“Thirteen.” Thirdsies stood up straighter.
“There has been a terrible misunderstanding here, sir,” Valdemar said sternly. “My boy is a good boy, and he wouldn’t have done that had we known it was your club. He’s a huge fan of yours, Mr. Cold, sir.”
Cold actually smiled at that.
“He’s gay,” Valdemar whispered loudly. “You’re his idol, really. Like Cher, but with a touch more death.”
“The fuck!” Thirdsies wailed, totally mortified. “Come on, you don’t have to tell him all that!”
“I thought it would be beneficial, my boy!”
“Have you made many bombs, Mr. Thirdsies?” Cold asked. He didn’t seem upset at all, and Alistair was right there stewing beside him.
“Oh! Like dozens of ‘em!” Thirdsies’ face lit up like a Christmas tree. “My grandpa taught me all about making fires and these crazy gases with chemicals, but I love blowing stuff up the best.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yeah! I mean, I do say! And, uh, again, I’m real, real sorry about burning down your club. I always dreamed about goin’ there one day. You know, when I was old enough to get fake ID.”
“The chatter on the streets suggested a most violent end for whoever was responsible for its loss.” Valdemar held his head high. “If you must have your blood debt, then I ask that you take it from me, sir.”
“I don’t think I will be taking any blood today,” Cold mused. “I have something else in mind.”
“What’s that, your Coldness?”
“Do either of you have any experience making car bombs?”
“Oh, Boss Cold.” Thirdsies’ eyes widened, and he was absolutely grinning. “Do you want one that goes boom on a timer or one that goes boom on command?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Cold smirked. “I think this is the beginning of something beautiful. Mr. Valdemar, Mr. Thirdsies. I would like to cordially extend an invitation for you both to join the Gentlemen.”
Chapter 17
The meeting went on with Cold and his newest Gentlemen conspiring a plan to take out the city prosecutor. Valdemar apparently had a very impressive history of arson beneath his belt, and Thirdsies was ‘way stoked’ to be a gangster.
“Just a small one,” Cold had said with a sly smile.
He would forgive the fire at Slick Rick’s in exchange for Valdemar and Thirdsies’ help and offer them protection from the Luchesi family in case they ever came around looking to tie up loose ends.
Alistair probably wasn’t happy about the destruction of his club going unpunished, but he didn’t say anything. There had been a distinct shift in the relationship between him and Cold, so much that Mickey was asked to sleep down in the basement with Pym because Cold would now be sleeping in the guest room.
On the surface, everything was business as usual. Cold remained calm and collected, and Alistair was as smug as ever. Even now as they discussed the details of planting a car bomb to take out that Mr. Head guy, nothing seemed amiss. In fact, a strange synergy was beginning to take shape.
Pym, who was usually quiet as a mouse, was offering to help Thirdsies track down the specific parts he would need and offering advice to ensure they were untraceable. Rufus claimed he could find out where the escort vehicles were kept when they weren’t being used, and Roger boasted he could break in anywhere Cold needed so they could plant the device.
Everyone was working together so well, and Cold looked quite proud of the motley little gang he’d brought together.
Mickey wasn’t really needed for this mission, and he found himself zoning out from the intense plotting. It wasn’t like him to be unfocused when he was working, but thoughts of his grandfather were invading his brain.
He’d read the ingredients for the lasagna at least a hundred times now, and he still wrestled with whether or not that final text was actually from him or some Luchesi prick. He hadn’t deleted it yet and sometimes found himself staring at it, debating if he should let it go.
There was nothing he could do about it now except wait for that bastard Salvatore to rear his ugly head again. During their recent rampage, there had been no sign of him, and Mickey was aching to put a bullet in him.
He knew Salvatore was the one responsible for Pops’ death, and he’d been wrong to blame Roger. He couldn’t take back all the horrible things he’d said, and regret had begun to eat its way around the grieving hole in his chest. He had chosen to ignore it, but it was impossible with Roger only a few feet away now.
Mickey’s grief was tearing him apart inside, and he longed for relief, for comfort, anything to ease the agony. He knew he was yearning for Roger, to have him back in his bed and in his arms once more to get a reprieve from all of this pain.
What he’d felt when he was with Roger was truly without compare. No one else would ever be able to give him that sweet rush. He felt equally confident Roger’s new lover, whoever he was, could never fuck him like Mickey could. He couldn’t make Roger scream like he did.
