André takes a long drag of his cigarette and holds the smoke in his lungs as Giovanni approaches. Releasing it from his nostrils, he tosses what's left, making sparks fly, and marches the short distance across the helipad towards his brother.
My stomach flutters when Giovanni’s gaze hunts mine, his eyes narrowing on the powerful hand holding me in place. The muscles in his jaw work as he processes his eldest brother's control over me, the dying light deepening the grooves of his throat. The blood-red stone on his finger matches his lethal aura when he swipes a hand over unshorn stubble.
Through the intensity of his brief assessment, I fall victim to a rush of lust, my body tipping forward, automatically pulled in his direction like a magnet. I know he feels it too when his piercing stare lingers rather than focusing on his fast-approaching twin.
There’s no doubt the men watching him would easily sense the emotion bubbling between us like white-hot fire.
My heart recognizes the rage he’s battling. How self-discipline holds him rigid while he quietly assesses this situation we’ve found ourselves in.
In some ways, it gives me comfort to know he’d forced their hand and made his brothers bring me home––even if he wasn’t ready to reveal his private world. But the fallout from this meeting won’t end well. I can feel it in my bones.
“Brother.” André reaches him, the two men toe-to-toe.
A roll of thunder electrifies the sky overhead at the exact moment André throws a solid punch, the energy of it cracking Giovanni’s jaw.
“Dré! No!” I yell, my muscles jerking.
Giovanni rubs his busted lip, smearing bright red blood with his fingertips as he chuckles darkly. “I’ll give you that one for free given you actually care about her, but I made myself clear when I sent the video, Dré.”
“Yeah, cabron. You made it fucking clear that I couldn’t trust my own twin to look after what’s mine.”
The transformation to ruthless hitman happens in a stuttered heartbeat. Giovanni no longer possesses a layer of calmness when he offloads the machine gun and throws it onto a bed of wildflowers. He raises his fists, and hammers André in the face, knocking him off balance.
His nostrils flare, the bright green rings crowning his pupils darken to a shade that depicts the true color of madness.
“Yours?” he hisses. “India belongs here, with me. What part of that don’t you get?”
André staggers a few short steps and spits out a wad of blood. Fixing his boots in a solid stance, he straightens with fists held in defense. “We used to be close, Gio. You and me. But as the years went by, you shut me out because of Papá. He got inside your head too much. You became his puppet.”
“Yeah, and we all know he was the master of fucking puppets, wasn’t he?” Giovanni stands stoic, almost statuesque. “I’ve always dropped everything for you… all of you.” He glances over at his brothers watching from the sidelines. “Wasn’t I there for you when Sinéad needed help on the yacht? And when you needed eyes on Sapori? I’m always there when you fuckers need me.”
“That's business, Gio. I’m talking about us. The two of us, doing normal shit together. Being brothers.” Anger tightens André’s mouth, so he speaks with a sinister snarl. “You don’t have time for me, which means you’ll never have time for India. I promised Reno I’d do the right thing by her and that’s giving India the family she deserves.”
In a blur, he charges, throws himself on top of Giovanni, and pushes him onto the concrete. Together they roll, embroiled in a flurry of striking fists and powerful punches. Lightning forks across the sky and I can’t help thinking they look like gods of war going head-to-head.
“Please… stop them. They’ll kill each other.” I swivel to Matheus, who stands there with arms folded, unmoving except for the pulse pounding in his throat. “Do something!”
“No,” Tomás’ command is firm and final, his hand still on my shoulder. “This is between them. They have to sort this shit out on their own.”
“She’s mine, Dré.” Giovanni snarls out between punches. “I’m not letting you take her away from me.”
I swallow the growing lump in my throat, desperately doing my best not to cry. Helplessly, I stand by as the two men I adore most in this world continue to wrestle like ferocious animals.
My feet itch to move. From my ankles to my thighs, my legs burn, and my blood vessels run too hot. It’s an ugly show of combat and one where we all know Giovanni could end his brother's life in one move.
Despite his skills, he doesn't reach for a weapon or use his elite training to annihilate Dré. Perhaps Giovanni is enjoying every bone-crunching jab and every bare-knuckle blow connecting with his body instead. That in some dark, twisted corner of his mind he thinks he deserves this punishment or craves it.
But neither of them is fighting to the death. André’s had every opportunity to reach for his handgun too. I know how hot headed and volatile André could be—how ruthless they both are. No, this is sibling rivalry between two men who care about each other and can’t figure out a way to end this.
Giovanni jumps to his feet, his nostrils flaring, and André matches his springboard bounce, both facing the other, breathing heavily and bloodied. I’m about to shirk away from Tomás when Leo appears at the top of the path leading from the house.
His short legs carry him fast, all the way towards us. Worried creases line his forehead and big brown eyes glisten with tears. He barrels between the two men and plants his little feet wide.
“Stop it!” He kicks André in the shin, his chest rising in bursts as adrenaline courses through his small frame. “Don’t hurt my Papá.”
“Jesus fuck,” Matheus mutters at the same time as Tomás lets go of me. “He has a kid?”
23
