“Look…” Letterman exhales heavily. “Frankie will get what’s coming to him, eventually. Tonight was about something—unexpected. So, do yourself a favor and turn around. He needs alone time to process whatever shit is spinning through his head.”
“What was so unexpected?”
“Souza business.”
In a beat, I’m standing tall before him, my shoulders drawn back and my hands shelved on my hips. “Haven't you heard? There’s a new Souza in town and that’s me, Letterman. I’m his wife. I deserve to know what he’s involved in—tell me what happened.”
“I don't have to tell you shit, sweetheart.” He exhales like a dragon, slow and smoky. “That guy who you call your husband is my best friend. What we do together out there in those streets stays out there. I know Dré better than he knows himself. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the weird way he gets with you. He’s changed since you resurfaced. Reno and I have both noticed how he’s given you something no other woman could ever achieve.”
“Oh yeah, and what's that?”
“His full attention. All of it.” Hazel eyes stare up at me from his laid-back position. “Don’t ask me how long it will last, because I’ve never known him to have an extended interest, never mind tying the knot.”
I lower and perch on the edge of the coffee table, taking a quick mouthful of honeyed liquor from the bottle.
“I hate Frankie Sapori more than anyone.” The burn feels good as it makes its way down my throat. It reminds me of closing time in The Rusty Shamrock, icy winds, and a nightcap before the door is locked.
“I’d put a bullet in his cold heart this very second if he was here. He’s threatened the people I care about. I’m not afraid of violence. I’ve grown up around it. It wasn’t easy taking ownership of my uncle's pub and facing the onslaught of male assholes who thought they could do better or considered me as entertainment once alcohol hit their veins. I dealt with it. Dré and I had an argument and I want to put him straight on a few things. It’s important. Please… tell me what happened, so I know how to approach him.”
Letterman regards me through a haze, pinches the cigarette, leans toward the artsy stone ashtray beside my thigh, and taps off ash. “One of our stash houses was packed with teens. They were locked under the floorboards, awaiting sale. It was…” He scratches his peppered jaw. “… haunting. Dré was already on edge after speaking with you before he left, so when he set eyes on a couple of young girls with hair the color of coal and bruises the shade of soot, he lost his shit. Your husband personally assassinated every son of a bitch responsible for abusing those girls. Every fucker was interrogated and then gunned down.Thatis the real Dré. So, if you don’t want to meet the brutal side of him, do yourself a favor and go back up those stairs.”
The atmosphere is colder than usual, even with the burning ball of flames peeking out from the horizon. Goosebumps scatter my bare arms. I should listen to Letterman’s warning, flee from sight, and backtrack in ignorance.
Nothing good would come from antagonizing André, not while fresh blood creeps over his conscience. We quarreled. He’d implied our connection was gone, and then he left. And I’m too restless to let it fester any longer.
I nod my head, mentally justifying the brutal murders. Many a man would turn his head and pretend he didn’t see anything. Or worse, he’d take part for money. But not Dré.
“And the girls?” I ask, taking another drink for courage.
“Don’t worry about them. We’ll sort something out.”
“Okay.” I rise and let my gaze fall to the farthest side of the living room.
“That’s who married you, Sinéad. He’s either the punisher or the best friend,” Letterman adds.
“I know him as both of those things,” I say, setting the bottle down and leaving him to finish his cigarette.
“Good luck,” he calls after me.
I knock once and meet silence, so I fist the door a second time and enter. He’s standing by the window, the inked Hawthorn tree a reminder of our past ties. He turns slowly and points his crystal cut tumbler at me, those enigmatic black eyes of his spearing me like lethal darts.
My belly flips over as he regards me without saying a word. A vein pulses in his thick neck and his teeth grind. The way he just stares at me makes me both uncomfortable and flaming hot. His ebony hair is just how I like it, disheveled and hanging over his brow as if he’s only just woken. Peachy light illuminates his tattoos and those shadowed muscles that flex in his abdomen make my insides clench.
I know what this man is capable of, yet I don’t stand before him in fear. I’m sucked into all things André Souza and completely in awe of this lethal, handsome antihero. My eyes go fuzzy from staring at him so intently, black dots dancing across my vision as if I had stared directly at the sun.
He sniffs, raises his glass, but doesn't drink until he’s wiped his nostrils with the back of his hand.
“Leave,” he commands, harsher than a slap in the face.
“No.” I dig my toes into the thick plush rug underfoot. “Not until we talk. I have things to say, and I want you to listen.”
I see a subtle smirk linger on his lips, and then he quickly reins it back in. His slow-moving gaze drops to freshly cut lines of cocaine on the desk, an empty bottle of booze, and his revolver. “As you can see, I’m otherwise occupied. This isn’t the time for your groveling to commence.”
“Groveling?” I repeat.
I drink in every inch of his naked torso, my pulse soaring when he moves beyond the chair blocking his lower half. His dick hangs heavily between his thighs, slowly stiffening. The length of it triples with its satiny bulbous crown rigid and ready to ruin. He looks wild, as if he’s ridden to Hell and returned as a warrior. Ringed fingers rub his coarse jaw as he considers whether my entrance is acceptable to him.
“You’re familiar with the term groveling, aren’t you?” He cocks an inky brow at me.
