Page 5 of Hostile Vows
It’s been four weeks.
Almost thirty days since Frankie Sapori showed up in Donegal with his suited goons and introduced himself as my father with an articulated Sicilian accent.
All I knew about the spineless asshole was that Mammy had an affair. Then when he found out she was pregnant with a girl, he slithered off into the night.
For my entire life, I’d wondered what the man who abandoned me looked like. Until the silver-haired, leathery-skinned bastard strolled into my pub after being absent the last twenty-nine years.
Frankie had to duck under the low doorframe of The Rusty Shamrock, wearing a charcoal blazer, baby-blue pinstripe shirt, and pants the color of oatmeal. Every step he’d taken in those gleaming brown brogues of his expelled refined arrogance. If he wasn’t the man who had walked out on Mammy, I might have been impressed by his lordly manner. Except, to me, the old guy just stuck out like shit on a bed of clovers.
He’d demanded a sit-down conversation with me, alone. So, I did what any jilted daughter would do. I pulled out my trusty rifle from under the bar and gave him to the count of three to find the exit.
Unfortunately, Frankie had a troop of armed henchmen surrounding my little slice of the world and a convoy of six leased Range Rovers blocking the narrow road outside. Checkmate.
The so-called heart-to-heart he’d asked for was bullshit. After his men had cleared the bar of drunken patrons, he tried to feed me some crap about the mafia and my inheritance. Once he’d said his piece, I lunged at him with flying fists, only to be suppressed from behind by a guy built like a fucking brick house.
I was brutally extracted from my home and shoved ass first into a vehicle darker than the Irish sky on a stormy night. Frankie had left a message for Mammy, announcing it was time for us to have a father-daughter relationship. I was his mafia princess now and I would never return as Sinéad Quinn—if I’d ever return to Ireland at all. His closing statement was more of a warning. If anyone tried to come for me, they’d die.
He’s not a kind man.
And I’ll never be his dutiful daughter. Yet here we are. Him entertaining a bunch of wealthy losers on his monster-sized yacht anchored off the coast of Miami, and me stuck in a dead-end situation. He’s promised me to a billionaire who wants a mafia bride. Frankie Sapori’s only heir, to be precise.Me.
That’s what all this kidnapping malarkey was about. Aside from daddy dearest, I’m the only other living Sapori. Which makes me both a pawn and a princess. Go figure.
Scott Acer is the reason I was ripped away from my homeland, my mother, and my livelihood. The rich guy just wants a wife from a Sicilian mafia bloodline. It’s as crude and chauvinistic as that. My life plans are inconsequential to these men who rule the world beneath a debauched veil of secrecy.
When I’d spat in Frankie’s face and told him I would rather die than marry a man I didn’t know, he just laughed. It took me fifteen days of trying to escape my bodyguards and repeatedly refusing to cooperate to earn multiple welts and bruises all hidden under my clothes.
His final brittle threat to wilt my retaliation was the promise of death. Not mine, of course. I’m a Sapori commodity—my mother’s murder. If I continued to disrespect him, then Mammy would get a bullet in each eye, and I’d still marry Acer.
Tonight, I’ve opted to keep my distance and stay below deck, taking sanctuary in the compact oak cabin that’s basically a swanky prison cell. It’s positioned in the middle of the yacht, which seems to help with the crippling sea sickness I had first experienced. Thankfully, I’m getting accustomed to the constant motion now that I’ve been on board for a while.
From the outside, this grotesquely expensive yacht, the chauffeur driven Bentleys and menus from a Michelin star chef, it would appear as though I’m living my best life. But I’m not.
Rather, I’m sprawled on top of a crisp white quilt with Sapori embroidered in gold lettering and praying Frankie doesn’t demand my company for another evening of empty conversation. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about burning the family crest. I have—after mentally soaking it in gasoline, throwing it over Frankie’s corpse, and setting the thing alight.
At least he let me keep my cell phone, which would be helpful if Mammy had one too. She doesn’t though. The woman hates the idea of satellites spying on her whereabouts, or ghosts from her past reappearing out of nowhere. She thinks people who find their way back into your life are just a reminder of why they’re history in the first place. Clearly, she meant Frankie Sapori.
Bored and frustrated, I swipe open the social media app I’ve stayed away from since I left Ireland. I refuse to give up on my old life, except reminiscing only makes it feel too far away.
I hesitantly select The Rusty Shamrock’s profile page—my pride and joy, inherited a few years ago after Mammy’s brother was shot dead. My stomach aches as I stare at the timeline of random photographs, one by one. That ancient, stone-floored pub was my everything. Right down to the peat-burning stove and upturned horseshoe nailed above the door. It’s the one place where life got better for Mammy and me after it had hit rock bottom.
Damn it.
I growl out my annoyance, tapping on the search icon, my finger twitching over the tiny picture of the one man who I hate more than my estranged father.
A man I can’t help harboring an unhealthy obsession for. I’m either sick in the head or a masochist, maybe both. The compulsion to scroll through André Souza’s life has eaten me alive since I’d stumbled upon his Instagram profile. We were friends—a lifetime ago.
I’ve secretly spied on his extravagant ways for far too long, even when my on-and-off boyfriend was sleeping next to me in bed. Poor Liam had tried to win me over. He’s a good lad, but I just wasn’t sold on his version of a happy ever after, complete with kids—and commitment. It didn’t feel right.
Sometimes I’d go weeks without virtually stalking André. Mostly because every time I did, I saw the long-lashed, attractive devil with a different glossy blue-eyed, young blond thing, in yet another lavish club. Despite his continual party lifestyle, I sought malicious comfort in seeing the bachelor with a string of different women—none of them were special enough to catch his full attention. Even as kids, I had to share him with his twin brother and gangster family.
In the end, he never came after me. Even when he said he’d always have my back.
Clearly, his affection for me had run out.
The truth pinches my pride, nipping the flimsy cord that stops me from unfollowing him. I blame the fact I’m in Miami, his territory, for the impulsive decision to creep on his profile.
My heartbeat goes wonky when I see the latest selfie he’s posted. A moody black-and-white picture, so vivid it’s almost 3D.
