Page 11 of Tortured Eyes
Five
Asmall smile plays around my lips as I look through the information on my laptop. Bryce McCarthy. Irish heritage. Father was a cop. Killed four years ago. It didn't take me long to find out who she was. A detective sergeant walking about in a mob-central bar didn't go unnoticed, no matter how subtle she was.
The moment she left, a guy who works alongside the narcotics team asked why she was there. I didn't know then, and I still don't, but she’s recently been promoted and is working violent crime. Numerous commendations and she’s predicted to rise through the ranks of Chicago PD fast. Interesting. Must be clean, and kept herself low, as Cane hasn’t even noticed her. Almost undercover. It’s a good word for what she was last night. Never would have guessed she was a cop had she not said no to me. I just would have fucked her and moved on—normal protocol. Use and leave.
But she did say no.
And that intrigued me more than any woman saying yes.
I stare at the old, worn dice on the desk, wondering if my father ever fucked a cop. Maybe he did. Those were the years when Cane meant more than just business. He probably did all kinds of shit to all kinds of people. I’ve seen some of the tapes, heard the stories of old school handlings. Mortoni still runs like that now. Marco’s son, Emilio, rides the mafia cartels through Chicago like the family never came out of old school. They moved in as Cane exited. It’s messy. Not a cohesive team because of the cartels arguing, but I like him, have worked with him on several occasions years back. Maybe he’ll be a useful tool in Chicago now.
The chair pushes back and I spin around so I can leave. Today means going to another office instead of this home version I have. Another thing that’s going to piss me off. Although—I sneer and pick up my jacket—at least the conversation will be more in my favour than theirs today.
My hand grabs the garage fob from the hall table, and I head out into brisk, fresh air. The sky’s clear today, no dark foreboding clouds, and I stare at the dew on top of the trees lining the house gardens, sunlight bouncing off them. My gardens. They don’t belong to Cane. Nothing here does. It belongs to me and me alone, bought as a place where I could start understanding who I was without the Cane rhetoric all around me.
“Mr Cane?” I swing back at the timid voice of Angela Rubio, my housekeeper. “Will you be home for dinner?”
Unlikely. “No. Lock the place down as usual. Call Dennis and make sure he’s here with you tonight.”
She frowns and walks a step closer, fiddling with her apron. “Mr Cane, is everything alright? You’ve not been here for months, and I was…” She hovers, unsure. “I was just wondering about my job and longevity. Please don’t think I’m prying, I just…”
I stare at her, enjoying the nerves she portrays. She’s a good worker, though. Honest. Reliable. Able to keep her mouth shut on the occasions I’ve needed that from her.
“I was wondering if you were thinking about moving to New York. Selling up?”
Am I? I don’t know. There’s little for me in Chicago now but memories and a family I have nothing to do with. Nothing here is from Cane wealth either, only in the sense that I acquired it and the things I’ve learned through the years because I am a Cane.
But maybe I'm not anymore. Maybe New York is my home.
And Samuel's there.
“Your job is safe.” I turn back to look at the façade on show, the white mansion screaming decadence and luxury. If nothing else, I'll keep it as a foothold regardless of whether I stay here or not. “Ongoing.” As is my life without my father in it.
“Okay. Thank you,” she says, taking a step backwards. “I’ll call Dennis now.”
I nod and walk down the steps, heading for the garages. The rollers go up to reveal the selection of cars acquired over the years. Porsche, Lamborghini, Aston. A few others. I look at the Aston Martin, my eyes tracing the elegant black lines. It’s been a while since I’ve been in it, and the sight of it seems in line with the curves of Bryce McCarthy for some inexplicable reason. It reminds me of her. Unassuming. Not quite as vulgar as the others, regardless of its power over them all.
I chuckle and slip inside, and before I know it, I’m speeding out through the gates towards the city. My thoughts fall back to a certain priest and his ability to seem above the rest of us, too. He’s just like this car in some ways. Smooth. Quiet. But press the pedal, try goading him, and he bites back twice as hard without even raising his voice. Saintly bastard. Every goddamn word he utters hits home with me, bores in and finds some part of me reserved for him alone.
I don’t even know how he does it, or why I ever fucked him in the first place. Maybe it was just a game at first, something interesting to play with. I’d driven to him, barely acknowledging I was doing it. He didn’t make the move, other than inviting me. He held back. Stood there like an angel and gazed at me, practically begging me to move into him. I did. Full tilt.
No thought other than need.
The city springs up on me before I know it, lines of traffic grinding me down to a near halt. Fuck that. I jump into the cab lanes, sprinting the distance between me and the offices. I don’t abide by rules any more than any other Cane. Apart from Carter, who abides by every fucking rule there is these days. Not that he’s a true Cane. No bite anymore. It’s dull. He’s fucking dull. I can’t believe he’s the same person he used to be all those years ago.
I watched him so many times when he took over, saw the hate in his eyes when he fought to re-order the balance that taking over from my father caused. Where did that man go? The one who was feared? The city yielded out of terror then. Real terror. Not the way it does now because of his actions, because of Fia’s actions. Politicians might still bend and move for Cane, but they only do it for money.
This city no longer understands real fear, doesn’t understand pain. The drug cartels run riot through the back streets with no clear leader in mind other than the biggest one—Mortoni. It’s nothing like New York. No cohesive management now Cane sits on executive boards and has forgotten its roots. I remember, though. And I’m still part of it.
Just in a new city.
I park out front and amble through the building, taking in the insignias branded about the place. It means so little to me. Vico had none of this. No building other than some downtown office where he showed the masses his power if needed. Nothing clean or decent. He still, after all those years, ran everything from his hands and his contacts. Occasionally from Mama's restaurant. I chuckle, thinking of Cannoli's. Phone calls were made there, wealth crossed palms across an old diner table, some threats were made, and then deals were struck. That’s the way I like business. I look around the foyer, sneering at the polished marble and chrome glinting. This pretence is nothing like me. Not anymore, at least. This isn’t what I’ve been taught to be.
“Logan?”
I turn and stare into my father’s eyes, hatred burning up my insides. “Father.”
He looks at me, takes in the suit, and then walks towards the elevator without another word. We both get in. Both stand and stare at our reflected images rather than talk like a father and son would having not seen each other for years.
