Page 19 of Hostile Vows
As the threat spits out, Pup grabs a fistful of my hair, yanks my head toward the carpet, and rams his knee into my ribs. I stifle a yelp, managing not to cry, bending my quaking knees for balance.
“Oh, Sinéad,” Frankie begins with a condescending voice. “I should be proud of your fiery temperament. It’s odd though. I feel nothing.” His shoulders move with gentle ambivalence. “Perhaps if I’d snatched you away from your mother at birth, then maybe I’d feel something other than… emptiness.”
“The only emotion I have for you is loathing.” My breath comes out hard and fast.
Salt-and-pepper eyebrows tug together in contemplation. “Your childish petulance is disappointing for a woman your age. I guess disappointment is something, right?” His left brow rises in question. “It’s very unexpected for André to suggest an attachment—to a woman. He’s the Souza wild card. I guess the promise of more authority would prompt a man to do uncharacteristic things.”
I strain against the painful grip close to my burning scalp, unable to stand upright. From this angled position, I’m forced to witness Frankie’s diabolical calmness and icy composure without any way to retaliate.
“Misbehave and Iwillput a bullet in that disrespectful mouth of yours. However, I would rather my plans unfold first. Which means you’ll be the last one to die, after you’ve watched your loved ones suffer.” He sighs as if he’s lost interest in the conversation. “You’ll marry André and if you choose to misbehave…”
He unpockets his hand, bringing a cell phone with it and taps the screen. After a beat, he rotates the device and lowers it to my line of vision. There before me, Mammy is serving a pint behind the bar in The Rusty Shamrock in real time. It’s a live video, which means he has men in Donegal—watching over her.
“Bronagh has aged well. I’d fuck that ass again for old time’s sake. Wouldn’t it be a shame for her soft skin to melt right off her breakable bones? It would be easy. A quick instruction for the men watching her to obey my order. They’d trap her inside your quaint little establishment before it burns to rubble.”
My lungs shudder. “Tell your men to leave her alone and get the hell out of my home.”
“That’s not likely, picciridda.” Frankie’s menacing gaze catches the moon's radiance, giving his sharp features a look of pure evil. “My men will stay in place until I give the order to either kill everyone you know or return to me. Do as you’re told or…” He angles the small screen away from me, stealing the sight of Mammy from me for what could be the last time, and turns it off. “…your actions will be the death of her. Conduct yourself with dignity like a true Sapori, recite your vows, and sail off into the sunrise with your new husband. And before you try to escape the Souzas, you should know they don’t show mercy to insurgents.” He glances at the back of his hand, flicks it around, and assesses his clean, short nails. “Don’t worry, we’ll meet each other again. I’ll be close by, waiting to see how everything works out.”
“If I marry him, will you leave her alone? Will you have your men walk away?”
“We shall see. One step at a time, picciridda. I can’t have you running off without fulfilling your important duties.” A sinister smirk twitches the corners of his mouth. “Your mother is safe for the time being. It’s best if you leave her out of the conversation once you’re married, though. If I catch wind of the Souzas sniffing around your mother, I’ll finish her without hesitation.” A long sigh depicts his growing boredom. “Now, let’s go upstairs. It’s been a long evening and I’d like to spend the rest of it in the jacuzzi. The sooner you get off my yacht, the better.”
Pup uncurls his fingers and shakes them viciously to free them from the tangled strands. When I straighten, he meets my hateful scowl with a blank expression. A splintering ache stabs my ribs. Yet I hide the grimace, reluctant to let either of them see me suffer.
I snatch my purse from the bed, sling the strap over my shoulder, and start walking. Sensing them close behind, I don’t stop until I’ve forced myself to nonchalantly climb the stairs.
A cool breeze prickles my bare arms, the smell of the ocean strong. Every stiff step mimics the quick tempo of my pulse, adrenaline controlling the rhythm. When I turn toward the outer deck, my gaze spears André. In that microscopic beat of a butterfly's wings, his eyes find mine.
The clashing connection spooks my soul and unsettles all the treasured echoes of our past. Those sacred months we’d shared together before he conformed to the hateful traits of his gangster father. I freeze, palming my swollen heart to steady the thrumming blood vessels.
“This way.” Pup appears beside me, snares my wrist, and frog-marches me toward the stern, where a bunch of men have gathered like crooked crows.
Most of them blend into the night sky, except for André in his pristine white t-shirt that mimics the high moon, his majestic stature a head taller than the guy beside him. Both men appear to be similar in age, early thirties, with no intention of settling down anytime soon.
His friend looks every bit a gangster too with a faded crew cut and distinguished air of vanity. He stands next to André in a pair of bright-white Nike sneakers, the honorary best man. Creamy shorts show off lean tattooed legs, and an untucked shirt splashed with a peachy pattern has a few buttons purposefully left undone. Ink creeps upward from beneath the shirt, rising up his chest to his peppered jaw.
Although his biceps protrude with muscles and shaded art, his build is more athletic than sculpted from the god of war, like my old friend.
André pierces me with dusky-black eyes that don’t stray, not even when the colorfully dressed guy leans in and mutters words for his ears only. My stomach swoops when the corner of André’s mouth curls ever so slightly. The secret smile vanishes quicker than my heartbeat stutters.
Pup manhandles me into the center of the small gathering, a lost lamb thrown to savage lions. Fuckers. My stomach falls, empty and defeated.
I fold my arms and inhale a cloud of tobacco, doing my best to look unaffected by the unjustness. Opposite me, André speaks to another man. My gaze drills into their side profiles, trying my best to lip-read, but unable to figure out what they’re saying.
Frankie joins the onlookers and glances at his Rolex. “Are we ready?”
“Always.” André saunters across the synthetic teak flooring made to look like wooden planks, his confident strides muted by the non-slip material under his biker boots.
He’s closely followed by the second man whose complexion is darker, his countenance less relaxed. A long curb chain hangs from his neck, on display over a khaki-colored t-shirt. He fixes the collar on his denim jacket, simultaneously revealing the revolver fixed to the leather belt of stonewashed jeans.
André takes position in front of me and glares at Pup. “I’m marrying her. Not you. Back the fuck up,” he growls, low and hoarse.
The heat of my chaperone’s close proximity cools when he leaves me to stand unaided and joins Sapori at the railing beside us.
André moves into position, his men at either side of him, equally protecting as they are participating in this one-sided union. Unknown faces dot the deck, all of them bearing witness to the unconventional ceremony about to take place under the stars. My barely contained wrath hisses in the pit of my stomach until I feel faint from the force of it.
When my gaze locks with André’s, I’m swept away in a fatal daydream, caught between a second and a lifetime. The rush of it ensnares me in a trap. Tousled hair falls in an anarchic jumble over his forehead like it used to do when he pulled off his motorcycle helmet to talk to me.
