Page 96 of Hostile Vows
“It’s even bigger than the penthouse,” I mutter as we walk hand in hand along the gangway, over the top of calm water.
The closer we get to the dark exterior, the easier it is to read the name engraved in gold capital letters on the hull.
Sin Pretty.
“You named itSin Pretty?”
“Yeah… like Sin City, except it’s hot, sleek, sexy, and fucking pretty.” He gives me a look. His expression burrows into my being and confirms the true origin of the name—me.
Once on board, I don’t seem to notice the same sea swell that had made me ill on Frankie’s yacht. Probably because this particular sea vessel is three times the size of his. If not bigger.
We’re formally greeted by the captain and first mate, both in full uniform. Together, they run through safety and security procedures. I listen while André talks confidently and discusses our plans, feeling totally out of place in this floating hotel owned by a ruthless cartel billionaire. Apparently, we’ll cruise for a few days and then anchor off the coast, so we’re close to the city for business.
I have no objection to our spontaneous surprise honeymoon, not when the raw skin on my wedding finger reminds me of the permanence of our vows. But what I can’t wrap my head around is the wealth and danger this new life of mine comes with—or that I’m a mafia princess in my own right.
The weight of my future hadn’t truly sunk in until we stepped onto this extraordinary mega yacht. If André protects Mammy and assassinates Frankie like he’s promised to do, then I’ll become the Sicilian successor, whether I want to be or not. His fortune would likely be handed to my firstborn child when the time comes.
Regardless of my birthright, I’d take a wild guess that Frankie has plenty of criminals on his payroll who would happily get rid of me on their way to claim his throne.
“You okay?” André’s husky voice slips over my shoulder, finding me rooted to the hardwood flooring of a comfortably furnished cigar lounge.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
He cocks a bushy brow at me and places his hand to my lower back, ushering me to a glass ceiling atrium that invites the silvery moon into the freshly crafted space. “The yacht or the tattoo?”
I shrug. “All of it, I guess.”
We climb a narrow, polished staircase, him leading the way and me following closely behind. There’s another lounge area and private office space, both fitted with black framed furniture, a well-stocked bar area, and snow-white walls.
A set of double doors open into a spacious master bedroom, its soft gray carpet pulling my gaze to the central bed and beyond it where a partition of glass reveals a sundeck, plunge pool, and matching oversized daybeds.
“This is the emperor suite. Do you like it?” André prowls the breadth of the master suite and strips off his t-shirt.
My hungry gaze eats up every tattoo on him and my heart flutters due to the burn where my very first tattoo is healing. He moves to an unassuming cabinet, taps in a code on the keypad, and yanks open the door. At a quick count, there have to be at least six rifles, two machine guns, and a collection of handguns. Removing his usual revolver from the holster at his hip, he stores it with the rest.
“It’ll do.” I shrug, noticing how the air is fresher and the couch has never been used before. In fact, everything is brand new and untouched. At first, I’d thought Frankie’s yacht was lavish inside; however, in retrospect, it's like a basic dingy compared to theSin Pretty.
André’s boots are next to come off, then he unzips his jeans, tugs them past his hips, and kicks his feet out of them.
“I think it’s time we christened our boat and at the same time, you’ll learn exactly what my number one rule is.” As he smirks, I see the devil in his eyes.
I fold my arms across my chest to hide the violent heartbeat slamming into my chest cavity. “Let me guess… don’t swim with sharks? Don’t eat warm oysters? Don’t run on a moving boat?”
His head shakes from side to side and he spears me in place with a sexy-as-fuck smirk. “Oh, it’s far more critical than any of those.” He strolls to a custom-fitted set of drawers, stares inside the top one for a beat, and removes a neatly looped scarlet jute rope. “Ever heard ofShibari?”
My brows snap together. “No—”
André unravels the rope and folds it in half, the sound of it whispering through his fingers. “Come here,” he commands.
I freeze. “Wait… what are you going to do with that?”
The corners of his mouth curl. “This is about your permission as much as your surrender. We’ve already established a safe word. I swear to you, when we’re together like this, it’s your safe place to relax.”
“I don’t know… ropes… you’re not putting it anywhere near my neck, are you?” I reach for my throat, uncertain and confused why I’m tingling all over.
In one stride, he’s by the foot of the bed. “Shibari is the Japanese art of binding with knots. It’s intricate designs, nothing more. I’m looking forward to tying up your tits, feeling your hot little cunt milk my dick, and hearing those sexy sounds your ass cheeks make when I slap them.”
“You want to tie me up so you have all the control. No way!”
