Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,16
done a lot of bad shit, but the way she’s looking at me now is like she can see it all—all the lives I’ve taken, all the lives I’ve allowed to be taken, whether it was personal gain or retaliation.
“How would you know what a man is?” I take a step towards her.
Her face blazes like I knew it would.
“You’re a goddamned Northerner.” Angry tears brim her green eyes.
“I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like us, Northerner’s, love.”
“I’m not your love.”
I snap and reach for her. The scream that leaves her plump lips should make me stop and rethink what I am about to do. But I can’t. I’m ready to make her take her words back; I’m ready to show her what a man really is. As I grip her arms and drag her closer to me, my body responds to her closeness. Her scent is sweet, like vanilla. My fingers dig deeper into her small arms, and fear sparks in her eyes. Before I can talk myself out of really hurting her, I move us both. Her breath comes out harshly. I push her back into the wardrobe and slam the doors. Pressing my back against it, I push my fist into my aching eye; my hard-on slowly dies.
I’ve drunk up so much fear in my time while cage fighting. It always makes me pause because I used to see it on Frankie’s face before every fight. The fear that he couldn’t hide. The fear that Da hated to see on his son’s face. He made Frankie feel like a fucking disappointment. Like he was less than me, but Frankie was more of a man than I could ever be.
The door shifts under me as she starts to pound and scream hysterically. I used to enjoy watching that fear grow on men’s faces, and soon fear had a smell, it was excessive sweat, and sometimes it was accompanied by the scent of piss.
The doors rattle against my back, and I reach over and pick up the gold-handled brush and slide it into the handles again.
“You motherfucker, open this door.”
I step away as she pounds on it. I don’t warn her to take it easy, or she’ll topple the wardrobe. Right now, I don’t give two fucks as I head back downstairs.
I need to eat. The hollowness in my stomach is starting to eat me up. I had no idea when I last had food. My mother’s apple pie, I think.
Opening the cupboard doors, the basics are here. But nothing to make a meal out of. I take out the bread as Emma continues her onslaught on the wardrobe. I take out a slice and eat it as I walk back into the sitting room, not bothering to put anything on the bread. Pulling off a white cloth, I find a large set of cupboards. Opening the door, I grin as I drag a bottle of Jack out of the cupboard. I unscrew the lid and make my way back to the kitchen.
Taking the tray of ice-cubes out of the freezer, I drop them all into a cloth and take a swig of Jack before pushing my t-shirt aside. My ribs ache, and I push the cloth filled with ice-cubes against the wound. Lifting all the bags and firing them out the window has brought the pain back full blast.
Upstairs, Emma continues to bang and scream. The quietness of the house allows me to hear her clearly. I take another drink before putting the bottle on the counter.
The ceiling rattles, and I can picture the wardrobe toppling over. I take another drink and drop the cloth before pulling my top back down. My side burns as I make my way back up the stairs. If she has knocked it over, she could fucking stay in it. I was in too much pain to pick it up. I see a flash of red as I clear the landing.
She’s broken out. The brush is lying on the floor in front of the open wardrobe doors. I can’t see her as I step cautiously into the room.
She appears from the bathroom holding a pair of scissors. Her skin is flushed and sweaty, and I have a moment of regret from locking her in the wardrobe, but it lasts a millisecond as she opens her pretty little mouth.
“I want to speak to my father, now.” Her demand is delivered with several jabs of her scissors that she is pointing towards me.