Page 71 of Hostile Bond
“Gio…” I love my twin with all of my heart, but fuck, he’s not exactly the nurturing type.
It’s not his fault he's so shut off. We all know Papá had fucked him up, just like the rest of us. However, outside of my brothers, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of India while Letterman and I aren’t around. Without the blood ties, she’s basically my little sister––and my responsibility now. “I’ll send him a message.”
“Good luck with that.” Tomás chuckles for a split second. “You know he won’t stay with her on the island.”
I shake my head, knowing he’s right. “Then he’ll have to take her home with him.”
“To the house none of us have ever been to, including his own mother.”
“The very place…”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and take in the bruising on my face. At least having a broken nose would reduce my coke habit. Then again, I haven’t touched the stuff since I’d lost my shit and blew a hole in the cushion next to my wife. “Uncle Conal will be here soon. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to grandfather.”
“This secret dies with us, Dré. Remind Sinéad of that. Comprendes?”
“Te entiendo, capo,”I confirm my understanding, end the call, and return to the closed door of Sinéad's room, feeling an ache in my chest.
Once I’d recited the updated statement of events to her, I despised that sheen of ire in her eyes. The glossy disbelief, so evident, had stabbed my gut. I knew she wouldn’t be happy making Sean out to be the hero in this shit storm, but it's the only way to bury the truth. And keep us both alive.
My mother’s side of the family is shrewd and quietly calculating. They’d never believe Sean was an asshole and even if they did, I doubt they would care. He was the youngest son with a golden tongue of charm. The guy who’d roll shit in glitter and sell it to kids.
What's done is done.
And now the most notorious mafioso in Ireland is stalking the bright hospital corridor, his eyes drilling into me as the distance between us reduces.
He’s a little shorter than me and slightly less muscular under his expensive tailored suit. A pair of shiny Oxfords smack the flooring as his presence creeps toward me like a deluge of spilled black ink on a white page.
Two suited bodyguards flank him on either side, their presence not inconspicuous in any way. The trio doesn’t stop to let the nurses pass or move out of anyone's way. They simply own the space they’ve taken up—unchallenged power and an echo of fear.
Which is exactly the impression my uncle wishes to exude.
“Dré.” He holds out his sinewy hand, no hint of a welcoming smile on his clean-shaven face.
“Uncle.” I return his handshake, ensuring it's firm and strong.
This might be his territory, but I’m still André motherfucking Souza, and no one intimidates me, not even this Irish wolf.
“The mother––where is she?”
“No longer around,” I say cryptically, but he understands fully and nods.
“And your wife?”
“She’s with the doctor getting a once over before they allow her to leave.”
He glances behind me to the room my men are guarding.
“Is she mobile?”
“Barely.”
“Then she’s good to go. Speak with the medical team and arrange for her to be discharged immediately.”
“Let’s hear what the doctor has to say first. She was shot, Uncle Conal. If they think a flight to Dublin is a risk, then she won’t be going anywhere.”
His left eyebrow drifts upward. “I’ll speak to the doctor myself, shall I?”
Momentarily, I consider telling him to back the fuck off, but then I decide to keep on his good side for once. The side that’s a little less brutal than the other. In situations like this, I’ll play the game, because there’s too much at stake––my wife’s safety.
