Page 21 of Tortured Eyes
Nine
Istand and glance over the weapons one more time before staring at Ronaldo Denago's laughing form to keep him in my sights. He’s a worthy friend, but he’s also a worthy adversary if the deal doesn’t go his way. Distrust, still, after all these years, is high on both our agendas. Certainly, now Vico’s gone. It’s not me he’s distrustful of here, though.
It’s the newcomer.
Emilio’s behind me on the old couch, careful with both his tone and manner here. He’s right to stay back and let me take the lead, considering he’s only been invited. It’s my power I need him to see, the strength I’m about to bring over what he considers his city. Acting the asshole with this team will see him at the end of a trigger before he’s managed a last breath.
“Calm the fuck down,” I mutter to all of them as I walk for the drugs. “New city. Old rules.”
Ronaldo backs off a step, giving me some room to approach the laptop, but keeps his eyes fixed on Emilio. I chuckle and code in, amused at the tension between them. They’re unknowns to each other, something that Denago, with its years of family solidity, will see as a big fucking problem. It’s taken time to bring Denago onside, especially with my name involved. Vico started it when my father teamed up with Chelico years back, used the fact that he wasn’t a Cane to bring them onside over in New York. Mix that with my own links with Chelico now, which have been forged through Cane backing out over the years, and the whole fucking system I'm creating is too solid for Denago to deny. I'm the link they all need. The facilitator that blends us into one.
I glance at Emilio, tracking that cold fucking stare he has permanently etched into his features, and then carry on transferring funds into accounts. He won’t do shit here, even if he does have his own brand of seniority in Chicago. He’ll keep his mouth closed, his mind engaged, and his two men behind him where they should be. Last thing any of us needs is these two families going to war when all three of us can work together.
“Logan.” I turn at the sound of a familiar voice, eyes catching sight of him. He strides over, straight into the space he wasn’t invited into.
I frown at him and back up from the laptop, keeping my hands away from something I’m suddenly unsure of with his presence in the room.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, getting closer. I glance at all the teams, paranoia now creeping into all our thoughts. The fuck is happening? He sweeps his gaze across the weapons, anger and irritation heavy in his stare. “Close this the fuck down. Now. You are not bringing this crap into my city. You're better than this.”
I half sputter out a laugh. His fucking city? “Go home, Nate,” I mutter. “Enjoy retirement.”
He checks over Ronaldo, then eyeballs Emilio like he might just pull a fucking gun and start shooting.
I laugh then, fully entertained by the old Cane values coming back to front and centre in his thoughts. “Unless you want to sign up again? Always were handy with a weapon.”
The look of disapproval that glares at me is enough for me to quieten some, my own contempt staring straight back at him. Fuck him and his quiet city. This is how it’s going to be now. He can go home, or out to Costa Rica again. Chill the hell out and leave me to deal with this generation of power.
“Nothing’s changed, Nate. It never will. Full circle. Leave before someone does something I’m not in control of.”
His eyes shift again, his body nervous under the calm he’s still managing to exude. He’s not going, though. Won’t, apparently. Fine, he can stay and watch, remember what it used to be like back in the day. He was one of the men who showed me all this in the first place. Maybe he misses it.
I chuckle and move to the laptop again, energised by the buzz inside me and not giving a fuck if he’s here or not. The other guys won’t shoot, not unless I tell them to. Nate Cane, while old and ineffective now, is still respected in some ways by all these men. As is my father, rightly or wrongly. Old school thoughts. Old school values.
Last of the details added and I hit send, pushing the money through to where Ronaldo wants it. One of his guys enters his login codes, checking the amounts moved and the destinations they’ve been received into. Done. I smile and run a line of the product again, sniffing it up and then shaking the instant buzz that comes with it through my hands. Fuck, that’s good. Emilio will distribute it, Denago will ship it, and I’ll take that profit and keep the streets open for them. Easy as fuck.
I turn and look back at Nate, hands going to my pockets and my brow arched. I don’t know what the hell he’s come here for, but if changing my mind was on his agenda, he’s chosen the wrong damn name to go up against. He should look at Wade for that shit.
The sound of a vibration pulls our attention, and one of Emilio’s men heads towards the stairs to investigate.
“Police. Get your hands up!”
The speed of every fucking weapon in here being pulled, and the sound of the footsteps clattering around, makes me glare at the woman’s voice. My own Glock is pulled, eyes glued to the fucking audacity of her. And then there she is, right in front of me, her badge proudly fucking displayed on her belt as she faces off the other guys.
Bryce McCarthy.
No one moves for a second, including Nate, until Emilio decides he’s going to be a fucking hero. The gun cocks, his finger about ready to blow her all the way to hell. The sound of a shot going past me happens too quickly for me to stop, and before I know it, I’m watching her duck sideways as if she’s running for the bleachers. Eight fucking seconds is all she gets before all hell gets pummelled into the corner she’s run for.
My brow twitches, eyes scanning for Nate in this fuckup. He’s out to the side, his own gun pulled as he runs to cover her. I don’t know what the fuck to do, who the hell to guard. Everything inside me baulks, part of me running for him, part of me aiming at her as the shots keep firing, round after round.
Emilio’s two men drop in my eyeline, direct hits sending them smacking to the ground like dead wood, and then I see Emilio himself swing round to retaliate. Trouble is, it’s the wrong damn weapon he’s pointing at. I launch sideways, arm aimed and trigger ready to down that fucker if he even tries. I don't care. I'll get in front of the bullet if I have to, but it's out and flying before I can get between it and its target, heading straight towards the one man who doesn’t warrant any of this.
Everything goes silent in my head, every fucking thing, as I watch Nate's body collapse to the ground. I turn and fire at Emilio out of sheer fucking vengeance, mind all over the goddamn place. I sweep low, trying to get to Nate, but the rally of shots, the fucking speed of them as Denago keeps letting loose, is like full-on war just met us. Bryce scuttles sideways in my view, her frame dodging and weaving, and I end up running the length of the space to try to get to Nate.
She reloads and shoots again, her back skimming obstacles and her aim on point. Three more men fold, their brains blown out at the same time as I storm through the centre and pivot to shoot behind me. Denago next. I glare at him, watching as he lines up for me. Half a damn second I give him to make the right choice and back the hell down. He doesn’t. He sneers and keeps trigger fucking happy in my direction. Not straight enough. I turn, fire, and then end it by shooting the two at his side as well as him.
Silence.
I look up and around for a second, getting my bearings and checking for more guns. Only one lone figure remains, her weapon aimed at me as she stalks out of the shadows. Fuck her. I spin and run for Nate, sliding across the ground to reach his side. He’s panting as I pull him up to me, blood and phlegm spitting out of his mouth. My hands reach for the wound in the side of his neck, trying to put pressure on it, and then I look into his eyes. They’re blown like he’s on the edge with no turning back. Fuck.
