Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,20

the back of his jeans.

“You made a bomb?” He’s looking at me from the corner of his eye.

“You can’t keep locking me up,” I counteract.

“You’re right. I can’t.” He steps aside, and I don’t trust him, so I don’t move.

“You can go, Emma.”

I know I haven’t won. It can’t be that easy, but I also know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So I step around him. I’m still ready and waiting for him to grab my arm, but that doesn’t happen. Each step I take makes me think maybe that’s all I needed to do. I just needed to rebel. The steps behind me creak, and I glance over my shoulder—my stomach squirms as my gaze clashes with his.

I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I could go as far as saying that he’s angry. It’s the set of his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. The smell at the top of the stairs reeks of drain cleaner. I don’t see any aluminum anywhere. As I pass the threshold, I’m tempted to turn and slam the door in his face, but he’s quicker and stronger. Once I’m in the hallway, I look back at him. He closes the door with a calmness that has me wary.

His black t-shirt is slightly raised, the handle of the gun peeking out. Taking it flitters through my mind, but he leaves.

“We should talk.” He enters the kitchen, and this time I follow him.

“I think you're right, but first, I want all my belongings brought back inside.”

He nods. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have thrown them out the window.”

I want to smile at the victory, but I don’t want him thinking we will ever be friends. Once I get my stuff back, and he stops locking me up, I can try to spend the next four weeks away from him and maybe explore the outside world a bit more.

“I’ll go get them.” He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and a lighter. I don’t want the smell of smoke on my clothes, but I don’t push my luck either. As he leaves, my stomach rumbles, and I realize it’s been over thirty-six hours since I ate.

The front door opens, and while he’s gone, I start to look through the cupboards. There’s not much in them, but I manage to find a tin of tuna and crackers. Placing them on the counter, I turn towards the fridge and get some butter.

“Why don’t you sit down.”

I spin, startled by his voice. I hadn’t heard him come back in. I can’t look away from the blue rope in his hands. I reach behind me, my hand lands on the tin of tuna. Before he can react, I throw it, but he moves his head to the side and races towards me.

He’s pissed.

His cologne and the smell of cigarettes assault me as he lifts me easily and pushes me into a chair that he kicks out. A hand presses heavily on my chest, and I freeze. The warmth seeps through my dress, and I feel it race along my skin like electricity.

My moment costs me as he swings the rope around my torso and pulls, tying me to the chair.

“Let me up, now.” I push against it, but he makes it tighter. Once he has me firmly tied to the chair, he stands back and admires his handy work while lighting another cigarette.

He hasn’t taken his dark gaze off me as he holds the lit cigarette between his lips and takes a phone out of his pocket. Once he dials a number, he removes the cigarette from his mouth.

I struggle against the restraints, knowing it’s useless, but sitting here and doing nothing doesn't feel natural.

“Did your father tell you that he dropped off my bride-to-be?”

I freeze in my seat.

He nods and blows smoke into the air; a grin plays on his lips. “She came with a CV.” He inhales again, and this time he blows the smoke into my face.

“It says she plays the fucking tin whistle. Doesn’t say anything about her bomb-making skills.”

I can’t hear what is being said on the other side of the phone, but I already know my mistake. It was reckless and stupid of me to make that bomb.

“I want a fucking explanation, Jack.” When he says Jack, he watches me closely for a reaction, and he gets one. I die a little more inside.

He walks away and closes the phone. I have no idea why the