Mafia King (Young Irish Rebels #2) - Vi Carter Page 0,42
on the forehead so she can’t read the guilt in my eyes.
“See you later.” I leave and gather my bag out of the bushes before running across the road to my car. Before I start it, something makes me look up at my bedroom window. I’m expecting to see Emma standing there with all the judgment in her eyes, but no one is there.
I drive to the address that Paul gave me and sit across the road. Lighting a smoke, I watch as a blonde woman gets out of the car with a young boy and girl. They might have been five or slightly more. I wasn’t good with judging kids’ ages. The front door opens, and Michael’s battered face appears. The kids race past him, and the blonde woman takes bags of groceries out of the trunk of the car before walking up to the doorstep. Once she’s in, Michael closes the door.
The cigarette bounces off the road as I throw it out the window and roll the window up. The gun is in my hand, and I don’t feel its normal coldness as the gloves restrict it. I tuck it in my jacket pocket before opening the glove compartment and taking out a black cap.
No cars are around as I pick up the crushed cigarette before I cross the road while dragging the cap down over my eyes. I move around to the side gate and put my hand through the small gap to open it.
Closing the gate behind me, I move around the back garden, jumping over a small red bike before walking up to the back door. Voices in the kitchen had me pausing. The kids are asking for Smarties while their ma unloads the shopping.
A bucket filled with cigarette butts sits outside the sliding door. That was fucking perfect. I light my own cigarette. I don’t have long to wait until the door slides open.
“Close the door, Michael. Don’t let the heat out.” The woman’s voice follows Michael out the door.
He’s halfway out when he sees me. “Come out, or I’m coming in.”
“I won’t be long,” he calls back into the house and pulls the door behind him.
His hands tremble as he lights a cigarette.
“Let's talk in the shed,” I suggest while crushing the cigarette between my fingers and pocketing the butt.
“The cops are watching the house.” Michael’s voice quivers. Trepidation drips like a broken tap as he continues to plead silently with me.
I grin and walk to the shed. Gardening tools could become weapons that could make him suffer.
“I have two kids.” He stumbles in the door, and I close it.
“Frankie had six.” I lie and grip him by the collar to drag him deeper into the shed.
“I didn’t know.”
My hand connects with his face. I keep my hand open but let the force of my arm fill the slap. “I don’t give two fucks what you know and don’t know. I’m telling you now.” I grin and slap his opposite cheek.
I exhale loudly as excitement has me moving my shoulders in a circular motion. This is the moment I had dreamed of, and I will savor every second of it.
“How old is your boy?” I remove my jacket and fold it neatly on the lawnmower.
Ashes drip from his cigarette. “Hmmm, six, I think.”
I laugh. “What a fuck up you are. Don’t you know the boy’s age? I would have said five.” I nod and walk into his personal space. I slap him again, and it feels so fucking good. “He looks strong enough to be a rag boy.”
More ashes fall, and I take the cigarette from his hand.
“That’s my boy.” His voice shakes.
I cover his mouth and push the cigarette into the side of his face. The smell of burning flesh accompanies his screams. It’s a sickening smell, but one that tells me the fucker is suffering. I remove it and throw it on the ground.
“Frankie was my brother.”
I remove my hand as saliva pours from his mouth. His hand hovers over the burning flesh while he bends at the knees trying not to throw up.
I move back and give him a moment. “How old is your daughter?”
He looks up at me as he spits onto the floor. He still is half-bent, only half a man. To think this is what took my brother’s life.
“She’d make a few pennies on the market.”
He stands to his full height. I remove my gloves and flex my hands, allowing the burn to slice through me.