Page 77 of Hostile Rival
Waking up beside Matheus is definitely something I could get used to.
Thankfully, I had a peaceful night’s sleep, free of Margo’s vacant eyes. Now I’m ready to take on the world, if I wasn’t so damn comfortable.
I’m snuggled beside him, my head on his pillow. The tip of my nose nuzzles his unshorn cheek, and my arm is slung over his chest. A hint of cologne still clings to his skin and something else—a trace of seduction and smoke.
I hadn’t intentionally moved into this position through the night, but it’s how I’ve ended up. Loneliness had left its scars on me and lying here, listening to his shallow breathing––it’s like learning there’s spring after a lifetime of winter.
I debate closing my eyes and staying where I am. Except my belly just rumbled and I’ve put off calling Blanco for long enough.
Quietly, unpeeling myself from his warmth, I groan a little, my whole body stiff and achy.
He doesn’t move when I climb off the bed and unfold like a broken deck chair, slow and creaky.
Hobbling into the bathroom, I relieve myself, wash my hands, and ignore my washed-out reflection because I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. The woman staring back at me would be pissed at the satisfied smile I’m wearing this morning.
I gargle some mouthwash, unhook the robe from the back of the door, and cover myself up.
Back in the bedroom, Matheus is still asleep. Now would be the perfect opportunity to ring Blanco and check in with him again. Or maybe I should have a coffee first and do it later.
Undecided, I round the makeshift double bed, grab my phone from the small table, and stuff it into my robe pocket. I pad barefoot out of the bedroom and head straight to the kitchen, thinking breakfast sounds like the better plan for now.
No one’s around. Just the way I like it. I open a few cupboards, searching for jam and load four slices of bread into the toaster.
Ready for a caffeine hit, I switch on the coffee machine, wishing this hum of contentment buzzing through my veins would last forever.
“You’re still alive then. That was some show,” an Irish accent slips over my shoulder.
I whirl around, meeting Fintan’s shrewd eyes, his shoulder resting on the fridge door. He’s wearing a white muscle top and a pair of board shorts. His hair is wet, and a towel hangs from his fist.
“I should have killed the girl,” I say, shrugging. “It would have ended a lot sooner.”
He nods, quietly looking me up and down, his unfriendly persona still intact. “Does the commander know you're screwing his brother?”
“Excuse me?”
A slow smile breaks his stern expression. “You think I’m blind? The guy lost his shit when you passed out in his arms.”
“You're wrong.” I roll my shoulders back and strengthen my footing. “He lost his shit over the girl shooting her mouth off and Di Rossi’s men firing at his brother, André.”
Fintan rubs the towel over his face and opens the fridge, unscrewing a bottle of water. “Remember how the commander tests us in ways we’d never expect? To make us think on our feet and make clever judgment calls. Did you ever think that planting his kid brother with us…well, specifically with you, was a well-played chess move? He can’t control you––until he learns everything, including your weaknesses.”
I roll my eyes. “Why do men like you always talk about chess as if it's the best game ever? It’s boring as fuck. All that waiting to plot strategies just wastes time. A woman like me cuts through all the bullshit and goes straight for the king.”
“When one king falls, another takes his place.” He deadpans.
“Or the queen takes a step forward and rules by herself.”
The toast pops up and Fintan nods lightly, though something tells me he’s not buying it. I don’t blame him. I wouldn't believe me either right now, especially when doubt bubbles in my chest and a slight flush of anxiety creeps up my neck. I tighten the belt around my middle and cross my arms over my chest.
“You're screwing your boss’ number one rival and the Souzas are likely setting you up for a failed mission.” He doesn’t smile, or even change the expression on his face while he drinks from the bottle and turns away. “There’s no honor among hitmen. Maybe one day my next target would be Buffalo,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice,Gator,” I call after him, pissed at his hostile warning. “The wooden spoon award is all yours. You’re the best shit stirrer around.”
When he laughs, low and uncaring, I add, “I don’t trust anyone, and that includes you.”
“So, you’re not just tits and ass with a sweet face.”
Clenching my fists, I growl at him, barely keeping myself in check. I could easily strangle him. “Go fuck yourself, asshole!”
