Page 12 of Hostile Bond
After he had ravaged me in a fit of venom-soaked lust, he tenderly kissed my forehead and offered me a devastating smile. Then his phone rang from his abandoned pants. He stepped back and sighed heavily, briefly lowering his thick lashes and raking his fingers through his disheveled hair.
In that second, his gentle disposition switched. He answered the call with a cool, collected demeanor, the polar timbre he used spine-chilling.
That was when the real change happened. When he discarded his emotions and proceeded to take care of business, his way––without involving me.
The broken heart in his chest refuses to beat for anything other than revenge. And the most distressing thing to witness is the infinite pull of destruction worsening every day since. A sunless mist clings to his mood—hazy and impenetrable. Somehow his loving heart had reassembled itself with an ice-like armor on the outside and I can’t get close enough to thaw it. Instead, I’m isolated in the emptiness he’s deserted me in.
André is not an easy target to hit. Unfortunately, the people who work for him were casualties of an undetected incendiary device. Too many other innocent lives were stolen by the explosion that demolished the upper floors of the hotel. Visions of the smoking carnage were all over the news, and spilling from the mouths of every criminal from Colombia to America and beyond.
Besides observing my withdrawn husband from the shadows he had placed me in, the scariest thing I've had to deal with is the knowledge of how the fallout would unravel. Knowing André’s on the warpath and there’s a real risk of him never coming back to me.
André had assigned a security team to guard the penthouse and every delivery that arrived was checked at the main reception. The men mostly hung out in the main living area and rotated shifts every few hours. In those long, lonely days I became a prisoner––all of us did, including India, who couldn't come to terms with how her brother had driven her to school that morning for the last time.
The bomb didn't only demolish part of a Souza building; it blew a cavernous hole in the teenager’s entire world.
From sunrise to sunset, André plotted in his office with Letterman, never once joining me for food or sleeping beside me in our bed. My only comfort to be had upon waking was the stale aroma of cigarette smoke and an empty tumbler on the table next to the armchair. His signature nighttime calling card.
The honeymoon period is well and truly over.
Yesterday evening, bored and frustrated, I’d barged into his office––just to see his face—to look him in the eyes and check he was still human. The instant his ebony lashes flicked up to the doorway, and he saw me, my skin tingled and my pulse raced. No matter how much time we spend apart, André still has an unspoken air of confidence about him that makes my insides liquify.
He'd pushed out of his high-back chair, prowled past the men in attendance, and kissed me, hard. A kiss that silently whispered ownership, pleaded for patience, and suggested his own desire was still strong. Anyone watching us would have sensed the molten lust bubbling between us like white-hot liquid gold.
However, when he pulled back, the intensity in his eyes shuttered. His emotions flipped from carnal to indecipherable. I was left dazed and confused, as if the moment only existed in my imagination.
After a silent heartbeat, he muttered a sharp order to pack my things, announcing out of the blue that we were leaving the penthouse and never coming back. Without saying another word, all contact vanished as he returned behind his desk.
Now, I’m in paradise with the most important people in his life, stuck on a remote jungle-like island that has its own goddamn runway.
India whimpers next to me, her whole body shaking. I tighten the arm I have around her shoulders and nudge her closer.
Positioned in front of the memorial montage, Letterman squeezes his eyes shut. His face ashen, his expression so wretched it catches me off guard. My hands tremble, the struggle to stay composed growing difficult.
My watery gaze cuts back to André. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, his thick black hair wild, and his posture tense. He wears an obsidian shirt half buttoned and tucked into designer dress pants. A thick gold chain drapes the tattoos peeking out from his chest.
Even this tortured version of him makes my heart beat faster.
As he smokes a blunt and studies the snapshots before him, my heart withers. I know from experience how drugs and alcohol betray his mind. They’re a lethal combination that would either soothe his misery or coax out an unhallowed monster.
An urgent compulsion to stand by his side, hold his hand, and be the woman he leans on, burns through me. Except earlier, after he’d helped me exit the helicopter, he asked me to take care of India—then walked off to catch up with Letterman.
A brooding rain cloud of frustration has become too heavy to withstand.
Death is coming.
André.
Mammy.
Mine…
We all might be dead soon.
In the distance, the mechanical whir of a mini helicopter makes my stomach flip. That’s how big this lump of earth is. They use choppers to get from the east side to the west coast.
The small gathering mostly consists of Souzas and armed soldiers, all but their mother and the newly crowned king of Colombia—Tomás Souza. His jet had landed on the east side of the island a few minutes ago, which means he’s on the incoming helicopter heading our way.
Apparently, Teresa Souza is in a safehouse in the north of Colombia, because Tomás had ordered her to stay there. Whereas Matheus, the suave youngest sibling whose striking looks could easily make him a model, was already here when we arrived. Something to do with paperwork and property deeds.
