Page 4 of Hostile Bond
“India…” I say her name, the sound of it rushing past my lips in a panic-pounding rush of terror. “Have you spoken to Reno?”
My stomach lurches when she whimpers and shakes her head. “T-They came for me at school…” She glances at a group of men by the kitchen island. “It’s protocol apparently…when something bad happens… tell me they’re all okay… please…”
I clear my throat to garner some sort of composure when my feet feel like they’re padding through quicksand to reach her. “I don’t know anything yet.”
She throws her arms around my shoulders and crumples into me. Together we sink to the tiled floor, huddled in an embrace. I have no words of comfort to offer her. No wise sentiments to appease the uncertain agony of waiting for news. Instead, we just sit in a silent heap, me stroking her hair and India persistently tapping redial on her cell phone.
It all plays out before me. Giovanni paces in front of the wall of windows and mutters in Spanish into his phone. The tightening of his features, so serious that if looks could kill, our enemies would be assassinated with one glance. The way he prowls, how his stealth, sharp movements make me think he’s worried André won’t find his way home. That I’ll have to burn this goddamn building to the foundation and meet the end of time alone. Surely my husband's luck hadn’t run out. If I lose him forever, there’s a real chance I'd never recover from the heartache.
But when Gio answers the next call, his posture changes. The hairs on my scalp prickle as he turns to the ocean view, his unreadable expression hidden from me. His black Nike Air Max sneakers don’t make a sound when he stalks out of earshot. He glances over his shoulder to catch my eye for a beat, then looks back at the Miami skyline. My blood whooshes in my ears, anxiety eating my heart whole when he finally pivots and stalks toward us. I let go of India and slowly rise, my knees wobbly and my stomach churning.
He holds his phone out in the space between us. “It’s Dré.”
I lunge at the phone, my mouth dry and my vision blurry. Hope and suspense wallop a sucker punch into my lungs, so my words stammer. “André… are… you… okay?”
There’s a solitary beat of silence. A split second of hesitation, but time lapses long enough for me to detect it. To notice his hard breathing and sense his instability of mind.
My pulse hammers in my neck. I hold my exhale and wait for him to speak.
“Gio told me what happened to you.” André’s voice rumbles through the airwaves, sending barbs of electricity with it. “I’m coming for you, Sinéad…I’ll be on the roof soon.”
“Are you okay?” I say softly, afraid of the hardened tone he uses and how it feels glacial. “What about Reno… and Letterman?”
He clears his throat. “Letterman is standing beside me. As of right now, you’re under house arrest and that includes India.” He falls silent, letting the sirens and alarms in the background take over. “The fuckers murdered my best friend, Sin. Reno was in the hotel when the bomb went off.” His voice becomes the darkness of every nightmare, the texture coarse with discord and harsh chaos. “The bar staff were wiped out too, even that guy Lennon. They’re all gone.”
* * *
“Is this real?” India whimpers, her breathing fast and sharp. “Please… tell me it’s a mistake… tell me my brother’s just lost and they’ll find him… tell… me… he’s coming… h-home.” She hiccups and grips her hair at the roots, her misery turning to anger.
“I’m sorry…” When I reach out for her, she shrinks away from my hand.
“And Dré?” She gasps for oxygen. “Oh my God… what about Letterman?”
“They’re both okay.” I stare at her, helpless to stop the nightmare unfolding.
My heart cracks out of pity when her dainty shoulders slouch and she stares at the window, lost and broken. Her glassy gaze settles on the far-off horizon, her listless arms falling by her hips.
“What am I supposed to do without h-him…”
Giovanni quietly lingers by the couch, his expression clouded like a storm’s ripping through his soul.
I fight off a throbbing headache and scrape my hair behind my ears, wondering how the hell to console her. How would anyone ever help her mend the pain leaking from irreparable fissures in her heart?
Shock creeps over India’s complexion like death itself has sucked the life from her bones. Once her liquid misery dries, Giovanni marches away from his observation point, his footfalls undetected, but his strides confident. He wears a vacant expression except for the slight crease between his ebony brows. In a fluid motion, he slots a hand under India’s knees and the other hooks around her back, effortlessly elevating her despondent body into the air.
“She needs privacy in her own apartment,” he tells me on his way past. “I’ll stay with her to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.” Then he signals to a couple of armed men loitering near the kitchen. “Come with me. I want her under surveillance twenty-four seven.” The soles of his shoes squeak on the tiles when he turns sharply. “The rest of you stay here. Sinéad… André will be home any minute.”
A guy opens the door for him and holds it till he leaves. When Giovanni disappears from sight, loneliness whirls around me in a grim vapor. I’m not on first-name terms with any of the men in here—in the penthouse that André adamantly stated was my home. Yet it doesn’t feel like a home, not really, especially since he’s not in it.
Exhaustion and knotted anticipation make me tremble. I stagger to the couch and perch on the edge of it, holding a hand to my hard-working lungs.
“The chopper is nearly here. We need snipers on the roof.” One man barks.
He’s nearly here. I need to see him.
My back snaps straight and I bounce to my feet. Practically running, I reach the front door before the men in the kitchen have time to notice. I fling it open and meet two armed guards, both of them spin around like tornadoes.
“Mrs. Souza… you know we can’t let you leave the apartment, right?” One of them frowns at me. “Boss' orders.”
