Page 8 of Hostile Vows
4
ANDRÉ
“This tastes better than sex,” I chuckle, stuffing another forkful of spaghetti sauce into my mouth.
I was heading to the toilet when the lure of food had halted me. A cute brunette in a ship’s crew uniform flutters her lashes at me and fingers the epaulet on her right shoulder.
“Maybe a close second.” Her cheeks flush when I wink right at her.
This afternoon was all work and no play. Being trapped indoors for hours with my associates was intense. It had to be done with a clear head and laser focus. A skill I’m notoriously incapable of mastering.
However, this particular business meeting was personal. We’re still hunting the men responsible for gunning down my father in an alleyway. Shaking every fucking tree for miles around to see who falls out with intel. My eldest brother Tomás is leaning toward Carlos Blanco, Papá’s old friend turned enemy. I’m not convinced. Regardless, it won’t take long to the weed out the fuckers and unleash a living nightmare upon them.
After Papá was murdered, Tomás took over the family business. Albeit from the shadows where he’s recovering from a gunshot wound, and likely screwing the woman he was prepared to die for. I guess the Souza men are all intense motherfuckers.
During today's meeting, I drank a gallon of coffee and didn’t bother eating. Now I’m buzzed and fucking starving.
“Bring that out to Miss Sapori.” The chef hands the skinny rake of a bosun a plate of tomatoey spaghetti.
My eyebrows snap together. I’d knocked back a few whiskey chasers during the card game, but my head isn’t fried just yet. I definitely heard the chef right. ‘Miss Sapori.’I angle toward the outside deck, my gaze following the deckhand, who blocks the view.
“Does Sapori have a sister?” I glance back at the pretty girl with a scraped-back ponytail and fuck me eyes. “Like an old spinster relative?”
She smiles cautiously. “Mr. Sapori’s daughter is onboard this evening.”
“You’re kidding me. He has adaughter. Since when?”
Curiosity gets the better of me when her gaze cuts to the ornate staircase, secrets dancing behind her eyes. I could extract the answers from that silent mouth of hers, if I really wanted to. However, I’m confident I could charm those answers out of the mysterious woman herself.
The old guy had kept this information on the down-low. Which means there's a reason for his secrecy. After dabbing the corners of my mouth with a linen napkin, I saunter through the tidy sitting area, disliking the lacquered oak furniture and elaborate brass fixtures. There’s nothing on this boat I’d want to replicate or own. It’s outdated, very much like its Sapori owner—not like my own custom mega yacht that’s finally finished and docked at a marina in the heart of Miami Beach.
I’m attuned to the security detail dotted around, having already pinpointed each of them when we boarded.
The bosun bends to set the plate of food on a low table by the jacuzzi and then nods. As he moves, his entire body throws shade on the figure in front of him. A fresh breeze moves through the tunnel-like space. I love the smell of the ocean and its freedom.
When he dances sideward to avoid my approach, I’m sucked into an hourglass with the flowing sands of time, every single grain hurtling me back two decades. My gaze clashes with the stranger—black to hypnotic green-blue.
We stare at each other for a beat, the dark-haired female fixing her posture like she’s about to attack me. Platinum moonlight fuses with her bare-skimmed arms, making her divinely angelic—familiar.
Rowdy, uncontrolled thoughts crash together to create a massive fucking question that I’m certain I know the answer to already.
Our instant connection slams into me with a sucker punch, my chest thumping from the chaos of a memory.
“What happened to you?” I stare at the unknown girl huddled under a solitary fairy tree in the middle of a grassy field. “Who hurt you?”
Tears track her pale cheeks. Milky-white skin is smudged with blood running from both nostrils.
She doesn't look at me. Instead, she pats her watery eyes with the sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt, darkening the olive material.
“No one,” she replies as a flock of migrating starlings roll through the peachy-blush sky over my grandfather's County Kildare estate.
“Tell me. I can protect you.” I set my dirty hand on her shoulder, my skin splattered in mud after I’d sped over the tracks on my off-road motocross motorcycle. She doesn’t flinch, only hugs her knees in closer. “I’m André.”
Her spine straightens, yet she still doesn't look at me. “You talk too much, André.”
The flow of her speech is just like my mother’s Irish side of the family. I love it.
I shrug, chuckling a little. “Yeah. They all say I do. What’s your name?”
