Page 8 of Forbidden Eyes
It's the one thing we don't agree on.
My legs push me to stand and I stare out the small gym window, looking up at the main house from my place, remembering. I flipped the fuck out on a guy years ago, put him in a coma. He's still in it now. He pissed me off, told me I couldn't have something I wanted. I didn't like being told I couldn't have something then. I still fucking don't now, but they were early days for me, the start of me showing Cane I could manage things for them and that I wasn't a kid anymore. Guess that was my way of ensuring the underworld knew who I was as well, what I would do if pushed.
I towel my face off and head through the maze of equipment, smiling at the small box-sized room off to the right. We've used it a few times when things weren't going our way, brought men here who refused to cooperate with what we needed. It was strange to think of it happening in my own home, but something about the thought of a guy tied up in my basement amused me while I slept, so it carried on, happening when necessary. Not often, but occasionally.
I creak the door open and look at the empty space. It’s clean now. Nothing but four walls and a small bathroom off to the side. The grey walls ended up soaked in blood last time I was in here, until the guy had an epiphany and the idea of cooperating finally took hold. He was one of the last few problems Cane had, and it hasn't happened much in the last five years or so. No need anymore; now it's all smooth sailing.
Shame really.
The door closes quietly, and I head up the stairs to shower and get changed. Six in the morning. It's the same each day. Gym at five. Breakfast. Shower, suit, car, and work by six thirty. What that work is varies. Some days I oversee legitimate business. Other days I ensure our presence is still felt on corners no one wants to be on. Today, as with most days in some ways, I'm looking after the future heir of this kingdom—Logan. I'm training him, guiding him. Fuck knows why, but he suddenly became my responsibility to mould when he turned sixteen. Don't get me wrong, both Quinn and Nate do it, too, but for some reason, I'm the one who gets to show him most of the ropes.
I'm damn tired of it.
And irritated by it.
And he's far from the man his father is.
I've eaten breakfast, and am out the door, and on the road before I think about the one thing that rules my everyday life, which is fucking dumb of me. I pull over and click the button on the console and open the cooled compartment to grab the thing that rules my life before I pull up my shirt in the same move. The needle pricks in, dispensing its drug, and I wait a few seconds until it’s done. I snarl at the thought of it and eventually put it away, unsure why the hell I forgot it today. An hour late. Stupid. I never forget normally. It’s part of me, has been for years, much to my fucking hatred. Twice a day, every day. Maybe it's the thoughts circulating my head lately, the disinterest in life.
Whatever.
I keep driving into Chicago rather than discuss it with myself anymore, and watch the sun breaking over the high-rise towers, glinting off the glass surfaces more and more the closer I get to the office. It makes me squint under the glare. A damn headache starts immediately, and I glare at the lines of traffic, watching as they slowly weave towards the building I'm heading for. It's impressive these days. Nothing like the first building I went to all those years ago. They've moved on since then. That's what astute accounting does. It turns what was once insidious into something corporate. Enough so that now Cane sits on some pretty powerful deal making tables, guiding the city’s rules and commercial growth like they own the place.
Guess they do in some ways.
The car is eventually parked, and I walk over to the elevator, wiping my brow of the sweat that’s building, and code in for the eighteenth floor. The moment I'm out the sliding doors I head straight for my office, ignoring my secretary, Janine, as she stands to welcome me. I haven't got time for inane chitchat, not with this feeling inside me.
As if on fucking cue, Quinn appears in my eyeline, a frown on his face.
“You're pale.”
“I know. I'm dealing with it,” I reply, pushing on my office door.
He follows me in and waits while I go to the refrigerator, then stares at me until I've drunk half the soda.
“Food?” he asks, walking to the window.
“I’ve eaten.”
He shakes his head and reaches into his pocket, then throws me a cherry hard candy. I smile and catch it, wondering if he's ever not gonna have those candies in his pocket.
“You playing Dad again?”
“Someone's gotta look after your stupid ass.”
Guess so. There's no one else to do it.
“I don't know why you don't come over to the house to eat with us. Emily would…”
“Because I'm comfortable in my own house.”
“Yeah. I was happy in it, too. It's still got that thing called a kitchen, right? Where you make food and eat it?”
He watches me roll my eyes and start unwrapping the candy, then carries on watching me until I put it in my damn mouth.
“I told you I’ve eaten. I was just late with the insulin. I'm twenty-nine, Quinn. Not ten.”
“Stop acting like it then. Eat when you're supposed to. Inject when you’re supposed to. You know as well as I do what happens when you don't.” My hand goes up to stop the lecture, not entirely happy about being reprimanded for my own stupidity even if I do deserve it. “I'm not watching it again, Carter. Never. You understand?”