Page 8 of Tortured Eyes
“Mr Cane, welcome home.”
Home. Strange fucking name for Chicago.
I nod at him and sink inside, listening to the jet beginning to pull away towards the hangers, and I pick up the whiskey the second I can. At least it's my jet these days, not theirs. Cane planes. Cane cars. Cane ground. Even this fucking airport has Cane written on it now, my father’s ode to ruling Chicago a bit more than he already does.
Or Carter’s.
The car seems to be travelling before I’m even aware it’s moved. Christ knows where my thoughts are at, but they're not here. Maybe I left them back in New York with Samuel. Or maybe they left my body when I shot McKinney’s man out on Beckett and 15th an hour after I left Samuel. Dick deserved it. Bringing cut goods onto my streets, as if he could outmanoeuvre me? Stupid.
I sink another whiskey and stare out into the fog sitting low over the city, wondering what tomorrow will bring to the table. Carter’s time is up here without me challenging him. I’ve left it this long for two reasons: New York offered me more options to use to my advantage, and Vico was more of a father to me than my own is or ever will be. Now I’m older, wiser, and a damn sight more capable than that strait-laced asshole. Add into the mix the fact that I have Vico’s backing, still, regardless of his death, and all hell is going to hit that boardroom table tomorrow.
I chuckle and remember the look on Hope’s face when they read the will yesterday. Most of the wealth went to her, most of the investments—all the properties. But rather than Sophia getting a thing of consequence, or any part of his deals and banking rights, the rest of his estate went to me—Logan Quinton Cane. I was as surprised by the move as Hope. She stared, a glower on her face, and then got up and left without another word. I laughed and let the sound resonate inside of me as if he were in the room with me. Almost heard him laughing with me. Devious old cunt—playing a game ‘til the end. Anything to build that barrier between my father and me further, just like my own father did with himself and Sofia.
The lawyer—Vico’s—didn’t know what to do with himself. He just scuttled around and got me to sign documents, scrawling the Cane name all over Vico holdings, and then left me alone. I’d been fine with that. I drank and toasted the air, a final nod to the man who had not only moulded me into a worthy opponent but had also just given me the means to take on Carter with my own terms.
And now here we are, a war brewing that he can’t win.
My fingers knock the intercom to let Dennis know to take me to my club. I don’t want either my father or Carter in my face yet. I’ll stay at my place tonight and mull over my thoughts before going there. I’m just not in the mood for them yet, certainly not until I wrap my head around what I’m going to say. Something I still haven’t worked out, regardless of Samuel’s calming influence. Two hours I was with him before I had to go. Two hours of peace. Two hours of quiet. Two hours of fucking and tasting his favourite new wine. Chilean Merlot. Nice. Smooth. Warm.
But then I left quietly, killed another man, and spent the next day talking about corruption and leverage.
Back to reality.
Twenty minutes later, I leave the car and head into the depths of the only place in Chicago I give a damn about. The heat hits me instantly as I walk in, and I head straight through to the main bar. This is real for me, somewhere I used to come to lose myself, especially when I was younger. It’s not your average high-end place, not full of your average people. It’s gritty, real. And while I might be older now, and also the owner, it still has the same feel about it that it had all those years ago.
I look around, nodding at a few people as I go behind the bar and pick up a bottle of Champagne. Half the people here are mob links my father pushed aside, and the other half are their runners and whores. Not that anyone would know given their clothes and deportment. They’ve learned over the years, just like my own family, that a good suit and some expensive jewellery convinces the world of whatever pretence you’re aiming for, regardless of the iniquity beneath the clothes. They’re my kind of people. All of them happy to get their hands dirty to get where they want to be. As long as they keep sucking up to me, keep themselves grounded in the fact that I am Logan Cane, they’re welcome to come through my doors as often as they want.
“Logan!” Becca launches at me, her hands all over me. I smile and pull her close, dropping a kiss to the side of her cheek. She lets go and claps, bouncing on her feet. “You’re back. Let’s get fucked up!” I chuckle at her exuberance, wondering if that doesn’t sound like a damn fine idea. I don’t do that much anymore. “I can pole dance again. Get rowdy,” she says, spinning on the spot.
She’s off like a rocket, heels weaving through the crowds, and her gold sequined hot-pants riding up her ass. I snort and follow, remembering some of our years together. Freak in the bedroom. Off the goddamn charts when it comes to drugs, regardless of the fact she trained in medicine. And she's one of the few people I've fucked who doesn’t give a damn if I’m there in the morning or not. No screaming hysterics. No pleading. She runs this place, enjoys her life, and keeps me updated on the deals coming through without pushing me for more than I want to give. She's a smart girl. And she gets paid damn well for being that smart.
I settle in at one of the booths, a few other guys coming in behind me to watch her perform and stare at the stage area. The spotlight comes down, the music changing pace, and then she stalks on and starts. She’s good. Always has been. I’m not watching, though, not really. I’m still lost in solemn thoughts of Vico, Samuel, and my own goddamn family. Regardless, the lines start getting laid out on the tables around me, white powder and bills being tossed about like they’re fuel to the party that’s coming straight for me. I should go home, bed in and calm down again so I can get my head straight. Not feeling it, though.
I snort a line instead, then another, and reach for the Champagne. The back of my head thuds against the padded seat back, my body relaxing now the coke’s taking hold, and I sip out of the bottle as Becca keeps spinning. Makes my dick think about fucking. Maybe I will later. Not her, though. Not tonight. I stand and knit through the crowds again, searching for someone viable. Anything will do, as long as it does as it’s told. I laugh—everything does as it’s told here. I’m Logan Cane; why wouldn’t it?
The ruffle of hands on me as I keep moving only proves my point. I scan each face. Brown eyes. Deep blue. Green. Blonde. Another blonde. Not one of them interests me. I've still got light eyes and calm words calling me, some instinct I don't own pissing on my vibe, but then a flash of red stops me in my tracks.
I wait in the shadows, my eyes running over her body. Her head’s down, shoulders hunched over a drink she’s playing with. Leather pants and jacket. Nothing about her fits in or looks like she belongs here, nor does she look happy to be here. Maybe she needs a hit, or a line, or my dick shoving in her ass. And why the hell is she so far away from the action? No one sits in those back booths anymore.
I half-laugh at the sullen similarity of my own gaze as I watch her toying with the bottle in front of her. I sat back where she is years ago. Kept myself in the dark when I was pissed with life, planned actions I wasn't capable of acting on.
That's a natural beauty in motion sitting there now. Barely any make-up on her. Hair piled up like she’s done it herself in haste. She brings the drink to her lips again, and I notice her short, clipped nails, the red polish at odds with her lack of make-up.
Intrigue, or my dick, gets the better of me, and my Champagne gets dumped on a table. I suddenly prefer the thought of beer, and my feet are walking to her without a second thought. Whoever it is, I'm fucking it before the night is through. Because no one says no to me. Never has.
