Page 4 of Unspoken

"Nothing worth mentioning," I reply, swallowing the knot of worry lodged in my chest. I can't really tell her about the new job offer, about Vlad Solovey and the path that might lead me further into the abyss. She’s aware of what I do now. But I painted it for her with wide brushstrokes. No unnecessary details. No need to stress her even more.

"Always so secretive," she chides gently, a tired chuckle threading through her words.

"Learned from the best," I quip, earning a smile that lights up her pale face for a moment, a fleeting victory against the lingering gloom.

We talk about nothing and everything—dodging around the elephant in the room, ignoring the IV drip's steady rhythm. As the sun slowly travels toward the horizon, dropping shadows that creep along the floor, the nurse gently reminds me that Mrs. McKenna needs her rest and that I should stop by the doctor’s office before I head out.

My mother’s oncologist's office is nothing like the warmth of my mother's ward. The room is a cold bubble where hope and dread sit side by side. The doctor’s in his chair and is staring at me from across his table. He's got that look on his face, the one I've come to associate with more bad news. His words fall like cold rain, each syllable a droplet chilling my already frigid resolve.

"Logan, we've done what we can surgically," Dr. Patel begins, his voice measured, "but there are still cancerous cells that are concerning. We believe another round of chemotherapy is necessary."

"Another round?" The words splinter in my throat. "I thought... after the surgery, she would be...in the clear."

"Your mother is a fighter," he cuts in, not unkindly. "She's beaten this before. With chemotherapy, her chances improve significantly."

I rub a palm over my face, feeling the grit of weariness in my eyes. "But she's not the same as she was. She’s not young. All these treatments... they're tearing her apart."

"Unfortunately, cancer doesn't relent because we grow older," he replies, his gaze steady. "Chemo is our best option for attacking the remaining cells aggressively."

"Aggressively..." I echo hollowly, staring at a point over his shoulder. Aggression is something I understand—fighting, surviving. But this enemy is a phantom, untouchable, invisible, and I'm just a man with fists that can't protect the one person who matters.

"Remember, Logan," the doctor says gently, "it's ultimately Cecilia's decision whether to undergo treatment or not. We recommend it, but we also respect the patient's wishes."

"Of course." My voice is a rumble from deep within, a boulder rolling down a hill, unstoppable, crushing whatever lies in its path.

"Give it some thought," the doctor suggests, standing up. "Discuss it with her when she's feeling a little better." His gaze locks on mine, serious, and I feel like a little boy again.

"Will do," I mutter, even though inside I'm screaming, begging for a different answer, a miracle cure that doesn't exist.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to," he says, circling the table.

It’s my cue to leave, I realize. "Thank you, doctor," is all I manage to say before exiting the office.

Out in the hallway, I draw a deep breath and think about running away, think about some faraway land where my mother could be healthy and where I can be free. Sadly, it’s all it is—wishful thinking.

Sooner or later, I have to confront real life.

At the billing office, when the girl hands me the surgery bill, the numbers on paper blur into a monstrous figure, as if taunting me. I lean in, squinting, hoping I've read it wrong. But the total doesn't change—it looms, a mountain of debt I can't climb unless I land a good gig ASAP.

I clear my throat, feeling embarrassed. "Can I... set up a payment plan?" My voice is gruff and wobbly.

"Of course, Mr. McKenna. We can do monthly payments of…" the girl behind the counter offers, her voice trailing off as her fingers fly across the keyboard to produce the information she needs to supply. She finally gives me a number.

"That’ll work," I manage, the sentence like gravel in my mouth.

Several minutes later, when all the technicalities are dealt with, I offer my final "thank you" and turn away, feeling the digits branded on the back of my skull, searing through my thoughts.

With each step on the way out, the weight on my shoulders grows heavier, dragging me down. It's not just the bills; it's the upcoming chemo, the suffering, the endless cycle of pain and fading hope.

I need money—more than what any relatively safe job can offer. And there, in the darkest corner of my mind, the offer from Frankie resurfaces, whispering promises of relief. Vlad Solovey. The son of the notorious Russian mafioso, who met his end last year on the VIP terrace of Orion, the latest monolith of steel and glass on the Strip. The name alone is enough to send half of Vegas running scared. But desperation makes strange bedfellows.

It’s your ticket out of this hole, Logan, my gut whispers as I exit the building.

Outside, under the blanket of the Nevada sky, I pull out my phone with a trembling hand. My mother's life, my conscience, the law—all hanging in the balance as I consider diving into the underworld I might never climb out of.

I hesitate on the way to my car, finger hovering over Frankie’s contact like a leaf in the wind. When I approach my Land Rover, a ride I could never allow myself on a cop’s salary, I’ve made up my mind. I climb inside and slam the door a little too hard. Then I crank up the AC, thinking that even this car—that I bought with the payout after my first major gig and when Ma was in remission—could be gone in a heartbeat.

There’s no patience for indecisions or the luxury of conscience. There’s just the need to survive, to protect whatever’s left of my family.

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