“Not so fast, cuz,” Carlo warned, taking a step toward Logan with his two sentries by his side. “We got some things to discuss first.”
Despite the pleasant expression on his cousin’s face, Logan sensed the threat immediately, and his mind raced with options. Should he run? No. He quickly dismissed that act of embarrassing cowardice. Should he fight? He didn’t like the odds. Three men at once was a losing bet. The only choice was to try to placate Carlo until he could get the hell out of here and perhaps start a new life—one far away from Chicago.
“What do you want to discuss?” Logan asked evenly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket.
His apparent cooperation seemed to calm Carlo, whose shoulders relaxed slightly. “We got lots to discuss,” he began, ticking off each topic on the fingers of his left hand. “Where your brother is, for one. It’s about time the fucking coward joins the family. Why the hell the cops are after you, for another. Then there’s the matter of two hundred thousand dollars you owe us.” He smiled smugly. “But we’ll start with a discussion about job absenteeism. You took an unauthorized vacation day, leaving Tank over here high and dry if the police had caught wind of the transaction and shown up last night. The boss ain’t happy at all about you just deciding not to follow orders.”
“I’m sorry,” Logan replied in a conciliatory tone. “It won’t happen again.”
Carlo turned to Tank and mocked, “Aw, he’s sorry.” They shared a smirk before Carlo returned his attention to his cousin. “Where were you, Lo?”
Remembering the scene in his brother’s apartment, he winced. “I had some business to take care of.” Some lives to ruin.
“What kind of business?” Carlo edged imperceptibly closer to Logan.
“None of yours,” Logan assured him.
Tilting his head to the side, Carlo swept a questioning look up and down Logan’s tense body. His cousin behaved so protectively when it came to only one person.
“Were you with Grant?”
“No,” Logan responded a little too quickly, a trickle of sweat trailing down his spine. “Why would you think that?”
Carlo licked his lips and stepped in even closer. He had his answer. “Where is he?”
Logan felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. “I have no idea. This isn’t about Grant. This is between you and me—”
Carlo must have given some sort of signal because suddenly Tank and Mario lunged for him. Surprised, Logan recoiled to get off a hard punch and a swift kick, but before he knew it, he had both arms pinned behind his back, held in place by the inordinately strong men at his side. Logan managed to kick the side of Tank’s knee, making the big man groan and stumble, but not lose grip of his prey.
“Get him on his knees,” Carlo ordered.
“Get your goons the fuck off of me,” Logan snarled as they wrestled him to the floor. “Angelo is not going to like this.”
Carlo laughed derisively, yanking Logan’s chin and forcing him to look up into his black eyes. Though the motion was harsh, it reminded Logan of Sophie cupping his chin once, lovingly caressing his face as he cried in her office. However, there was nothing comforting about Carlo’s unyielding grip, his fierce gaze, or his livid words.
“You think my father would choose you over me? Think again, cuz.” His grasp tightened and his fingers dug into the bruises lining Logan’s jaw. “Where is Grant, you piece of shit? If you’re not going to do your job, I’ll find somebody who will!”
Logan gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, refusing to look at his cousin, which infuriated him.
Carlo cocked his right arm and sent his fist careening into Logan’s gut. “Look at me!” he screamed, clutching Logan’s chin once again.
Defiant blue eyes stared back at him, and Carlo desperately wanted to wipe the insolent smirk off his cousin’s face. “You and your brother—hell, your father too—the lot of you, you’ve never helped this family once. You only pull us down.”
“Speak for yourself, Carlo,” Logan retorted in his deep baritone. “Should I remind you how badly you fucked up Blackfoot?”
“You son of a bitch,” Carlo sneered, whaling another punch across Logan’s face. A trickle of blood oozed from Logan’s nose, dripping onto his white T-shirt.
“Carlo,” Mario cautioned. “Stare attento. He’s Enzo’s son, for chrissake!”
“Silenzio!” Carlo hissed. “What the hell can Enzo do, locked up in Gurnee?”
“You’re right to be concerned,” Logan told Mario. “Angelo’s going to discipline you both when he finds out you held me down.”
Tank twisted his arm tighter, and Logan grimaced in pain. “Shut the fuck up, Barberi,” Tank commanded.
“That’s the spirit, Tank.” Carlo smiled, then returned his attention to Logan. “The only person Angelo will be disciplining is you, you spineless good-for-nothing. You will start pulling your weight in this family, Logan. Or I will beat you down every day until you do.”
Logan boldly jutted out his jaw. “You’ll have to threaten me with something a little more real than that, cuz. Your fairy punches are even weaker than Grant’s.”
Feeling blind fury, Carlo unleashed another jab, this time aiming for the contusions already adorning Logan’s jaw. Logan grunted when the blow glanced off his chin, and he swayed to the side, trying to catch his breath. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
Staring at the profile of his cousin’s damaged face, Carlo suddenly stood stock still. “Grant punched you,” he said, the realization dawning on him. “He’s the one who gave you those bruises.”
A malevolent smile crept onto Carlo’s face. He’d just identified a way to get both of the damn brothers, the chosen ones, out of his way for good. He’d never have to compete for Angelo’s attention again, and he could finally assume his proper place in the family. A flash of excitement coursed through him, followed by a stab of fear. He didn’t know if he could carry out his plan.
Quickly whipping a knife out of his boot, Carlo held the weapon in front of Logan’s face and made sure his quarry watched him as he slowly unsheathed the blade, which gleamed in the slats of sunlight shining through the dirty windows of the warehouse.
Struggling against his captors’ hold as his cousin held the blade inches from his face, Logan felt his heart thump rapidly. Carlo ignored his associates’ reactions to the knife—a look of consternation on Meat’s face and an expression of smug triumph on Tank’s—and leaned in to hold the sharp edge against Logan’s throat.
“Tell me where Grant is,” he quietly seethed.
“Fuck you,” Logan retorted. He felt the pinching sting of the blade on his throat as Carlo allowed the knife’s edge to dig into his skin. The wound was not deep but elicited blood all the same, mixing with the crimson trail dripping from his nose.
“You really want to protect that pansy?” Carlo asked incredulously. “You want to risk your life for that lightweight? For Grant?”
Logan pictured Grant at their mother’s grave, his eyes welling up as he placed flowers near her headstone. Logan’s deep voice was wistful. “He’s a better man than any of us here.”
“Oh, come on,” Carlo scoffed, distractedly removing the knife from Logan’s throat and waving it around emphatically. “Grant has no fucking clue. He’s a weakling. That’s what you get when your real dad goes to prison and you go live with your pussy uncle.”
Feeling rage build up in his chest, Logan spat out, “You’re the reason my dad went to prison! He got arrested trying to protect your sorry ass!”
Carlo’s black eyes flared with fury. “It wasn’t my fault!” he insisted. “I got shot! I could have died.”
His restrained arms aching, his skin bruised and bleeding, Logan glared at his cousin. “My dad should have let you die. It would have been better—for everyone. I know for a fact that Angelo would much rather have his brother with him than his screw-up son. You fucked everything up, Carlo.”
Carlo’s throat tightened as
he fought for air, and his vision clouded over, veiled by a deep red that matched the blood leaking from his victim’s body. Suddenly he had no qualms about what he must do. Logan had just begged him to carry out his plan. It was the burden of his position of leadership in the family. He had a great responsibility—responsibility to rid the family of anything standing in its way, responsibility to take out the trash, just like his father had taught him to do.
Without another moment of hesitation, Carlo lunged forward, sinking the knife into Logan’s abdomen. Once the tip of the blade pierced his rock-hard solar plexus, it slid into his internal organs with a sickening sluicing sound. The shocked gasps of three men—Logan, Meat, and Tank—met Carlo’s ears, followed by dead silence.
Logan felt a burning tear while a fiery heat spread into his lungs and stomach. The pinch of the foreign body inside his twisted and turned, taking his breath away. Struggling to maintain consciousness, he stared dumbly up at Carlo, whose shiny black eyes looked equally stunned.
Horrified, Mario let go of Logan’s arm and took a step away. The smug grin had quickly departed Tank’s face. Despite his desire for revenge, he could not believe what he’d just witnessed. He too unleashed Logan from his vice grip. Once free, Logan wheezed for air and crumpled forward, the knife still lodged between his abdomen and chest.
Now Carlo didn’t know what to do. After a few surreal moments, he decided to remove the knife. As he jaggedly jerked out the blade, Logan felt a searing pain cleave him, and he moaned loudly. Carlo gaped at the leaking hole left in Logan’s flesh, then stared mesmerized at the seeping red stain flourishing on his white T-shirt.
“Shit, I’m outta here!” Mario said, slowly backing away.
“You’re not going anywhere, Meat!” Carlo yelled angrily, halting the big man’s progress. Carlo then turned to Tank, who shook his head disapprovingly.
“You went too far, Carlo,” Tank said, also taking a step backward to distance himself from the crazy man facing him.
“You’ve got to help me!” Carlo cried.
“Only if you don’t tell Angelo I was part of this,” Tank ordered in a strange role-reversal of boss and employee.
“Just don’t leave,” Carlo pleaded, stealing a glance at Logan. “Help me do something with the body, man.”
Tank frowned and whispered to Mario, now standing about twenty feet away from the cousins.
Dark spots entered Logan’s field of vision as he clutched his upper abdomen, his breathing labored and his sudden physical weakness maddening. Carlo stood right above him, paralyzed by what he’d just done and presenting the perfect opportunity for Logan to beat the living hell out of him. He wanted to rip his fucking heart out! But Logan could not find the strength to move.
“I—I—I didn’t mean it, Lo,” Carlo offered in a quivering voice, reduced to a sniveling boy by the life-or-death circumstances. “You’re my cousin … I—I love you, man. Do you, um, do you love me?”
Logan looked at Carlo with disbelief. Then, sensing a sticky wetness pouring over his hands, he peered down at his wounded torso. An abject sadness flooded him. He knew he was dying. “Grant,” he gasped.
“Grant?” Carlo knelt down curiously, prompting his victim to say more despite himself.
“Stay … away.” Although losing his thin grasp on consciousness, Logan willed himself to keep talking, “Stay away … from Grant.”
Carlo watched his cousin’s hands redden with blood. His tone was frantic. “But Lo—you love me, right? You know I didn’t mean it?”
Logan stared at his cousin incredulously, feeling a stab of sympathy for the pathetic man kneeling next to him. Carlo had been irrevocably damaged from the moment he witnessed Tony Fanocelli dying at his Uncle Enzo’s hand—at the hand of Logan’s father. Feeling himself slipping away, Logan murmured, “I know. You’ve taken my dad … and me. Just … don’t take Grant too.”
Hearing the weakness in the once-formidable man’s voice, Carlo gulped. As he stood, a flash of anger coursed through him. Who the fuck cared about Grant? He just wanted to know if Logan forgave him. Surmising that his cousin would not be conscious much longer, Carlo took one last look at Logan, whose deep-blue eyes bore into him with a surprising intensity.
Turning on his heel, Carlo joined his two bodyguards and started hissing commands. After a plan was hatched, all three waited for Logan to die and get it over with.
Helplessly Logan fell backward. The back of his head hit the concrete floor with a thud, and his arms flopped to his sides. He no longer had the strength to apply pressure to his bleeding wound. It was just a matter of time now, and he found himself welcoming the cool release of death. He was never much good at life, only bringing pain to those around him.
He’d heard the old adage about your life flashing before your eyes when you were dying, but Logan only had one scene replaying in his mind. He saw only pleading aquamarine eyes, the smell of scotch, the feel of a small hand curling in his. He was eleven years old again.
“Leave me! Go to your room!” his mother begged, her voice muffled by the bulk of the man pinning her to the floor, flat on her back. All Logan could see was his father’s hunched back crouching over her, straddling her waist as he held down her wrists. The gleaming knife lay on the linoleum kitchen floor, inches from Karita’s balled-up hand.
Logan was frozen in fear, as his father exploded in violence against his mother once again. Karita, Logan, and Grant had experienced such a fun afternoon, but the second they walked in the door, Logan knew immediately it was all turning to shit. Their father was waiting for them, his face beet red with rage and alcohol. Grant had cowered behind his big brother, flinching at their father’s screamed accusations, but once they saw Enzo extract a knife from the wood block, the six year old had sidled up to his brother and grasped his hand.
“You little bitch!” Enzo seethed. “How dare you go to see him when I expressly forbade it? How dare you take my boys to that place?”
“He’s my brother!” Karita softly cried. “The boys need to see their uncle.”
“I’ll determine what my sons need!” Enzo slapped her across the face, and the sharp noise snapped Logan to action.
He sprang forward and leapt onto his father’s back. “Stop it!”
Enzo quickly shrugged the boy off his shoulders, pushing himself up and off his wife’s prone frame and standing. Angrily he backhanded Logan, who hit the floor with the force of his father’s strike.
“No,” Karita moaned, sitting up. “Go to your room, boys! I’ll be okay—just leave!”
“Shut up,” Enzo commanded, quickly pushing his wife back to the floor as he straddled her again. Logan watched with horror as his father scooped up the knife in his trembling grasp. The distinct odor of scotch wafted through the air.
“I’ll show you who’s in charge in this family,” Enzo growled, holding the edge of the blade to Karita’s throat. She shuddered in fear below him, trying not to whimper.
Glancing at Grant, wide-eyed and shaking uselessly by the wall, Logan pushed himself up off the floor and lunged at his father once again. “Get off her!” he wailed.
“Goddamn it,” his father muttered, and the knife clattered to the floor. Enzo groped behind him, trapping the boy’s wrist in his strong hold and yanking his body around so he was staring into his father’s unfocused eyes. “You are such an idiot, Logan. You’re just dying for me to beat you too, huh?”
Logan met his mother’s worried crystal-blue eyes before his father violently shook him to draw his attention back. Enzo shoved Logan, and he stumbled toward Grant near the kitchen doorway.
“I’m going to give you boys five seconds to get the hell out of here,” Enzo warned, reaching to unbuckle his belt. Logan watched his mother quietly stand up, unbeknownst to his father, and mouth “Go!” as she crept out the other entrance to the kitchen.
Once Logan saw her escape, he grabbed Grant’s hand and yanked him toward the hallway, just as Karita had predicted. She’d known Logan woul
dn’t leave her alone with Enzo.
“Let’s go, Grantey!” Logan ordered, and they ran for the stairs, grateful their father wasn’t following them with his belt looped in his hand.
Enzo had turned to find his wife gone, and they heard him holler, “Get your ass back in here, Karita! I’m not done with you yet!”
As the boys scampered up the stairs they heard their father pounding on the locked door of the first-floor bathroom, assuring Logan that his mother was safe for now.
“C’mon,” he instructed, panting as they entered their bedroom, “Let’s play Battleship.”
Also out of breath from their hasty exit, Grant nodded his head, “’Kay.”
They laid out the board game on the yellow shag carpet, and Grant picked up one of the ships, absentmindedly twirling it in his hands.
“Is Dad gonna kill Mom?”
“C’mon, Grant.” Logan gestured to the game. “You gotta set up your battleships so I won’t find them.”
Grant blinked rapidly, undeterred. In a quieter voice he asked, “Is he gonna whip us?”
Logan bit his lip. These were questions he didn’t know the answer to, questions he couldn’t think about just now. Ignoring the stinging red blotch on his cheek, he feigned cheerfulness. “What’s this ship?” he quizzed, holding up a small gray boat. “What did Uncle Joe tell us about this one?”
Eyeing his brother suspiciously, six-year-old Grant dutifully answered, “It’s a frigate.”
“Yeah,” Logan confirmed. “The one we saw today at Great Lakes. A Perry-class, an FFG-7.”
“Uh-huh,” Grant responded. “A fig-seven.”
“A fig what?” Logan inquired.
“A fig-seven!” Grant insisted, his eyes beginning to recapture their twinkle. “’At’s what Uncle Joe told me when you were in the bathroom. ‘At’s what they call an FFG-7.”
Logan stared admirably at his intelligent younger brother. They began the game, somehow able to drown out the disturbing noises from the floor below, somehow not hearing their mother’s cries.
Whispered conversation between the three men behind him brought Logan back to the present. He’d never had the chance to tell Sophie that story in therapy. What would she have said if he had? You bravely tried to save your mother. You tried to save your brother. You tried to be a good man.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 32