Page 26 of Hostile Bond
Awareness scurries down my spine. I’ve been so very foolish and callow. André orchestrated this whole situation the very instant he found out Frankie had a daughter. The fact we shared a past only made it easier for him to manipulate me.
A bitter laugh escapes me like a whimper. “No—he did this for himself—for you guys.” I back up and curve my hand over my brow to shelter my eyes from the rose glare of a fading sun. “That was the reason he married me in the first place. For more power. Not for love or a happily ever after.”
The playboy had become the ultimate game player.
Why else would he tie up loose ends, ensuring Frankie officially handed everything over to me—when he knew I’d rather torch his legacy than be a part of it?
“What’s love got to do with it when you’re at the top of the food chain? There’s your happily ever after right there.”
I try to act as though his statement doesn’t bother me, even though ice tumbles in my stomach. A shiver of heartbreak needles my mood.
IloveAndré.
But after this explosive display, I’m afraid he’s hidden his true intentions behind the veneer of an adoring husband. He craves supremacy and always will. That's the man he was raised to be. A cartel mastermind of influence, debauchery, and addiction––not a devoted husband who allegedly gets bored easily.
They’d lured Frankie here to secure my inheritance and then killed him to achieve the ultimate strategic move. It was a premeditated murder, and I was the last person to figure it out—as usual.
André tells me he loves me, yet maybe that love is of all things new, and the possibilities our random wedding had brought with it—like a respected title of his own.
The crowned godfather of Sicily.
After all, monsters stalk their enemies until they become bigger than the shadows hiding them.
I force myself to keep walking, to reject the idea of running to the helipad to confront him. All I need is privacy to stitch together my fraying thoughts.
Despite my harrowing realization, Frankie isn’t a threat anymore and for that, I’m grateful. Although uncertainty skitters down my spine.
What does this mean for me now? Will my existence be ruled by the Souza cartel? Do they want me to be the face of the Sapori empire while they use my position as leverage?
Am I still a pawn in a tactical game of kings and queens?
The queen of hearts on my wedding finger burns.
I’m nothisqueen—but the undecided queen of an empire he wanted to invade.
Questions rattle through my head as my feet move from whitewash sand to coarse grass, hurrying inside the villa.
For years, I’d tried to imagine what my father looked like. I never put him on a pedestal, because he didn't belong there. He had no reason to walk out on us, other than weakness—cowardice. That alone made me loathe the man.
Despite being abandoned, I still longed to know who I came from. Did I have hands shaped like his or was my laughter more like his? Was my button nose from his side of the family? Did his genes make me emotionally insular or was it the trauma I’d suffered as a kid?
There were always unanswered questions burning up my mind and sitting heavy on my tongue. But when I finally met him, I didn’t care anymore. I saw right through his one-dimensional persona.
I had glimpsed at the corroded, empty hole where his black heart should have sat. For a fleeting moment, I’d felt disappointed that he really was inhuman, that I’d been right to hate him all along. After those seconds of madness evaporated, I’d realized it didn't matter who he was. Mammy had raised me to be the woman I am today, and that’s all that mattered.
Now he’s dead and I have to figure out who that woman has become. A Sapori successor. A Souza wife. Or my own person.
By the time I’m indoors under high vaulted ceilings circulated with cool air, India is making her way down the staircase wearing a baggy t-shirt and violet leggings. Her arms are folded and limp hair hangs loose by pasty cheeks. Daenis trots toward me, curling around my legs for attention. While I scrub the pup’s silky short-haired coat, India pauses on the bottom step, watching me. Her forehead slightly creasing as she thinks.
She’s mostly stayed in her room since the memorial service and has barely eaten in days. Nor has she spoken much until now.
“Was that man responsible for killing Reno?”
“Not directly.” I pad closer and tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. “He invited danger when he kidnapped me as a mafia bride for a New York banker. The asshole who blew up the hotel was meant to be my husband… until Dré came along.”
“Dré is your hero.” She smiles sweetly and I don’t have the heart to burst her comfy bubble. He is, and he isn’t, but how can I explain it? The truth of it is too complex to wrap my head around.
“We can be our own heroes too.” I rub her arm. “It’s good to see you out of bed. You should take a walk along the beach.”
