Page 33 of Hostile Bond
I wasn’t just captured by a gangster—I was reclaimed.Thisis my future—guns, murder, drug money. Expensive motorcycles and jet planes, sky-high penthouses and private islands…I’ve been well and truly sucked into their crime family. There’s no changing those facts, nor is there any way to alter it.
These influential, dangerous men are my allies—my family. And Mammy will have to accept it, immerse herself in it, and open her arms to my husband.
It's time to bid farewell to Sinéad Quinn and step up to my high-ranking birthright. In my heart, I’m certain that with André by my side, we could rule together as the perfect power couple.
Everything happens for a reason. Tomás is right. I should claim Frankie’s throne as my final statement of revenge. He’d never wanted me as his heir, but fate had other plans.
Back in Ireland I had whispered to the universe, asking formore,and it returned me tohim––my best friend.
Opening the cabinets, one after the other, I plunder the expensive cosmetics the staff had arranged for me on arrival. From tropical scented elixirs to organic hair serums. There are whipped body lotions, rich face creams, and slippery oils mixed with flecks of gold. Multiple shades of lipstick, balms, bronzers, and sparkly eye shadows. Everything a woman could desire to transform from ordinary to queenly.
I take my time to read the product labels and make sure I’m using them properly. I’m not usually invested in a luxury beauty routine, so this is alien to me. Nonetheless, going through the motions helps to mollify the nerves fluttering in my chest.
Massaging oil all over washed limbs reminds me of the night André had splattered warm wax all over my belly. My core clenches at the wickedness of that memory. I’m on a high. Adrenaline surges through my every move. I’m going to hunt for my husband and drag him into the shadows where our beautiful souls belong.
A few strokes of a mascara wand magically lengthens my lashes, turning them jet black and a smoky charcoal eyeshadow emphasizes the color of my irises, so they pop. The bold, red lip gloss I select gives the illusion of juicy, plump lips.
My hair is loose, dried, and straightened to a lustrous sheen, the glasslike lengths pouring over my shoulders resemble a silky cloak. Various lotions and potions have energized the skin on my face and applying a delicate layer of foundation over the top creates the mirage of an ethereal, flawless complexion.
Choosing an outfit styled to replicate the one I had worn the night we were married was a purposeful decision. Rather than a white crop top, I pick a black leather Versace corset top held together by a gold zipper at my spine. A fine dust of bronzer amplifies my cleavage, then I slide my smooth, razored legs into a pair of brand-new leather pants. But it's the black patent leather, pencil-thin heeled stilettos sporting a red sole that refashions the look from relaxed to tantalizing.
This outfit isn’t solely for my husband's amusement, it's for me, too.
For the woman whose journey hasn’t been smooth sailing, and for the silly schoolgirl inside of me who wants to drive her bad boy crush wild. Dressing up for him empowers me, especially when I’d found out André bought this island for me—for us.
I want him to see me formetonight.The mature version of Sinéad, who he rescued from the clutches of Scott Acer, and his wife, who’s ready to step into her own skin.
I’m not simply a Souza, or even a Sapori.
I’m a hybrid female, taking back my power in a world ruled by powerful men.
Content that all the finishing touches are perfect, I take a steadying breath, leave the suite, and descend the stairs, my heart thumping in the hush. The sexy stilettos strike the tiles underfoot as I sashay through the quiet living space to reach the floor-to-ceiling glass doors facing the outside terrace at the side of the villa. Sliding one open with a sliver of space to squeeze through, I slip outside, instantly hearing music carrying on the breeze.
Cool air tingles over my midriff and goosebumps scurry the length of my arms. Walking over a stone slab terrace, I pass under an impressive sculpted archway, and onto a twisted path where crimped foliage casts freakish shadows.
Under a melodic layer of music, voices rumble, and intermittent feminine laughter spikes my heart rate. I continue past a cluster of screening bushes, turning toward a blazing fire that spits and crackles like escaping flames from a fissure in the doors to Hell.
I swallow hard, suddenly tingling from my scalp to my toes when my gaze settles on André. He’s reclining on an anthracite sun bed like an emperor, one boot on the foam cushion beneath him, the other planted on a decked platform that stretches along the shore. His short-sleeved shirt is wide open, showcasing his chiseled, tattooed abdomen. A paper rolled cigarette lazily clings to his full lips and below the rims of his aviator sunglasses, the sculpted edge of his cheekbones meets a dark pelt of coarse hairs to enhance his manly edge of anarchy.
Mussed hair, so dark and thick, hooks his brow in that sexy, casual way he wears so well. Quietly watching him sets me on fire. He has no idea I’m flanking the party he’s hosting, ready to gatecrash.
Next to him, Matheus sits upright on his own lounger and swigs from a bottle of beer, his eyes all over the virtually naked girls. Giovanni lingers by a Perspex screen that acts as a windbreaker. He’s engrossed, typing on his cell phone with his back to the small gathering.
Skinny metal Tiki torches offer extra light against the backdrop of a starry sky to give the impression the strangers are worshiping a devil—my devil.
At a quick count, I pinpoint a few other guys in a nearby wooden cabana, who, from a distance, appear to be snorting lines of cocaine and knocking back shots like they’d won the jackpot.
As the violent fire roars and feeds off hot oxygen, the unknown women, wearing only bras and panties, frolic close to the heat, drinking straight from champagne bottles, and moving suggestively, vying for attention.
With André’s eyes covered, I can’t tell if he’s eyeing up the pretty blonde or if it's one of the others that snares his interest. He just kicks back, puffs out smoke, moves the bottle to his lips and swallows gulps of whiskey.
The sight of him puts a spell on me, but what happens next steals the breath from my lungs.
13
ANDRÉ
I had wanted to party with my brothers—just us—like old times. To try to patch up the pain in my heart with booze and calm my anger with cannabis. Well, that was the plan.
