Vicious Minds (Children of Vice #4)
J.J. McAvoy
Prologue
“Blood makes you related. Loyalty makes you family.”
~Chris Diaz
ETHAN
Chicago, Illinois
Monday, November 3rd
“Papà!” she yelled, dressed in a red peacoat with a red beret on her head. Her curls bounced as she ran down the stairs. My aunts, my uncles, even Wyatt cleared out of her way as she came towards me like a bullet. In a blink of an eye, I lost sight of her and in the same second my knees buckled. I had to take a step back to brace myself from falling over. It was only then that I got a good look at her. I stared down, she stared back up at me. One of her eyes was the exact shade of green as mine, the other brown, and it made my heart ache…and race. So many emotions rushed me at once that I couldn’t truly process the magnitude of what was happening.
“Ethan, meet your daughter, Giovanna Siena Orsini-Callahan,” Fiorello said as he got up from the table to walk over to me. “Her mother and I just call her Gigi though.”
The little one held onto my legs, happily grinning as she spoke in Italian; “Mamma alla fine disse che potevo venire ma il nonno disse che doveva cavalcare l’edera perché era velenosa,” (Mommy finally said I could come, but grandpapa said he had to get rid of the ivy because it was poisonous).”
Everyone, including myself, looked to Fiorello as he grinned like an old fat cat in a dairy farm.
“You threw me under the bus, Gigi.” Fiorello laughed as he bent over to speak to her.
Still holding on to my pant leg, she turned to him with a confused expression, rubbing her eyes. “Won’t that kill you? Being under a bus?”
“Definitely his kid,” Uncle Neal whispered to Uncle Declan. I felt all of their eyes on us. My uncles, aunts, brother, cousins, and my nana, who looked torn three times over between tears, pain, and joy.
It was only when Gigi yawed did it seem like my brain began to work again. Bending down to her height, I tapped her cheeks, and she focused her gaze on me. She smiled at me.
“Are you hungry?” I asked her.
She shook her head no, her curly hair bouncing from side to side. “I had big meatballs and cheese sticks!”
“Your favorite?” I asked, taking her into my arms.
She nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Mamma says I’m meat head.”
“What do you say back?” I prompted as I moved towards the stairs.
“I am because she’s one too.” She yawned, resting her head on me. It was clear from how much she was rubbing her eyes that she’d been fighting off sleep and I couldn’t have much-needed conversations with anyone until she was out of the way.
“And what does she say?” Gigi’s grip on me became tighter. She was so small, I held on to her with ease.
“Mama says I’m right and then we eat meatballs together.” Her voice and breathing were getting softer as we got on the elevator.
“Meatballs and no pasta?”
“Sometimes,” she whispered and just like that, she was out.
The few maids that were in the hall once the elevator stopped on the right floor stared at the both of us in shock, but said nothing. What could they even say? Their stares were brief as I walked past them without a glance. Entering my room I laid her on the center of my bed, taking off her jacket, shoes, and hat and placed them on the bedside table.
I couldn’t help but realize that for as long I live, November 3rd will be scorched in my mind as the day I realized I had much to learn before I could ever hope to be the man I thought I was. November 3rd was the day I killed the governor, the mayor, the police commissioner, and the fire chief, the day my brother was released from the hospital, the day we both realized my parents…both of my parents were still alive…and the day I became a parent in the eyes of the world.
One day.
That’s all it took for life to flip on its head.
“Can you tell me a story?” Gigi whispered softly in Italian, rubbing her eyes as she sat up from under the blankets I just put on her.
People—parents really did that? Story time?
“I don’t know a story. Sleep. Aren’t you tired?” I said back to her in Italian, and the look of disappointment and hurt on her face made me pause.
“Papà, are you mad at me?”
This little…person…child…is my child…my daughter. Welcome home, sweetheart.
“No, I am not mad at you,” I said, placing my hand on her cheek.
I am Ethan Antonio Giovanni Callahan, first son of the former head of the Irish mob, Liam Alec Callahan, and former head of the Italian mafia, Melody Nicci Giovanni Callahan. I am the Ceann Na Conairte, the leader of the pack, of the Irish mob. I am the Don of the Italian mafia. I am one of the richest, most powerful, and dangerous men on this goddamn planet. I have the president’s personal cell phone number. He took orders from me. No one or thing was beyond my knowledge or reach. So, how would I have a four-year-old daughter and not know about it?
“Do you not know a story, Papà?” She tilted her head sideways to look at me, obviously getting a second wind.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I don’t know any stories.”
“I do!” She grinned, sitting up and pushing the blanket down. “Once upon time….”