Hostile Vows

HOSTILE VOWS ANDRÉ & SINÉAD DUET 1 HOSTILE KINGDOM: SOUZA CARTEL AUTUMN ARCHER CONTENTS Author Note 1. André 2. André 3. Sinéad 4. André 5. André 6. Sinéad 7. Sinéad 8. Sinéad 9. Sinéad 10. Sinéad 11. André 12. André 13. Sinéad 14. André 15. André 16. Sinéad 17. Sinéad 18. André 19. Sinéad 20. André 21. Sinéad 22. André 23. Sinéad 24. Sinéad 25. André 26. Sinéad 27. André 28. Sinéad 29. André 30. Sinéad 31. Sinéad 32. André 33. Sinéad 34. André 35. Sinéad 36. Sinéad 37. Sinéad 38. Sinéad 39. Sinéad Also by Autumn Archer About the Author Hostile Vows © copyright 2023 Autumn Archer Author Ltd The right of Autumn Archer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. www.autumnarcher.com AUTHOR NOTE Hostile Kingdom is a Dark Romance world which includes the Jungle Oasis trilogy and the Souza cartel series. Hostile Vows is a duet with a HEA in the second book. It's a dark cartel mafia romance that includes scenarios and references which may act as a trigger to some readers. Within in the steamy dark pages of André & Sinéad’s turbulent marriage you’ll find murder, gore, human trafficking, drugs, alcohol abuse, plus physical assault. Please read responsibly and know your own limits before diving in. Welcome to Miami where André Souza rules. 1 ANDRÉ Well, fuck—last night’s events took an unusual turn. I prop myself up on my elbows and check out my surroundings. The jeans I’d struggled to remove a few hours ago are in a heap on the floor. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a full ashtray both suggest a heavy session. Surprisingly, there aren’t any sexy panties lying about. Not even a pair of high heels, or any sign of a female guest, for that matter. I drag a hand over my scruff and recall the impulsive decision I’d made last night, letting it soak in. That’s the reason I’ve woken up alone, and it rocks the contentment of my typically chaotic world. An insistent pounding in my skull has me reaching for a couple of painkillers from the bedside table. I grind them into a chalky paste with my back teeth and swallow. A glass of water would be helpful, but I’m feeling hard-core this morning. I’d knocked back a shitload of booze last night—all because I randomly found the one person I’ve never forgotten. There’s nothing unusual about this hazy, motherfucking hangover, except for the prickle of shock sparking my muscles—that’s a new thing. My over-the-top world rarely shakes. I grab the remote control for the automatic blinds and squint at the sun-drenched balcony beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows when they move up. Usually, I love the epic ocean view from my penthouse master suite. However, this morning it doesn’t impress like it normally would. Something else of natural beauty haunts me. Black hair. Green eyes blended with blue. Defiance. The aquamarine seascape was worth the premium price tag. A few million dollars is loose pocket change for a Souza. This is my base, my main bachelor pad, and the princely throne where I run the entire Miami drug scene. Now my home will have to become something else. The wide empty space next to me in my super-sized bed is a surprise given my new circumstances. A chuckle rumbles from inside my bare chest and dissipates into the cavernous creamy corners of the high ceiling. Papá had always said I was dangerously unpredictable, like a defective firework. Guess I’m always hunting the highs. The irony in his criticism wasn’t missed when the egotistical fucker had raised me to be just like him. Hungry for power and fully capable of taking it, but in my own way. Where he had acted like an AWOL patient from a psych ward, I am more self-aware of my rebellious streak. Except, in the aftermath of last night’s bombshell, perhaps I’d marginally agree with his assessment. This time, my spur-of-the-moment decision has a major kickback. Something catches my attention when I flick back the Egyptian cotton sheet, and it’s not my unsatisfied boner. It’s a chunky black band, the width crammed with diamonds twinkling up at me from my wedding finger. A straight flush. The winning hand in a game of poker. All the cards in the same suit—hearts. Fuck. It’s all coming back to me. I bounce to my feet and half jog across the gunmetal-colored carpet, wearing nothing more than leather bracelets, a few rings, and a shitload of tattoos. Broken memories of my recent adventures crackle beneath a cruel headache. My recollection is patchy apart from one very clear vision, and I’ll never forget the mental picture for the rest of my life. It’s a combination of complete power, hostility, and a surrender. Quick strides take me out of my suite, along the hallway where a large-scale Jean-Michel Basquiat painting hangs and saunter past my best friend’s bedroom door. The room he crashes in when our partying gets out of hand. Letterman had tried to talk me out of raising the stakes during my winning streak until he realized it wasn’t that straightforward. Flashes of the pending prize come hard and fast, confirming what I can’t believe to be true. I run a hand through my disheveled black hair and take a deep breath. A buzz of wicked adrenaline tingles all over me. At the top of the floating staircase that’s sandwiched between a frameless glass balustrade, spontaneity burns inside me like fuel. The charge is more powerful