Page 75 of Hostile Bond
“Are we done here?” He glances at Cooper as he prowls across the room, collecting my hand in his. “She has the all clear?”
“Yes,” Cooper replies instantly, his voice wavering a little from relief. “Call me if you notice excessive swelling or it changes color.” He gathers his medical bag and heads for the doorway. “Conal has my number.”
When he’s gone, André inhales slowly. “Do you want something to eat first?”
I shake my head, wanting to get this over with, so I can lie down for an hour before we get the fuck out of here.
“Ready?”
“I wasn’t ready for a husband, but I managed to figure it out.” I roll my eyes, using little effort and paint on a flirty smile.
He stands straighter. “Don’t forget who you are, Sin. A powerful mafia boss in your own right.”
“Pffft––that's nothing,” I say playfully. “Don’t you know I’m André Souza’s wife? He’s the baddest motherfucker there is.”
My timely humor makes him chuckle. “Fuck, I love you.” His lips swoop to mine and he kisses me like the taste of us is his addiction. “You can never be ready for my grandfather, though.”
28
SINÉAD
Minutes later, we’re on the other side of the house in a room decorated for somberness. The walls are painted a rich, moody indigo and the furniture choices are antique and robust. From a roaring fire, spitting sparks flit like fireflies, their randomness teamed with hypnotic flames.
“André...” The bald-headed man, with a ghostly complexion, sets his thick cigar in an ashtray to his right before rising from a velvet wingback armchair. The gold button detail fit for a king.
A silky cravat peeks out from an obsidian smoking jacket woven with golden thread, giving him an aristocratic vibe. He waits for us to move further into the room, patiently expecting André to greet him.
“It's good to see you. I hope you have news for me?” He adds.
The spicy smell of nicotine oddly makes my stomach churn. I put it down to not having eaten recently and how the thought of food makes me queasy. I swallow hard, trying my best to remain upright, even when my knees go soft.
Heavy drapes are still open to make use of the last dregs of a setting sun while a solitary lamp glows in the far corner by a glass fronted gun cabinet.
Conal doesn't stand to greet us, observing our entrance from the couch where he sits next to the fireplace, his expression exactly the same as before––cold and assessing. I notice he’s no longer wearing a suit jacket, appearing relaxed in his father’s company.
“Grandfather. It’s been too long.” André and the old man embrace. “Let me introduce my wife, Sinéad Souza. She’s Don Sapori’s daughter and heir to his empty throne.”
His grandfather projects an unapologetic air of imperial authority when his bushy gray brows hitch to the high ceiling. “Emptythrone?”
“I assassinated him,” André replies matter-of-factly. “And when you hear the reason, you’ll understand what happened to my uncle.”
His grandfather grunts low in his throat and brings the palest green eyes flaring with a dot of black in line with mine. “Sinéad. If I recall correctly, you used to live nearby, didn’t you? Your mother worked for us?” He places his hands on my shoulders, bearing the weight of his jurisdiction down on me. “As you are my grandson’s wife, and in our family circle, you may call me Mick. I assume you are taking over the Sapori empire?”
His bony fingers press down firmly while he holds me under close inspection. My nails dig into my palms to keep me from faltering. I inhale quickly, a trickle of sweat rolling down the middle of my back from the effort required to show no weakness.
“I am,” I say with the utmost, unwavering tone.
“Wonderful,” he muses, a hint of a smile on his thin lips. “It seems in the darkest of days, having lost my youngest son, I have gained a new ally and a granddaughter.”
Shadows pass over his face as the flames roar. Mick unhands me and trails the tips of his fingers through the wiry hairs of a light gray beard upon his jaw in contemplation. Inky pupils flare in the brief silence. “Please, take a seat.”
His hawkish eyes follow André and me to the matching couch opposite Conal, where we sit side by side. André sits deeper, his legs slightly parted and his arm slung over the back behind me. Whereas I perch on the edge, my spine straight and my muscles braced. What if he doesn't believe me?
As his grandfather moves across the room, his slow, purposeful steps delay time, holding us all in a temporary hush, obediently waiting for his next spoken word. It pisses me the fuck off. After everything I’ve been through, I have to sit here and justify the reason I’m alive, when his son is the one who’d caused so much horror.
However, with nowhere to run, and knowing an important secret, I bite my tongue and focus on the contact of my husband’s leg bouncing next to me.
Mick stops at a cumbersome side table, selects a bottle of whiskey from many, and methodically pours two crystal cut tumblers halfway. The tinkle of ice cubes oddly has me craving the cool crunch of frozen water to figure out if it could help with this permanent state of nausea.
