Cold’s expression was curiously blank, but his entire body had tensed up. He was clearly struggling to rein in his fury and failing fast. His eyes were soon burning with an inhuman rage, and he bared his teeth in a silent snarl.
Alistair turned to Cold and put a hand on his shoulder. “Roderick, we need to—”
Cold suddenly jumped up, hurling his glass into the fireplace. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to fucking rip him into pieces with my bare fucking hands!”
Mickey was so startled by the outburst that he nearly tipped out of his chair.
Cold grabbed onto the mantle to brace himself, absolutely seething. “It was perfect. The plan was fucking perfect. It should have worked! It should have fucking worked!” He punched the mantle, his robe slipping off his shoulder as he continued to furiously pound the brick.
Mickey had never seen Cold in such a rage, and he froze in place, unsure of what to do.
“Roderick,” Alistair said, his voice stern now. “Calm down.”
“I will not fucking calm down!” Cold barked, glaring angrily at Alistair. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! I should’ve killed them all when they came to the club! Every last fucking one of them! You said to wait, and what I should have done was murder every last one of them! I’m—”
Alistair silenced Cold with a hand on the back of his neck, holding on tight. The touch had an immediate effect; Cold was quiet, his shoulders slumped, and he relaxed.
The air was still tense, and Mickey’s stomach twisted up in dread. A quick glance at Roger and Jerry showed they didn’t know what the fuck to do either except watch and wait.
Cold leaned into Alistair’s hand, and he took a deep breath.
“There you go,” Alistair urged. “Breathe for me. Just breathe.”
Cold nodded, taking several deep breaths. The energy in the room settled, and Cold’s shoulders sagged. He bowed his head and held up his hand.
Alistair backed off.
Jerry hastily got another glass and filled it, offering it to Cold.
“Thank you, Jerry,” Cold said as he turned to take it.
The robe hadn’t been righted yet, and Mickey got his first real look at Cold’s bare chest and shoulder in the light of the fire. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t look away.
Thescars.
Cold didn’t have a right nipple. It was gone. There was a dark tear of skin snaking over his breast where it should have been. Another large scar was above that, with more along his shoulder, and Cold fixed the robe before Mickey could see any more.
Christ.
Mickey had heard rumors of the abuse Cold suffered at the hands of the Luchesi family and even his own father, but the gossip did little to prepare him for actually seeing it. He knew Cold had served time for killing his father, some fuckhead named Boris, and now he had a pretty good idea why.
“Cristian now absolutely knows we’re working against him,” Cold said, trying to regain his composure and sitting back down in his chair. “We must expect retaliation, but we also need to move forward with the plan.”
“Don’t we need him on our side?” Mickey asked cautiously.
“No.” Cold shook his head. “We’re going to lay low, stay out of the way, and wait this out. I’ve been meeting in secret with Rufus Corman. He’s a member of the Luchesi family who worked personally for the Don.”
“Corman?” Roger frowned. “Not Italian, I take it?”
“No, but he has the political connections we need, and he’s willing to support our claim to the city.”
“Awfully generous of him.” Mickey scoffed. “What’s in it for him?”
“He gets to be on the winning side,” Cold replied. “Now, we’re going to—”
“Roddy?” There was a little girl with curly brown hair and big blue eyes peering around the railing at the bottom of the stairs. She was holding a stuffed shark in her arms, and she looked very surprised to see so many new faces.
“Rowena.” Cold immediately went to her and kneeled down to scoop her up into his arms. “Hey, what are you doing out of bed?”
