Page 50 of Tortured Eyes
The car slides to a halt, back end pitching about, and I glare at the house. It took Benjamin Vico, his influence, and my own set of balls to get myself back together after that. I took the animosity they’d caused in me and let it build until it became something everyone feared. Not because of my last name, but because of my first. Logan—the black sheep. The one who didn’t give a fuck about civility, codes of practice or family names. And this fucking conundrum rolling through my head, this feeling of fitting together with them again, with my family, is a distraction I can’t accept. Won't. Toss in the fact that my head’s all over the fucking place about why I let that bitch go, and Mortoni’s gonna get everything I have left to deliver.
I get out of the car and call through to the cleaners, grating out words to tell them to be at mine as soon as they can. The blood will need cleaning down, the body cut up and discarded, melted even, burnt. I don’t give a fuck how he’s disposed of, only that he is.
And that the debt is paid in full.
I hover in the hall, pulling my gun slowly from beneath my jacket, and look at the office. I can still hear her voice here, still feel her hands on me. Why can I feel that? Fucking distracting. And I can still hear Samuel from the phone call before that, hear his voice calm and low. Forgiveness. I snort. I guess I’ve done that with her now by letting her go. Maybe I did that for him. Tried, for Samuel. I’m not doing with Mortoni, though. There is no forgiveness for the likes of him, for the one who actually pulled the trigger and killed my uncle.
My legs are swift after that, one intent in mind, and I slam the door against the wall as I enter the basement room. Emilio's propped up against the far end wall, no recognisable face left. It’s a good look on him. I tilt my head and slowly walk over, wondering if one last painful session needs prolonging to ensure he knows the level of his fuck up. But the weight of Nate’s carcass across my shoulder enters my mind, the look on his face as he reached for my face in the final few breaths. One lone shot fires out of my gun before I’ve thought, another following it the moment I’m close enough to pick up the fucker’s arm and hold him upright.
Another shot enters his head, then another, and another. The blood sprays backwards onto my face, making me blink as I keep firing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just fire over and over again until my frustrations turn into a fucking shout of rage and vengeance, and I throw the gun across the floor.
My hands go to my head, both of them yanking at my hair as I shout out again and pace around the room. All the years flash in my mind, all the looks he gave me, the pride he held for me when my father couldn’t have given a fuck.
“FUCK YOU!” I bellow, my back hitting a wall.
I lean on it, tears and anger making me howl out some more into the fucking space until I walk back to the body and barrel my foot into what’s left of his head. Bones crack and crunch, and I end up slamming the full weight of my foot down on them, desperate to avenge something that is incapable of being avenged. Nate Cane is dead, and nothing makes that go away.
Including me admitting fault.
My knees hit the ground, some part of me needing this fucker’s blood on me, in me. I look at the red liquid as it falls from the skull and travels around the floor, and then smear my hands around in it until I’m coated and the blood seeps into my own white shirt. That’s all there is for a while, just me and the blood. It’s all I want, all I care to think about. It is part of me, the man who killed my uncle somehow merging with the one whose fault it actually was—mine.
I stare blankly at my own hands and wrists, letting the tears run slowly from my eyes and fall to the blood below. Maybe this feeling of desolation and anguish is my punishment. Who fucking knows? I could stay here in it, though. Let myself wallow in the feel of this blood and this vision of finality. It's what I deserve. What I should live in and remember.
A hollow laugh burrows through me, my hands reaching for my face to smear the blood over it. Punishment. I'll drown here for a bit, take that punishment. Think. Plan. Force sense back into my head. Get strong again before I…
“Logan?”
My head turns over my shoulder, a glower directed at Carter for being in my space again for some goddamn reason. “Get the fuck out.”
He doesn’t. He starts walking towards me instead, his pristine black shoes splattering the blood further around the room. “Logan, come on. Up. The cleaning crew is here.”
His hand reaches for my arm, fingers latching around me. I’m up and delivering hell into his face before he gets a chance to avoid it. Three solid punches aimed into him, one in the head and two to his stomach. He buckles in my hold but manages to shove me away, his hand up to try stopping me. I’m not stopping anymore. I’m done stopping. Cunt deserves this. Making me look a fool? I'm not a fool. Not his goddamned servant either.
“Logan, don’t do this,” he growls, righting himself. “This isn’t necessary.”
Yes, it is.
“Fuck you.”
“No. I’m not doing this with you.” He fucking is.
I storm at him, letting loose at his frame without any fucking thought for who he is or why he’s here. He grunts at the impact, both of us crashing backwards against the wall, and then tries pushing me off him again. Not happening. My fist slams into his guts, once, twice, until I feel him tense and shove hard enough to send me back a few feet. The levelled punch that comes at my jaw is heavy and sent with as much force as he can manage. My mouth clicks out, teeth grating as I stand firm and turn to face him again. I’m not smaller than him anymore, won’t take a beating from him again.
That time is long fucking gone.
“Stop, Logan,” he snaps, his hands up again. “I’m not doing this. Back the hell off. The past is done.” Done? It’ll only be done when I’m ready to acknowledge it.
I snarl and step into him again, ready to keep going and finish this in the only way I know how. The fucking scowl that comes back at me is all a Carter I knew years ago, intense and ready to defend himself against a threat. He wipes his own mouth and drops his hands, a sigh following the move. “Don’t you know how much I love you? You’re my brother, for fuck’s sake. Stop. Think.”
Everything in me, every single thing that wanted to kill him a moment ago, halts.
I frown and back up a step into the blood on the floor, watching as he shrugs his suit straight.
“I know you’re more than you were, Logan. You might not know it, but I've watched you grow in New York. Been proud of you for it. You don’t need to prove a thing to me anymore.”
I glower as he sighs again and walks a step closer, not ready to accept any words from him.
"Tragedies happen, Logan. I'm here. You don't need to take all this on your own shoulders."
Yes, I do. That's how I work best.
Alone.
