Page 25 of Hostile Bond
Claustrophobia and hysteria weave around my bones. My hands tremble, moving across my belly to comfort the twist of pain in my gut.
“Sinéad!” Matheus trudges through the pale sand in a pair of sliders.
His bright white t-shirt shows off a well-built physique and muscular golden arms. The closer he gets, the more his mouth hitches to a seductive grin, showcasing a strong jaw and devilish dimple.
“Sapori just got smoked. Next up is that piece of shit, Scott Acer. He’s the guy who organized the bomb and tried to kidnap you.”
Being the youngest brother, Matheus appears more carefree, a little less tarnished by evil, yet unapologetic for his upbringing. By the way he combs his fingers through his jet-black hair, he either knows he possesses killer looks or is completely oblivious to it.
Hearing Acer’s name again makes my skin crawl. He’s pissed at André and wants him dead––so he can marry me instead. Which means the threat of danger is still out there.
“You okay?” He drags his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and stares at my panic-stricken expression with earthy chestnut eyes.
“Frankie had a hitman watching my mother… what does that mean for her now?”
“She’s safe.” He throws his thick arm around my shoulder. “It’s my understanding that my uncle’s men moved in and took out the enemy earlier. They’re in the North of Ireland as we speak, discreetly securing the area.”
I freeze. “Who’s with her?”
“Conal.” He announces, unaware how a zap of fear had stabbed my heart.
“Just him?” I say breathlessly.
“Yeah, and a team of soldiers. He’s a brutal fucker at times, but he’s family.”
My lungs finally start to work again. Nauseated relief licks at my flustered skin and works its way over my scalp in a shiver. My eyes trail upward to the chopper nearing the shore.
André.
My jaw aches from clenching my teeth so damn hard, and my heart hammers like it’s trying to break free from the paltry bone cage trapping it.
“It's time to celebrate. Let me be the first to congratulate you.” Matheus salutes at the aircraft as it flies overhead. “I’ll grab a bottle of Dom.”
I frown at him. “Congratulate me for what?”
“You’re the head of the Sapori empire now. The Souzas have moved into Sicilian territory. I have Sapori’s last will and testament on video.” He laughs. “I filmed the whole thing, especially the part when he said he was of sound mind and his daughter would inherit everything in the event of his death.” His lips curl into a wicked smile. “I think he’s dead, don’t you?”
“You filmed him?” My skin prickles. “There’s no way the courts would accept a video recording. Aren’t wills written documents witnessed by family members or a legal representative?” I question as an odd sensation slithers under the numbness.
I remember sitting in a stale, musty room, in front of an ornate mahogany desk stacked with messy manila folders, waiting for my dead uncle's solicitor to read out his will and decide the future of The Rusty Shamrock.
“You leave the law to me.” Matheus winks.
A headache starts to throb under the news of Frankie’s will—how they had held a purposeful discussion and ensured there was evidence.
“André knows I don’t want anything from that bastard.” I shirk out of his friendly half-hug and stagger a few paces. “I’d rather let his legacy crumble into the ashes with him.”
Matheus pushes his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Too late, Sinéad.” He grins as if the devil is perched on his broad shoulders. “The Souza’s won. It’s game over for the Sapori’s.”
I freeze and then rapidly straighten. “Is that what all this was really about? ASouzatakeover?”
10
SINÉAD
“You’re a Souza too, don't forget,” Matheus reminds me. “And now you’re a queen. We’re on top, and that old fucker will feed the fish and gather algae on the seabed.”
If I’m a queen, that makes André a disingenuous king.
