Page 16 of Tortured Eyes
Seven
The phone drops from my hand, the meeting now arranged, and I stare at the lines of white powder on the table. Emilio Mortoni. Quiet. Thoughtful. Deadly. Just the kind of man I need. I lean forward, first tasting and then inhaling the new product. The quick, acrid burn stings, just as the good shit should, and my head flicks back, eyes closing. More deals coming, everything landing in place so this city becomes something it should be again rather than the gaping aperture remaining open any longer. A leader—that’s what they all need. An organised management of their unending little street wars. Vico strength. It’s a strength I’m happy to bring home.
My eyes crease open again, the buzz starting to build. The Columbians will be here soon, a haul of this new product brought in through back channels for me, Vico’s team—my team—backing the cops off for them along the route. So easy. Why Cane thought removing a profitable sector was useful to the company I’ll never know, nor do I fucking care. And now, after my chat with Emilio, I’ve amped up the deal to weaponry, too. An arsenal's coming. Enough of it for us to ship back through to New York after we've cut deals here first. Fuck this precious city and its clean lines. There are no lines that can’t be crossed, no rules that can't be broken. Especially if those lines are no longer guarded by wolves big enough to protect them. Gangs and street runners will do as they’re guided to do. And Cane. Well, Cane can go fuck itself unless it bows and lets me use it how I see fit.
I stand and look around my lounge, staring at the show of wealth and grandeur on display. It couldn't be made of more dirty money if it tried. Crystal chandeliers. The highest spec furnishings and flooring. I remodelled the whole thing. Ripped the guts out of it and threw more dollars at it than sense, maybe hoping to emulate my own sense of power without the need for my family connections. It doesn’t feel like home, though. Nowhere does. Not that place I grew up in. Not my house in New York. Nothing feels like a space to relish, to live in and enjoy.
Lost.
My head shakes, and I walk to the bar, grabbing a brandy to chase my buzz further. More phone calls to make. More deals to bring together. More time with everyone else but the one person who constantly revolves in the back of my thoughts—Samuel. The glass and bottle clink in my hand as I pour, and I barely feel the drink as it slips through my numb mouth and throat. What the fuck is it about him? He’s completely the opposite of me. A good man. A decent, true, honest man. And yet I can’t get him out of my head, can’t get his words from my mind.
He called at four this morning, woke me up. I rolled over, saw his name, and fucking panicked that he was in trouble. I chuckle, remembering that feeling. Panic? Last time I panicked was about five years ago. A deal gone wrong for Vico. Haven't gotten myself into that state since. Samuel just wanted to say he missed me. That's all. He wanted to tell me he was thinking about me. I put the phone down on him with no reply, choosing no response rather than something I haven't got my head around yet. Can't remember the last time someone said that to me and meant it.
An alert on my phone warns me someone’s come through the main gates, bringing me out of my haze, and I wander to the window to check who it is.
Nate’s car.
I wait, my fingers tipping another brandy down my throat, and stare at the door. Whatever is coming, I’m not gonna like it. I don’t like much any of them have to say, but at least this one’s worth listening to, worth acknowledging in some way. The entrance door is closed quietly, Angela’s voice welcoming another Mr Cane into this house, and I listen to the sharp footfalls heading in my direction. They’re purposeful, direct, unlike the man who eventually walks into the room. He looks flustered, worried even. I take another swig of brandy, eyeing his demeanour.
“Logan,” he says. “We need to talk.”
I turn from him and head back to my chair, getting comfortable for whatever he’s got to say. It’s not like I give a damn for his thoughts on my plans, but he’s welcome to enlighten me. Might be useful to me, certainly if it’s to do with Carter.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Don’t do that. We both know you’re not here for small talk.”
He nods and comes to a chair opposite mine, eyes looking at anything but me for a few minutes. I don’t help him out or make the atmosphere any more affable around us. It’s not. We’re not. I keep drinking instead, letting the cool buzz of both things in my system enhance the sense of unease, and then smile at his nerves. Another old man. A reasonably good one, though. I check out the aged lines in his hands, the worn look of someone tired and weary.
“Someone’s looking into us. And you.”
I snort and cross my legs, wondering what the fuck that has to do with anything. Someone’s always looking into me. I have less than no fucks to give about that. I’m covered all the way up to the top and right down to the backend streets. Nothing to worry about. This lot? Different story since my father backed off and let Carter have his way. “And that’s a problem for me why?”
“She’s asking the right things.”
She? My mouth tips up into a smile, mind thinking of a detective who’s suddenly come into my life. “Someone’s always asking the right things. Finding the answer is a harder task, Nate.”
He stands, fidgeting, and then wanders over to my bar to help himself to a drink. It’s unlike him to fidget. I watch him down a shot, noting his hand shaking. It’s enough for me to wonder what else is going on. Something must be. No detective has ever worried him before.
“Quinn doesn’t know I’m here. Neither does Carter.”
I shrug, unconcerned.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“No.” Still, I can’t stop the slight smile on my face continuing. Red hair. Red sheets. Red handprints. I stand and go to refill my drink, eyes gazing out at the grounds after I’ve filled it. “If you’ve got a problem, it’s Carter’s job to clean it up, not mine. You both made damn sure of that.”
“Logan,” he drawls, coming to stand with me. His hand lands on my back, the warmth of it reminding me of a time long ago. I shirk it off and step away, aggravated with his ability to get to me like this. “It was temporary. You were supposed to learn from him, get ready. That’s all. You were too wild. Too…” He sighs and looks me over, eyes full of fucking pity. “Young.”
The low glower I send his way hits home, making him check that face back into one of respect rather than attempting compassion. I don’t need or want it.
“And now I’m not too young you’re asking for my help?”
“No. Not help,” he replies. “Thought. I’m asking you to think more than you are doing. Stop being an asshole, Logan. Start being intelligent.” He closes the distance down between us and laughs about something, an old sound that’s full of mirth. “You’re acting like your father would have done years ago. And if that’s not enough to stop you behaving the way you are, nothing will.”
“I’m not acting anything.”
“No? Tell me this isn’t just a revenge bid then. Give me a reason why you’d do this other than just to prove you can? You don't need anything we have.”
