Page 39 of Hostile Vows
Husband: STOP FUCKING FLIRTING, WIFEY.
My mouth dries when she flicks the screen around. I admire the perfect composition of her side profile as she studies the capital letters and reminder of her status. Glancing sideways, she spears me to the seat with her bold eyes, takes a beat to consider her next move, and then replies.
Wife: That wasn’t flirting. But this…
The corner of her mouth hitches to a cheeky grin before her gaze flits and she angles away. Accidentally on purpose, she drops her phone at the feet of the guy who’s got thirty seconds left to live.
Ever so slowly, she lowers to her haunches, her face fronting his zipper as she calmly looks up at him and lingers in that position while they chat. He caresses his clean-shaven chin, almost drooling at the sight of my wife in a submissive pose before him.
I’m lost in a mental vision of me burning his sleazy eyeballs with a Zippo flame. I can easily guess what thoughts are brewing in his dirty mind, imagining how good it would be to have my girl’s mouth around his mediocre dick.
Even knowing he’s thinking about it drives me insane. My stomach clenches and my chest is uncomfortably tight. This wasn’t the plan. Being distracted by my new wife is not a good idea. It would only prove Papá right—that all I’m good for is fucking around.
However, for some unknown reason, I can’t function properly, let alone concentrate on anything else but her.
After too many heart palpitations and a whisper from Letterman, who thinks I’ve mentally checked out, she rises and fiddles with the tips of her hair like a sexy fucking siren luring in prey, until my next message lands.
Husband: HE’S DEAD.
My phone clatters onto the table and I push out of my chair, unable to stay seated for a second longer. I lean over the table and lock eyes with my guests one by one, projecting as much decorum as I can physically muster. “We need to wrap this up. I have someone to take care of. Letterman will answer any further questions you might have. It’s a pleasure doing business with you all.”
The iPhone screen glows when she replies. Except I’m too far gone in my temper to read it. She had poked my fucking monster and now it’s pissed.
Nothing shocks me anymore. Not anything. I’m the master of a professional world and the capo of an organized underworld. Everything runs like clockwork until some fucker betrays me. And then they’re history. Which makes this reaction nothing short of cataclysmic. And what’s worse, it’s knocked me off-balance and interfered with business. There’s a price to pay for that.
Wife: He didn’t do anything.
Wife: He has a girlfriend.
Wife: You wouldn’t.
Wife: Dré??? WTF.
16
SINÉAD
I can’t breathe.
My lungs won’t accept oxygen. The unread messages on my phone become blurry under a wave of panic. He wouldn’t kill him—would he?
I’ve only just met Lennon, and what I’ve learned so far is that he’s planning an elaborately romantic proposal for his girlfriend—in the rooftop bar, Luna. I don’t fancy him in the slightest, and he doesn’t think that way about me either. He’s the first person outside of André’s gang who has spoken to me. Talking to him made the chaos dissipate temporarily.
I knew I was goading André in a playful way. He needs to know I’m not a docile little wife who’ll bow down to his every demand. I can talk to whoever I want and secure a job without his help. However, pushing my boundaries hasn’t worked in my favor. Now I’m afraid he’ll go apeshit like his psycho father would.
André immediately straightens from sitting to standing, no longer watching me from his position at the head of a full table. His expression is dark, blank, and completely void of emotion.
“Right, guys, the conference suites are the last part of the tour.” David checks his phone as he speaks to us. Together, we walk away from the meeting room filled with power players and my capricious husband. “You’ll only be on this level if bar service is required. Follow me. We’ll grab a drink upstairs while you fill out paperwork.”
My nerves are all over the place. A loud slam makes me jump when we move along the corridor. “What's with you?” Lennon chuckles. “It was only the fire doors closing.”
I pretend to laugh with him. “I’m from Ireland, where there are zillions of sheep, rolling fields, and never-ending hills. The loudest noise I would hear is the rain on the roof.”
As a trio, we leave the boardrooms behind where André holds court and pretends I’m invisible. His text makes me uneasy—more so nauseous. There’s a side to him I’ve never met. A split in his persona that lives in savage territory where he’d set fire to the rain to watch it scald anyone who challenges him. And that’s the side of him I never want to meet.
Lennon’s long strides purposefully match David’s on a quest to talk over his romantic proposal plans. I let them walk ahead to act as a buffer should André appear.
Earlier, after introductions were out of the way, Lennon had asked if I was in a relationship, to which I’d answered, ‘Yeah, it's complicated.’ However, the guy has no clue that the complication is a six-foot gangster with a short fuse, who’s threatened to kill him because I played a game of ‘I’ll Show You What I Can Do.’
