. A hard mass is trapped in my throat, even when I swallow. I’m painfully aware of my chaotic pulse pounding in my throat and shake my head to try to comprehend the graveness ahead of me. There’s nowhere else to look, other than a blazing rooftop—crumbling upper floors—Sky Hotel.
André!
