The memory slithers over me like a dying serpent. Once all the men involved were sufficiently pumped full of lead, Letterman and Reno drenched the residence in gasoline. The girls were escorted onto a passenger helicopter for transport to a safe house. I need headspace to figure out what the fuck we should do with them. Meanwhile, the shithole went up in flames.
Buenos noches, motherfuckers.
“I have no idea. They all called it Project H,” I say in a smoky breath. “I need to speak to Tommy—or Mama. This must be some crazy shit that Papá was neck-deep in.”
Letterman drags a hand over his weary features and wanders to the couch where he throws himself down. Neither of us has any words left to say, so I climb the stairs two at a time and purposefully go to the guest suite rather than disturb Sinéad. My patience is in tatters. If I see that pretty little ass of hers, I’ll likely bury myself in balls deep just to be close to her.
Inside the bathroom, I flick on the shower and continue to smoke the blunt until the water temperature is red hot. Under the jabbing water jets, harrowing faces haunt me when my eyes squeeze shut.
I curl my hands into fists, allowing the brewing outrage to find a viable outlet. Every high-powered punch into the smooth marble tiles mashes up my knuckles. I continue to batter, bruise, and bleed, unable to stop, or simply opt not to.
Each strike hurts more than the first. Blood drips and rolls, watered down by haphazard water droplets. My snarls compete against a racing pulse, the speed of it whooshing in my skull.
Eventually, my temper cools and a tornado of bright red swirls around the drain. I can’t determine if the brutal explosion was a byproduct of my murderous whims or the grim realization that Sinéad never wanted this—she didn’tchooseme.
I stare down at the wedding band on my left hand and then study the ugly family ring beside it. A moody red stone hugged by gaudy gold. My father’s attempt to bond with his sons. Or a burning reminder of the deaths we were responsible for.
After each of us had killed for him, we were presented with a symbolic ring. I was only seventeen when he shoved a semiautomatic into my shaking hands and commanded unwavering obedience.
We all earned a unique Souza ring, except for my kid brother Matheus. The slick kid who’s better suited to law books than weapons. It’s only a matter of time before he’s dragged into the dark side.
No matter how many times I look at the ring, I always feel my father’s undiluted disappointment. I despise the colored jewel, dark and somber like every challenging day we had to spend at his secluded plantation as teens. It holds no hint of light, similar to my father’s calculating and judgmental eyes.
Aching and stiff from being so tense, I wash my hair and revel in the sting the shampoo offers the bleeding grazes. It doesn't take long to rinse myself off, and then I’m wrapped in a towel, leaving my strewn clothes on the floor and returning to the sitting room downstairs.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” I say to Letterman on my way past.
“No worries, parce.” He takes a long drag of a blunt and lets his head fall back on the couch. “Drugs and guns are what we do, but that shitshow…”
Letterman and Reno have stood beside me for years. We’ve raised hell together, and never once have they failed me. We diversify and cause chaos as much as any other illegal organization, but stolen virginal teens—that’s where we draw the line.
“If there’s more of those trafficking dens in Miami, we have to shut them down.” Letterman visibly deflates, his mood ruined like mine.
“Agreed. Once I find out who’s involved, I’ll make it my personal crusade.”
“Ourcrusade, Dré,” he confirms. “Imagine if that was India. Christ. At least you took those fuckers out in style. If a spewing machine gun didn’t send a message, blowing the place up sure did.”
“They don’t deserve to live in my city.”
“Here’s to that.” He raises the bottle, nods in my direction, and takes a much-needed gulp. “The whole of Miami will feel the Souza presence when it hits the streets in the morning.”
“Good.” Justice doesn’t do anything to suppress the seething anger under my flesh. I could run for miles and still not deplete the constant hiss of Sinéad’s betrayal. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Hey…” Letterman calls to me while I walk away. “What happened before we left? Did you and the girl have an argument?”
I sigh, feeling unbalanced by the truth. “I was just telling my wife that the honeymoon period is over.”
Letterman doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to elaborate on. Both he and Reno understand how boredom gets the better of me. I’m not about to expose the frustration buried in my bones or discuss how I’m not finished with this particular woman. The common tediousness of the same pouty lips, juicy ripe nipples, and long, flowing sable hair hasn’t set in yet. Thinking about her consistently awakens my dick, turning it rock hard despite my wishes.
I head toward my office, my mind all over the place, knowing there’s more liquor and an abundance of cocaine waiting for me. Although it’s difficult to ignore the frustrating boner I have, I resist the urge to creep upstairs, peel back the covers while she sleeps, sink into the armchair next to the bed, and jerk off to the sight of her bare-assed position.
Nothing good would come of those actions now, because giving in to the lure of her only weakens my position in this dynamic. I’m in control and she’s at my mercy. Not the other way around.
Regardless of her deceit, she belongs to me, and I won’t let Don Sapori throw his ego about in my territory. He knew the risk he was taking when his men invaded my hotel to wreak havoc.
I reach for a bottle of liquor and sit deep into the comfy chair behind my desk. Sliding open the top drawer, I grimace when the fresh scabs on my knuckles crack. The sting doesn’t fade, nor do the urges to fuck my wife, not even when I extract a small obsidian treasure chest filled with Souza cocaine. The vitamin-fortified, strawberry-flavored blend sits in a mound, waiting for me to hoover it up line after line.
A few snorts of this shit will get me through the day ahead, because I sure as fuck don’t have the patience to sleep.
