Page 6 of Hostile Vows
Thick eyebrows pull together in a thoughtful frown. Mysterious obsidian eyes expel all sorts of depravity within their thoughtful depths. A lock of disheveled hair, as black as a starless sky, so accidentally messy, hooks his brow. That effortless style gives the impression the blurred woman in the background had her fingers in the lengths only moments ago.
His large hand, covered in a shaded rose tattoo, is lifted to his unintentionally pouty lips, surrounded by the coarse midnight-black hairs of a short beard. Ringed fingers brush the lazy smile he wears—that signature rebellious smirk of his.
Regretfully, the sight of him always makes my pulse stutter, even now, despite a grudge burning so deeply inside of me. He hadn’t always been so one-dimensional. I guess twenty-odd years, a shit ton of money, and living above the law could alter a person’s soul. I know it’s true, because I’m no longer the gullible kid who thought best friends forever meant––forever.
I sigh heavily, noting his sexy selfie was posted only an hour ago, across the city, in a club with booze and good times on his mind. I shiver, not from coldness, but the realization that once Frankie drops me into the shark tank, I’ll have to either sink or swim in the darkest waters I’ve ever endured. Alone.
Taking a deep breath to steady rising panic, I reluctantly search up my soon-to-be husband. I’d put it off since Frankie announced their plan. The whole undercurrent of an arranged marriage is totally prehistoric. Ridiculous and one hundred percent happening to me.
I refuse to face up to it, constantly scouting for an escape. Despite my heroic fantasies, the Italian mafia has top-notch security. I can’t outrun Frankie and getting the fucker on his own to stab each of his eyeballs with a fancy silver fork is impossible.
As for the Souza family, I fully understand who they are, who they’ve become within Colombia, and what they did to reach the heights they soar from. Also, how they turn addiction and fear into power.
They aren’t just a global cartel organization; their veins run cold with Irish mafia blood too. They’re sacrosanct hybrid criminals and I wasn’t welcome in their close circle. Not that I’d want to be anywhere near those ruthless men with zero morals. They’re evil—every last one of them.
Undesirable images of Scott Acer clutter the small screen. A shiver snakes under my skin as I study snapshots of his entitled life.
He’s probably forty something, more than ten years my senior, with wishy-washy auburn hair, an expressionless clean-shaven face, and chestnut eyes. The man’s rigid and dull—with an indescribable air of evil about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the half-moon smile that doesn’t quite reach his cold stare.
It takes a monumental degree of self-restraint not to pelt the phone across the room. Instead, I scramble off the bed, my stomach churning with the injustice of it all.
After pacing the claustrophobic fancy cabin until my fury calms to a simmer, I grab the hairbrush from the walnut vanity and roughly drag the plastic teeth through my tangled lengths with a moderate temper. Once it’s sitting pretty, I mess it up again with my fingers.
My complexion appears paler under the strip light surrounding the circumference of a gilded framed mirror. The hazy amber glow highlights my greenish-blue eyes that don’t sparkle anymore.
While fixing my leather pants, I make a promise to never become a hapless victim. I’ll claw my way out of this mess, even if it costs me my life. At least I’d die trying to save myself, because no one else would come to my rescue.
I would be my own hero.
My belly growls, having refused to eat with Frankie earlier. Our hate-hate relationship is exactly that. Frankie doesn’t actually want to play the role of a father figure and couldn’t give a shit what my opinion of him is.
My mafia roots mean nothing to me. Nor does the wafer-thin guard who slithers about in my shadow every chance he gets. The very same bald-headed asshole who turns to face me when I crack open the cabin door and step into the passageway. He might be built like a twig, but the guy is quick and strong. I’d learned the hard way.
Even Frankie’s security team wears black-colored suits to match their felonious status. Just like this guy, who clasps his hands behind his ass and cocks an eyebrow in silent question, wondering what I’m up to.
During our time together, I’ve learned he would shoot me in the temple without a shred of regret. On the flip side, he’s figured out I’m a handful from the few hits I managed to land.
“I’m hungry.” I skirt his authoritative stance and flick my hair over my shoulder in the hope it would whip his bland face on the way past.
That little swish of boldness gives me a rebellious buzz. I might be under the mafia’s watchful eye, but I can still fuck with them in my own way. It’s the simple things I can do that will wear them down, eventually.
“Mr. Sapori is playing poker this evening.” The way this guy breathes through his crooked nose makes me want to strangle him. “He doesn’t want any childish disturbances. I’ll ask one of the crew to deliver a meal to your cabin.” His rough tone is harsher than a bunch of corroded nails scraping at my flesh.
I stop a few steps away, rotate, and glare up at him. “I can get my own food, using my own hands and legs. As for Mr. Sapori, I’ll happily stay out of his way.”
When I angle away, he instantly takes a step into my personal space. An angry flush spreads from my chest to my cheeks. I’m not used to being confined, contained, or controlled.
“You don’t need to follow me around like a bored puppy. We’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean.” I cross my arms over my chest and scowl. “I have nowhere to go other than jumping overboard, and your mates up there won’t let that happen.”
Tiny eyes like two black holes narrow, considering how best to deal with the newly crowned mafia princess who outranks him. “One stupid move and I’ll cuff you to the bed overnight, so you’ll have to sleep in your own piss.”
“Oh… terrifying,” I mock with a false gasp and raise my eyebrows. “You’re quite the savage, aren’t you?” Once my eyes roll, his hand twitches at the revolver snug to his hip.
He can’t hurt me. At least not without an order from his boss. I’m untouchable—unless Frankie gives the word and his unimpressed gaze slides to the closest soldier as his fingers click together.
Then I’m a nobody for the moments their unaffected cruelty teaches me a lesson in alleged respect.
“Want me to throw you a juicy T-Bone on my way back, Pup?” I goad. “You’re just Frankie’s obedient pet hound, aren’t you… or perhaps you’re his wee snappy lapdog who enjoys being groomed?”
