Hell's Kitchen (Hell's Kitchen #1)
Callie Hart & Lili St Germain
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile
—St. Crispin’s Day Speech,
Henry V, The Bard.
PROLOGUE
ROBERTO
“Find that little Irish bitch,” I say, surveying my sons with disdain. Disdain is fast becoming the norm where Sal and Theo are concerned, but surely they’re capable of doing this one thing for me. One thing that will show those Irish fuckers they can’t screw with the Barbieri family and get away with it. One thing that will ensure the McLaughlins never fuck with us again.
As far as days go, it’s a shitty day to kidnap someone, let alone the most protected bitch in the entire state of New York, but this ain’t our first time at the rodeo. So long as the boys think with their heads and not their cocks, it should be a simple task.
“This air-conditioning sucks balls,” Sal, my younger boy says. He’s right, but his tone irritates me so much, I have to clench my fists to stop myself from retaliating with violence. He’s got nothing to complain about, standing there like a cocky little prick, watching me do the food prep. It’s hot as fuck in Hell’s Kitchen as it is, but standing next to the industrial deep fryer as I drop thin slices of veal into bubbling oil, it’s positively sweltering.
“We got a starting point?” Sal asks.
The meat sizzles as it hits the burning fat. “Been a long time since I had to hold your fucking dick for you when you had to take a piss, son. You seem to be able to figure that out all on your own these days. I’m sure you can figure this out, too. How hard can picking up a teenage girl really be?”
Theo, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands covered in blood—a picture of violence, as always—shrugs. “She’s not just some kid we can snatch off the short bus. She’s got bodyguards. Two of them. Ex-military bastards.”
“One of them’s a fucking woman,” I spit. I cast my eyes over my sons: first Salvatore, then Theo, not sure who I’m more pissed off with. Not sure which one of them is the least like me. If I hadn’t kept a close eye on my wife before she fucking died, there’s a strong possibility I’d be questioning our boys’ paternity. Fucking weak, both of them. Just like their mother.
“Hey,” I snap, “you getting my meat ready or finger-fucking it over there?”
Sal snickers. Theo scowls.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, boy?” I hiss.
Sal shrugs as he pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against and reaches into the waistband of his jeans, pulling out his Glock and checking the chamber. Seemingly satisfied, he tucks the gun back in place. “Got a photo?”
I make a small sound of irritation in the back of my throat as I pause my deep frying and wipe my hands on the rag that hangs over my shoulder. Reaching into my breast pocket, I pull out a 5x7 print and hand it over to my younger son. Sal pinches the photograph between his thumb and index finger and pulls, but I make no move to let go. “We’ve got one chance at this, you understand? You don’t get her this time, we’re fucked.”
If only they knew.
Sal nods, and I finally let the photograph slip from my grasp. Theo, still elbow deep in meat and blood, cocks his head to the side, motioning for Sal to bring the photo closer. Sal obliges, standing beside his brother and holding the photograph up for both of them to see.
I can already anticipate the reaction these two will have. Kaitlin McLaughlin grew the fuck up. And she grew up hot. Long platinum blonde hair, arrow-straight. Green eyes, flecked with brown. Full lips, the works. She looks fuckable, but in a barely legal kind of way. I already know that Theo’s pretty good at spotting girls under the age of consent, and this kid still has a look of jail time about her. A hint of arrogance, too. It lurks behind the cold smile that teases at the corners of her mouth—like she knows something you don’t, only I do know her secrets. Nevertheless, girls like that are always trouble. Always better off avoided like the plague. And here I am, about to send these two after the kid like I’ve got a goddamn death wish. “How old?” Theo asks.
“Does it matter?” I don’t look up from my task. I can feel Theo’s eyes on me, and I wonder if he’s staring at the deep, purple scar that zigzags down my temple and over my cheekbone as I work. He has a hard time looking me in the eye, that one, too fascinated with my war wounds. “She’s Paddy McLaughlin’s blood,” I say emphatically. “This is the way it’s always been. The sins of the father are visited upon the heads of his children. She could be thirty or she could be three fucking months old. It wouldn’t matter. We’d still be having this conversation. Paddy McLaughlin’s people have fucked with our people. And now we’re gonna fuck with his.”