Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,4
laughing, and he pauses. I don’t want him to pause. I don’t want the pain to stop. Joining my hands, I bring them down on his back, aiming for the spine. He releases me, and the air is ripped from my lungs again as I hit the ground.
The fucker stays on his knees, and that pisses me off.
I’m up, and the crowd rattles the cage. The sides threaten to collapse on top of us as I drive my black military boot into his face. He reels back as blood pours from his broken nose, and I can’t stop as I drive my foot into his face over and over again. The sound around me ceases, the cage disappears, and the giant under my foot morphs into my brother. My brother’s face is coated in vomit and blood. I stumble back and hit the side of the cage; fingers scrape and prod my skin.
“Finish him.” The roars have me shaking my head, and the image of my brother disappears. I lean away from the prodding fingers, but the fight leaves me as I walk to the cage door.
Amanda raises a dark brow and doesn’t open the gate immediately.
“Open the fucking gate.” Everything in me starts to ache, and I spit out a mouthful of blood on the floor.
Amanda jumps down off a wooden crate. She’s not impressed as she opens the door. “You’re barred, Shay.”
I grin as I pass her. Boos and roars for me to return and finish the fight slams against my aching skull. Each set of eyes I meet divert quickly from me as I make my way back out.
The dressing room is a shit hole. The image of me is fractured as I stare into the cracked mirror. My face is coated in blood. Turning on the taps, I bend and allow the pain that ruptures my sides in. My brother’s face springs to my mind, and I force the picture away.
Dragging on my top, I grab my bag and leave the fight club through the side door. The light outside is harsh. The sunglasses that I take out of my bag helps.
I’ve been avoiding going home. I needed to release the rage before I saw my da. He was the only reason I was allowed to walk into a fight club like this one in Belfast. These were known as free grounds. No one had a stake on the ground, no one controlled it. The respect didn’t come from me being a King. The respect came from my da’s legacy. He won every fight. He taught Frankie and me how to fight. Only Frankie had a fear in him that got him killed in the end. Since that day, my da has never put his foot inside a ring.
My body aches as I walk the few kilometers to our house. Only five houses take residence in the cul-de-sac. It’s a private area. The curtain upstairs shifts, and I would know my ma’s profile anywhere. She’s been waiting for me. I stuff my bag down along the bushes at the front of our house. I’ve two guns in it, and that’s one rule Ma has—no weapons in the house. Pity, she doesn’t know that Da has the house loaded to the gills. The red front door opens, and her smile falters.
“Jesus Christ, Shay.” Her small hands grip my face.
“Ma, I’m fine.”
She doesn’t release my face as she tilts my head back so the light can shine better on it.
“Ma.” I take her hands from my face. “I got jumped, but I’m fine.”
She takes her hands back and folds them across her chest. “I’ve patched up your da long enough.”
I scratch my forehead before leaning in and kissing her. “Did you make an apple tart?”
She’s hiding a smile as she walks up to the house. As we pass the sitting room, I glance in to see if my old man is there. No sign. The remote rests on the sofa, the TV flickers with a horse race, but the sound is muted.
“He’s in the kitchen,” My ma informs me. The moment she steps in, she puts on the kettle.
“The prodigal son.” My da rises stiffly from the table, still nursing a gun wound. He’s taller than me, and the child inside me fears him, but the man wants to take a swing.
“Don’t start, Connor. He’s just home.” My ma pulls out a chair. “Sit down, son.”
I do, and my da sits back down, picking up his mug.