Mafia Prince (Young Irish Rebels #1) - Vi Carter Page 0,3

they can barely keep themselves alive.

“Mom,” I call as I force the door closed behind me. It takes three attempts before the lock slides into place, sealing me into the house. I step around the pile of cardboard that’s being stacked against the skirting board. The yellow floor tiles are neglected and grubby.

The moment I step into the kitchen, I drop my bag on the floor. The table is flooded with plates with food caked onto them - the type that will take an hour of steeping to remove. I lift a pile of unopened mail and drop it back down as I scan all the empty vodka and wine bottles. Walking around the table, I force the window open and let some air filter in to try and get rid of the smell.

“Mom.” I call louder as I open the back door and place a chair behind it to hold it open. My heart leaps as Sandy pounces off the counter and races out the back door. I don’t even look at the counters to see what the cat’s been doing. Takeaway bags and opened food are stacked high. It always looks like this when I get back from college. My weekend will be cleaning, working at the local grocery store, and trying to get some homework done.

Sandy’s silver bowls are empty on the floor. I don’t want to stay in the kitchen any longer, but I’m not cruel either. Opening the cupboard, I take out a moldy loaf of bread and place it on the counter. Pushing aside red sauce and some jam, I stare into emptiness. I close the cupboard and move onto the next, which holds a bag of sugar and some salt.

Sandy has re-entered the kitchen and cries up at me as she circles around my ankles.

“Yeah, I’m working on it.” Kneeling down, I open the bottom cupboard and grin at the bag of cat food. Sandy leaps up on my knee, and I swipe her off.

“Here we go.” I barely get the food into the bowl before Sandy’s eating them. Filling up her water dish, I call my mother again before leaving the kitchen.

“Mom.” She must be passed out somewhere. The sitting room door is closed, and I push it open. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but once they do, I wish I could step out of the room—the air freezes in my lungs and the ground under me shifts. A man stands over my bleeding brother. My brother’s gray t-shirt—that’s nearly threadbare—is coated in flecks of his blood. His jeans hang off his thin frame. My gaze bounces around the scarcely furnished sitting room before landing on my mother. The air re-enters my system, and I try to control my racing heart. My mother is in a heap in the corner. Her wild eyes won’t settle on anything. Mascara runs down her worn-out face. I’m tempted to step closer to her, but a shove to my back sends a shiver up my spine. The gun is nudged into my back again until I’m standing in the center of the room.

“What have we got here?”

I spin around at the voice. It’s deep and holds an edge, like a sharp knife that nicks the skin. It makes me uncomfortable and cautious. Even without the gun, this man is dangerous. His bald head seems to absorb the light. Heavy brows curtain his blue eyes that assess me. He takes a step closer. The leather coat creaks as he reaches out a tattooed hand and lifts my blond plait before dropping it back down onto my bare shoulder. I want to yank my top up, but it’s meant to hang off the shoulder, so I tighten my hands into fists.

“You’re a pretty little thing.” His grin is razor-sharp, and alarm bells start to ring as I take a step back.

“What do you want?” My voice sounds stronger than I actually feel.

“Leave her alone.” Declan moans from the floor, and I’m relieved he’s alive. His pale skin had me wonder if today was the day that I would find my brother dead. Now that I see he isn’t dead, I wonder what mess he has gotten us into. I try to convey my question toward him with a stare that he meets briefly. His eyes slam closed as the man above him drives his black military-style boot into my brother’s stomach. I’m moving, but a hand pulls on my arm and drags