Page 73 of Hostile Bond
Once we’d boarded the helicopter, he proceeded to watch me from across the cabin in his rigid position on the black leather seat. Obviously noting how André hadn’t let go of my hand since we’d left the hospital room or let go of the white paper bag filled with pills.
Eventually, his gaze slid lower, and his lips pouted, seemingly becoming annoyed at how his nephew's knee continually bounced.
Conal’s meticulous suit fit his physique without a single flaw and his clean-shaven face catches the shadows of the sky as we glided from the north to the south. I hate everything about this man, and not because of his attire or haughty demeanor. It’s more the close sibling resemblance and the Hennessy cocksure way. His brother's cold-blooded spirit lives on in this man.
I stare out of the window, doing my best to forget the vivid nightmare and replace it with a fabricated tale that would convince the most dangerous man in Ireland that his son was my savior.
I swallow back the painful lump in my throat, doing my best not to think about Mammy––or reveal a single scrap of vulnerability. They have the advantage because this exhausted version of me is struggling to deal with the loss of my mother, and startling new information.
Although we’re soaring above the ground, my stomach flips, instantly recognizing the mature russet and gold foliage of a sweeping tree-lined driveway. Wild fallow deer scatter in the fields below as the chopper roars over the top of their peaceful herd.
A dusky red halo surrounds the Hennessy mansion as the sleepy sun prepares to set and welcome nightfall. In any other circumstance, the vast grounds would appear majestic and welcoming. However, I’m all too aware of the sinister undercurrent of immorality seeping through the forest soil, feeding the roots of every evergreen, and spreading from the foundations of their impending home.
André’s fingers tighten and he leans into me, speaking into the headset microphone. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nod, briefly glancing at Conal, who can hear every word. “A little sore, but thankful to be alive.”
I offer a fleeting smile and swallow the sickly acid in my throat as the aircraft lowers onto the helipad at the front of the property. Moments later, the engine noise cuts out.
“Welcome back to Hennessy house Sinéad Souza,” Conal unclips his harness in the new hush. “The doctor is waiting, as per your husband's request.” He twists the gold ring on his middle finger. “You have ten minutes. My father will see you both in his private lounge.”
André climbs around me, jumps out behind Conal, raises his arms over his head to stretch, and turns to face me, holding out his ringed fingers. “Come on, Wifey, I need a fucking drink.”
Conal walks on with his two bodyguards at either hip, leaving us alone. In his absence, my lungs finally work to inhale more oxygen. I shuffle over the seat and take André’s hand, letting the warmth of it spark my tired pulse like a conduit from his perpetual energy to my heavy limbs. However, he’s a little less animated than usual. His complexion paler while exhaustion creases the corners of his bruised under-eyes and a line of concern furrows his brow.
“Need me to carry you?” He quirks a thick ebony brow at me, his voice hoarse and thick.
“I can walk.” I reassure him when his black eyes come to life with concern.
He pulls a silver tin from his jeans’ pocket, flips open the lid, and picks out a paper-rolled blunt. An icy-cold wind agitates the hair on his head as he stands there, his bare arms covered in goosebumps. He rests the tip between his lips, curls his hand around the flame, and lights it. Marijuana smoke billows from his nostrils as he exhales.
“I’d forgotten how fucking cold it is here.” He ruffles his fingers through messy ebony hair and wraps his arm around my shoulder, yanking me neatly to his side. “Once my grandfather is content with the outcome, we’ll leave Ireland. The less you say to him, the better. He’s like Tommy. He has a natural born instinct for detecting lies. So, all you need to say is that once you were hit in the crossfire, you blacked out and woke up in a hospital bed.”
“Okay.” I walk with him, thankful for his body heat and solid wall of muscle to lean against.
Manicured box hedges create pockets of flower beds by the entrance of the mansion and leafy climbing plants cling to either side of a carved stone portico. My stomach knots on our approach, making the warm waves of nausea more aggressive. Nonetheless, I roll back my shoulders in preparation to enter the devil’s home and ignore the niggle of knitting flesh inflicted by his son’s bullet.
André pauses for a second, takes one last drag, and flicks the rest of his blunt away, so it tumbles on the damp ground in the wind.
We don’t need to use either of the cast iron gargoyle door knockers on the hefty double doors for entry. A middle-aged man in a uniform of navy slacks, an immaculately pressed shirt, and thin tie with a gold stitched family crest showcasing on his blazer, leaves it open for us and nods as we pass him.
“Mr. Souza.” He greets André first. “Mrs. Souza.”
Inside the lamp lit reception hall, a triggering smokiness squeezes my heart. The open fire directly ahead of us crackles and rages, incinerating a mound of chunky axed logs within its destructive flames.
Vases of wildflowers rest upon period mahogany furniture while the whiskey-colored flooring leads to multiple doors and a split-level staircase, grand enough for royalty with its cranberry carpet, robust balustrade, and handcrafted spindles.
“The physician is waiting in the morning room, sir.” He moves ahead of us. “Follow me.”
“It’s okay,” André announces, his baritone cracking like he’s spent a lifetime without any sleep. “I remember my way about.”
“Very well, sir.” The housekeeper nods curtly and strides toward the staircase.
“I’ve no idea who that motherfucker is.” André whispers under his breath as he guides me by the hand under an elaborate archway and along a corridor where oil paintings of strangers bearing a striking Hennessy resemblance hang on the ivory walls. “I haven’t been here in years. It still smells the same––old.”
By the time I’m shaking hands with a young male doctor who introduces himself as Cooper, I’m beyond exhausted. My head thumps and my legs are like jelly. André takes one look at Cooper's fiery red hair, athletic build, and angles me into his chest. He smooths a wispy strand of hair behind my ear.
“Want a drink, Wifey?”
