Vicious Minds (Children of Vice #4)(61)
“It keeps your monster company.”
He pulled me to him and even with the knife in my hand now poised at his throat he leaned in and whispered, “Everyone one talked about my parents like they were gods. I want to see their faces when they realize they have nothing on us.”
His lips were on mine and I pulled the knife back, kissing him just hard as he kissed me. Our time was coming, and then nothing would stop us.
Until then…
“I don’t like that your plaything looks a little like me,” I whispered, breaking away from him.
“What?” He frowned. “You look nothing like that idiot.”
“She has brown hair.”
“That’s the similarity?”
“I don’t like it. Tell her to dye her hair red or shave it off,” I demanded. “Or whatever the hell else.”
He looked at me as if I was insane but nodded.
“Good. Now go, I’m going to feed our child.”
Chapter 13
“Graveyards are full of indispensable men.”
~Charles De Gaulle
ETHAN - AGE 27
Chicago, Illinois
Saturday, November 11th
Idiots.
This world was full of idiots.
I knew this, but I often wondered—were they idiots at birth, as in God just forgot to give them a brain, or were they dropped on their heads as children and never recovered?
“It will never happen again Mr. Callahan.” The two men, my men, stood shivering, clenching their balls, in the middle of Ms. McGlinchy’s ice and ice cream factory. Men and women would cut massive blocks of ice and wheel them to another machine, which smashed it into perfect pieces before funneling it into McGlinchy Ice bags. Everyone was on holiday today, which left us some space to talk.
I stared at the red-haired men, twins it looked like. They looked identical but there was not a single brain cell between them.
“It was our fault—”
“Of course, it was your fault. Who else’s fault could it have been?” I asked them, leaning back in my chair. “It couldn’t have been my fault, I’m not idiot.”
“Right, sir, I mean—”
“Then why tell me it’s your fault? I already know that.” I stared at them. “You should be telling me how you plan on making up for this.”
They got on their knees.
“Mr. Callahan, forgive us, please. It was for family—”
“I’m supposed to be your family, aren’t I?” I snapped, getting to my feet. “You stole from me, your family, to give to your other family, the Finnegan brothers you say, and now you want me to forgive you?”
“We didn’t know they were going to take—”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKING IDIOTS!” I roared. “You’re not supposed to think! I THINK! You follow me so you don’t end up freezing your fucking balls off in a goddamn ice cream factory, you fucking dipshits!”
“Sir—”
“Tobias!” I yelled, ignoring them, and when he came closer it took all my strength not to smash his face in. What good was he when he only gave me information after the fucking act? “I want to know everything about the Finnegan brothers, every fucking thing, am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I inhaled and looked back to the ginger fucking pieces of shit. “Greyson, tell our gingers to have a little time out in the box. Ten minutes and they will come out much wiser.”
Greyson as well as three other guards circled, having to beat on them a little before dragging them over to the steel box. Opening it, they threw their bodies inside and I looked away only to find Ms. McGlinchy standing there. Everyone else in the community called her Grams. She was a short Irish woman with grey hair that she kept in a bun and a face with more wrinkles than tree bark. She handed me a cup of ice cream.
“Take a quick gander in there after five minutes, they’re not going to be the full shilling, a bad dose of cold like that will have them banjaxed.” She spoke in a deep Irish accent. Which in translation of her slang meant after five minutes in the box they’d be broken…dead. After all, no human being could survive that cold.
“Is that so? I must have miscalculated, although the dead are always wiser.” I took the ice cream from her.
“Your oul fella would be proud of you. You’re throwing shapes just like him. Since you were an oul chiseler not once have I seen you acting the maggot.” She snickered at me, showing me her dentures.
“Grams—”
“What?” She yelled at the young woman that approached as we walked towards the back. The Veterans Day cookout was being held right outside her factory.
“They want you to come cut the cake.” The woman addressed Ms. McGlinchy but was focused on me, offering a small smile.
“No they don’t, you lyin’ little floozie,” she snapped.
“Grams!”
“Don’t Grams me. I am old, not blind. I see you making eyes at him. Don’t blame you, Ethan’s a fine thing, but you’re making a holy show of yourself.” Grams, despite her age and looks, enjoyed ripping people to shreds. She elbowed me, laughing. “Look at her face all scarlet. Leg it…and don’t lie about cake next time.”