Page 20 of Hostile Bond
Nothing does. Even thinking about Sinéad fails to quell the sickening rage creeping through my veins. Imagining her worried face only makes the bile in my stomach more acidic. All I can think of is Sapori’s lack of respect and the shitstorm he had dragged my wife into. All because the spineless asshole thinks he’s bigger and better than the Souzas.
Dumb fuck.
My gaze follows the stone wall surrounding the outdoor sitting area. My trained eyes finding Giovanni at the corner's highest point with a pair of binoculars to his eyes, his gun holstered over a slimline black shirt.
Letterman heads up the shoreline welcoming party. He and a few elite soldiers are greeting the godfather, his second-in-command, and their bodyguards at the jetty to escort them up the hill to meet us. They’ll conduct a thorough sweep to count all weapons, so our men know what to expect.
It's not ideal to have them armed, but Sapori knows what happens to men when they visit Souza compounds. They end up six feet under. Papá had started the trend and Tomás followed his lead when he slit the General’s throat from ear to ear.
Coming into our lair is a risk—one he wouldn’t take without protection.
Matheus lounges on the pewter corner couch, one arm slung over a cushion, the other by his side as he scrolls on his phone.
“You ready for this, Mat? You know what you need to do?” I ask.
His lashes lift and he raises a brow at me, his cocky smile a reflection of myself––when shit didn’t matter. “I’m not a kid, Dré. I understand the assignment. Maybe I should ask you if you’re ready––huh? Even though Tommy already told you to keep your cool, you’ve checked your clip ten times.”
“And I’ve always told you to take precautions. Expect the unexpected, Mat.”
He glares at me. “I thought you meant condoms. I’m too young to have a kid, and too good looking to contract an STD. Isn’t that what you said when I was seventeen?” he asks and then chuckles, dishing out one of his dazzling smiles. His wise guy attitude is a chip off my own wild side.
My head shakes when he smirks. “There is nothing about this situation that I like. When he’s off this island, then I’ll relax.”
“They’re nearly here,” Giovanni calls over to us. “It’s show time.”
Tomás wanders around the circular fire pit, moves to the couch, fixes his rolled shirtsleeves, and reaches for the whiskey decanter on the Tuscan ceramic glass-top table. “Let the pantomime begin, brothers. Remember what I said, no bullets today. Not when our women are here.”
I join him, tap out a Marlboro from a pack, and light it for something else to do with my hands other than playing with my revolver––and shooting our guests in their skulls.
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I scrub a hand over my coarse haired face. “Got it, Tommy.”
Keep cool.
Do not become the man who made you.
War can unite enemies. It has a way of bringing together people you’d never willingly shake hands with. Joining forces for a singular cause and take down those who pose the biggest threat. That’s the sole reason Sapori is walking toward us. Even at that, I won't shake the hand of any man who dared to hurt my wife. I’d sooner break every bone in his fucking fingers.
“Nice place you have here, son-in-law.” Sapori strolls along the gradual upward gradient, the soles of his chestnut brogues crunching over tiny pebbles. “You own the whole island? Impressive.”
He pauses at the stone wall and takes in the dramatic view that’s sliced up by tapered tree trunks topped with spiky evergreen leaves.
My dead father’s cold tone of voice sneers at me from the back of my mind.
Weakness will not be tolerated.
“Actually, it belongs to my wife. I bought it for her as a wedding present. After the trauma she’s suffered lately, I thought she’d appreciate a secluded island to help appease her temper. She’s quite like me in that respect,” I say blandly.
Sapori snickers, moving into the shade of a charcoal canopy. “I assume you mean temperamental?”
I drag my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, squinting through a mix of smoke and sunlight. “I mean, we both hold a grudge.”
“I should remind you of what’s at stake here.” Sapori reaches inside his blazer, making Giovanni’s hand twitch over his gun. My twin’s instincts laser focused and reflexes sharp. “Your wife’s mother.” He fishes out his cell phone, unlocks it with a few taps and holds up a picture of a slim, dark-haired woman. I’m not close enough to make out her features, but I’d hazard a guess that it's Sinéad’s mother.
“If I don’t get off this island alive, Bronagh Quinn will die a hideous death. We’re talking screws driven into her skull and nails hammered into her hands. That sort of thing.”
A thread of evil weaves around the syllables of his cultivated accent. If he’s not careful with his threats, I’ll smash up the whiskey bottle and ram the jagged glass into his main artery. Who needs a gun? This arrogant bastard deserves his own macabre extermination.
“Don Sapori…” Tomás holds out his hand. “Grandfather was pleased to hear of your daughter's union with his grandson,” he says, polished and confident, clued in to my festering destructive spontaneity.
