Page 61 of Tortured Eyes
Twenty-Three
The noise is fucking irritating. I look at the old, wooden table below me and listen to the raised voices around the room, occasionally catching something of interest rather than the ambiguous drone of those who think they know what’s needed. None of them do. Only I know what’s happening in this city now, and I know it because I was at his bedside before he died, listening to him speak.
My fingers pick up the thick espresso coffee, mouth sipping as the voices get louder, more argumentative. I lean back to carry on cleaning down my guns, eyes searching the room of mob leaders and their sons. My mind isn't even really here. It's drifting first to thoughts of the argument with Samuel, and then to thoughts of a redhead, her fingers scratching me and her lips goading me on. They both have a sweeter tone about them than these men, regardless of them chastising my ass. I’d like them both in a room with me, all of us taking what we want out of each other until we’re too fucked to move, let alone argue about virtue.
I smile at the thought and look back at my guns, meticulously rubbing them down, and then sigh at the continued uproar around me. All these men are doing is vying for supremacy, trying to dispute each other’s points as to why they should be the ones to rule over each quarter now Vico’s gone. Seniority. Age. The most muscle available for use. Family connections and unity. I roll my eyes and keep cleaning, bored. All four of those disciplines are the reason why none of them are worthy to lead anything other than what they already do. A leader leads alone, Vico said.
"Make them fear you because you don't need them."
Mama stares at me from across the room, as I stay calm and keep listening, a look of concern on her face. Fuck knows how she’s even still alive, let alone serving in her bakery. She must be ninety-five at least. But she had his respect, and therefore mine now.
She eventually shuffles over, bringing another pot of coffee with her. “Logan,” she says, taking a chair opposite me. I raise a brow, wondering what she thinks she’s doing, and keep polishing. “You look more and more like him every year.”
My brow furrows. My father, she means. She’s not wrong, but that’s not the goddamn point. I don't care if she liked him or not. I don’t. That’s a fucking lie. I always liked him other than his need to belittle me. He was a cool pops to have for a while. And then he turned into a cunt. “He sat where you are the last time I saw him in New York. They were good friends back then, worked well together.” I nod as she refills my coffee, wondering where she’s about to go with this conversation. “Stronger together. Together is always stronger.”
“Sometimes alone is better for leaders. Less murky.”
She tuts at me and leans on the table, straightening her apron and picking up her own coffee. "Those are Benjamin's words, not those of a Cane."
I scowl and stare her down, willing her to dare keep trying that shit with me. Respect or not, she's wrong. I don't want them here, need them in my head, or care for any alliance she thinks I should employ. Still, the look in her wise eyes as they hold firm with mine makes me remember sitting in here with Vico the first time he brought me here. She cast her eyes over me then like I was a rogue import. I guess I was considering the animosity between Vico and my father at the time. But she challenged me with her old eyes as if I shouldn’t be trusted. The black sheep, she called me.
Vico agreed with her.
And then one day, flesh and bone became nothing but that for me, the faces attached irrelevant. Guess I became an extension of his arm after a while, a younger force wielding his power, his thoughts. A weapon.
“You miss him?” she asks.
If she means Vico. “Yes.” The shame of it is, it's Nate’s voice echoing in my head, too.
She flicks her gaze to the men around her. “They all do, too. He was glue for them. They need glue again, yes? Stronger together.”
She starts muttering to herself in Italian, low words about discord and repercussions if these men aren’t brought to heel quickly, funnelled appropriately. She’s right about that, too. This city has always run as cleanly as it does because of their constant fear that one day they might not wake up at all. Three sons are already missing from this room because of me, because of Vico’s voice behind me and his, usually correct, paranoia. But then she starts talking about family, about using each other’s strengths and weaknesses rather than being singular above this team. Not only does it make me think of Carter back at my house, about us working as a team, it also makes me think of Samuel’s damn words too. Alone.
I push back from the table, my chair scraping the floor, and stand. I’m done with the racket of them all and her making me think of connection and togetherness. There isn’t time for any of this posturing anyway. This city is already falling a little because of Vico’s death and their warring between themselves in the time I’ve given them to sort their own disputes out. Minor cartels are attempting coercion. Politicians already think they’re safer because he’s gone, the information he had on them seen as useless now he’s not here to use it.
My gun lands on the table with a thud, the other one following suit. I've still got everything he had on everyone, as they damn well knew before I left for Chicago. That includes information, leverage and power over every single one of the fucks in this room, too.
All heads turn to me, their voices trailing off.
“You stay as you were before he died,” I murmur, reaching for my coat. “You run your quarters, report it in, and do as you’re told.”
A low bustle of noise starts again the moment I start shrugging into my coat, two of the Analetto men raising their voices louder to attempt seniority over me. There isn’t any seniority over me as far as I’m concerned. I am Vico now, and if I’ve got to prove it again, I will. It's not like I have anyone they can threaten me with, no one I give a fuck for, and they know it. The only one I do have is Samuel, and that’s a road no one could even begin to see. I’m a ghost with him. He’s hidden, undercover, behind the veil of a church. Just as he’s always wanted it. bro
Maybe I am a ghost anyway. A dark shadow. Unseen until the moment death comes for people. Not an angel, though. More like Satan. God must be choking on that visual. The fuck am I thinking about? I need a few lines. Clear this head out.
“Is Cane onside?” one of them asks, drawing me back from wherever the hell I am.
The question makes me frown and pick up one of my guns, holstering it before reaching for the other. Why that question even came out of his goddamn mouth is beyond me. Onside? What the fuck do they care about that for? Cane is Chicago, not New York. Cane is also nothing to do with any of them other than it being my last name. And that’s a loose fucking tag, regardless of Mama's thoughts on the matter.
I turn to face him, head tilted as I wait for more explanation to his question and look at his brother. And then I just don’t give a fuck.
My gun is aimed, and I'm close enough to muffle the noise before they see me coming, two shots fired. The first Analetto drops to the floor and clutches his leg, the other flailing back towards the wall. One shot in the shoulder, the other into a thigh. They’re damn lucky it wasn’t their heads.
I scowl and look around the room, eyes fixing on each one of them in case anyone dares show me they’re fucking offended by my choice of answer to stupid ass questions. Cane? If anyone in this room has the right to question that family or its positioning, it’s me, not them. There's not one fucking grumble or argumentative response to my actions. Good.
This is done.
My gaze sweeps over the two Analetto’s blood loss, my hand putting my gun away. They’ll survive this time. Get their goddamn heads screwed on properly because of this memory. “You run your quarters, report it in, and do as you’re told,” I say again. That’s it as far as I’m concerned. No negotiation about how it should change. No internal politics. It will be as it always was. Work as it always has. Just under my rule instead of his. “You stay as you were before he died, or I come for you.”
