Page 61 of Hostile Vows
I scrape and claw at his gloved hand, not even scratching his skin. Out of the corner of my eye, flat to the wall, Reno is bare-chested with his white t-shirt tied over his mouth and nose. He constantly blinks to see me, his own eyes burning, and lifts his forefinger to where his lips are covered.
I’m out in the open, in a choke hold, whereas my captor is using my body as a shield as he hesitates in the doorway. The fucking coward.
Content there’s no more bullets flying, he takes a steady step into the corridor and pulls my body into his own. The barrel of his gun jumps to my throbbing head as he pivots.
Reno immediately pushes off the wall, his firearm pointed at the henchman's skull. The two men in a standoff.
“Let her go, motherfucker,” Reno growls. “One more step and I’ll blow a hole in your head.”
I wriggle and squirm, gasping for polluted air. A cruel headache grows more debilitating and my stomach flips in warning. Nausea is washing over me in waves. My knees wobble and I realize I’m only upright because this guy is holding me up by the neck.
“I’m not here to hurt her. Put your weapon down.”
“Fuck you!” Reno laughs. “The second you touched his wife, you signed your death certificate.”
As his laughter echoes along the corridor, there’s another earsplitting crack, only this bullet flies up from behind. I jerk when my captor lurches, a bite of lead penetrating his bulky body. His muscles vibrate in the seconds it takes for a surprise bullet to burrow into his flesh. When the ruthless hand clutching my throat weakens, my legs buckle. A disorienting mind muddle loops my limbs and pulls me down.
A second shot is fired, then another, and another. I manage to push up onto hands and shaky knees, peering through the lengths of my disheveled hair where André empties his clip into a motionless corpse, his mouth contorted as he repeatedly snaps the trigger.
“Motherfucker!” he yells, his face utterly demonic in his deliverance.
I scramble on all fours, scurrying into the bedroom to bargain with Frankie and tell him I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my mother—and my wild husband.
“Frankie…” I gather up the device and slump at the foot of the bed, unbalanced with my head swimming. “I’ll do it… I’ll do it.” It’s too late though, he’s hung up already.
“You’ll do what?” André’s voice booms over the alarm.
“Behave…” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “He called me a few times. I didn’t pick up. He wants—” A brain fracturing throb spreads through my skull, making the fleeting thoughts foggy and distant. My vision goes blurry, triggering unbearable dizziness.
He kneels before me, his big, warm hands cupping my face, his searching gaze feral. “Sinéad… fuck… you’re bleeding, baby… keep talking…”
“I-I… I’m going to be sick.”
25
ANDRÉ
“She’s awake!”
India presses a gentle hand to my wife’s brow as her eyelids flick open and she focuses on our master suite.
“The doctor checked you over and said you have a concussion. Don’t move too quickly, you’ll be woozy.”
The journey home from Sky Hotel was a living nightmare. My phone had buzzed a million times in my pocket from fuck knows who. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, so I ignored it.
Letterman was with Reno in a separate chauffeur-driven Range Rover, and I was in the back of another with Sinéad curled up on my lap as she struggled to fight the desire to sleep. Her blood had dried on my hands after I’d pressed my t-shirt to the gash on her scalp.
I didn’t like what was happening inside of me. The fury that tumbled in my veins like fiery coals had transformed into rankling worry. I’d never seen her that fragile before, and it startled the demons inside of me.
Whispered voices of vengeance and death had slithered over every inch of my skin until the bastard who was strangling her was dead. That alone should have appeased the thorny knots twisting around my heart, but it didn’t. Not when a trail of blood trickled the length of her ghostly pale complexion. Her blood. Her vulnerability.
A few days ago, I’d fucked her brains out and then threw up a flimsy barrier between us to prove to myself she was like all the others. I had pretended I needed space, even when distance was virtually impossible.
The truth is, there’s no comparison. She’s perfectly unique and a feisty handful, which is why I’d found myself in an armchair at the foot of our bed night after night, drowning my urges. I’m not that guy—the committed fool. Or the player who pretends he’s in it for the long haul. Women know where they stand with me. I don’t promise anything more than what I can offer.
But now I want to offer more—and claim the same in return.
Turns out my wife is an orbiting star tethered to Earth and I need to figure out what’s really keeping her in my stratosphere. That bastard Sapori went to great lengths to prove a point and give her an instruction. I’ll get to the bottom of it, and when I do, I’ll launch a missile at his yacht and blow him out of the fucking Atlantic Ocean.
