Forbidden Eyes: A Cane Novel 4 Read online

  Just not with me.

  There isn’t an endless list of numbers programmed into my phone. I’ve made friends, but those I can trust, who actually know me, I can count on one hand. Unfortunately, both my parents know who they are as well. For this to work, I’ll need someone they don’t know.

  Terrance is a freshman in one of the chemistry labs I helped in a couple of times last semester. He is cute and didn’t try to act like a typical know-it-all guy, even though we were the same age. He asked me out for coffee after our second class and gave me his number. Of course, I’ve never called. Until now.

  “Hey, Terrance, it’s Fia. Yeah, from Columbia. Look, I know this is out of the blue, but I have a huge favour to ask. Is there any way you could meet me in Brooklyn in a few hours?”

  “Um, sure. Is this a…”

  I interrupt before he gets the wrong idea. “No, I mean, not tonight. I need a lift to the bus station.”

  “Right. But I don’t have a car.”

  “Rather, I need your uber account. I’ll pay, don’t worry. But I can’t book it. I can’t let anyone know where I’m going.”

  “Is everything alright? You’re not in any trouble?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Just a family argument and I’m…" I look out the window, checking out the lights of the city in the distance. My dad's city. God, I hate him about now. "I'm going to stay with some family I’m not fighting with.”

  “Alright then.”

  My heart thuds loudly in my chest as I give him a time and place and thank him. Then, I sit and contemplate what I’m about to do. The adrenalin is already making me want to run fast and hard. Space. I need it. Some time to move on with my life without such an overbearing presence making it impossible.

  I order an uber to take me to Brooklyn and leave a dead trail if Dad hacks into my account. Pick up at midnight at the end of the street. A few minutes checking timetables and I find there’s a bus that leaves at 2:45 in the morning. It will take a day of travelling, but it’ll leave no trail, which is better than a flight. Uncle Nate would be all over that in a heartbeat if Dad or Mom asked for help.

  If I can’t escape the house, so be it, but I have to try. The only place I can go is to Uncle Quinn and Aunt Emily. At least I know they won't throw me out or call my dad and put me straight on a flight back home. Maybe. They'll at least give me a few days grace, surely.

  I have to do something.

  Three

  Ten minutes more and I'll be done for the morning. My legs pump the weights, and I reach forward to anchor another twenty pounds on the machine. I was a skinny kid. Gangly. I'm not anymore. Too many years looking up at Quinn's lean, muscular build, I guess, admiring him for it. He always looked so damn aggressive. It drove me to better myself, to improve my physique into something threatening to impress him. Now, he looks up at me. Not scared. I don't think I've ever seen him look scared, but it's nice to be above him at this point in my life, at least in one way.

  I heave on the grips in my hands, working my deltoids at the same time as my thighs. Sweat flows down my forehead as my body strains to release more power.

  More. Always more. More attitude. More aggression. More tenacity. Fuck those who step out when the road gets tough. I don't step out of anything. I lead, head down against whatever dares question my decisions or gets in my way.

  The weights fall with a thud on the last rep, and I pull my erratic breathing back to what it should be. Slow. Steady. My eyes close, mind focusing on the quiet sound of nothing until the aggression filters back to a manageable level again. It's a problem I have—aggressive tendencies. Quinn tells me it's useful, that I shouldn't cage it as much as I do. He encourages me to set it loose, engage it more often. Especially when needed.

  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 w
indow.

  “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?”

  “Yeah, alright. You don't need to go on and…”

  “Check it.”

  I wander to my desk and pull out the glucose meter to satisfy him, sticking myself with it. “Close the door.”

  He does, giving me the privacy I need for this. I hate anyone knowing, hate the thought of someone seeing the weakness in me. Not that it is. I barely even bother checking anymore. It’s always the same. Has been for years. Steady. Ordered. My blood sugars stay as regular as my heartbeat. Just like me. I might despise the thought of it, but it’s who I am, and for the rest of my motherfucking life, I’m bound to it. Regardless of my normal management, however, I'm not getting him off my ass until this show is done. If there's one thing I know about Quinn, it's his tenacity. He doesn't give up on a goddamned thing until he's satisfied with the result. I look at the reading and hold it up for him to see. “Good enough?”

  He nods.

  Then leaves.

  Discussion done. Or so I thought.

  “Miami?” he asks, head coming back around the door.

  “Yeah. On it. You've got the run on target?”

  He nods. Then leaves.

  Again.

  I sit and stretch my face, trying to dismiss the last of the change he saw in me. He's always seen it in me and can generally tell how my levels are doing long before I can. He noticed it first when I was young. Took me to a doc when I was barely sick and made them do every test under the sun. I smile at the thought, a small chuckle coming as I stare out the bank of glass windows. I owe him a lot, including my life. Not only that day, but when I was seventeen, too.

  It was early on. I was learning the seedier side of this world I'm in. Three thugs. I thought it would be easy enough with my blade, thought I could handle it on my own, prove myself maybe. I loosen my tie and rub my chest, scoring my fingers over the ridge beneath my shirt and remembering the moment I worked out shit wasn't going my way. They dragged it all the way from jugular to chest, taunted me with how much damage a blade could do in the hands of a real man. And then they pushed it in deep, splitting me open. It still hurts now, still tightens every now and then when I'm anxious. Not that that happens much.

  I learnt how to use a blade well after that, though.

  When I came back from the dead, anyway.

  “Carter?”

  My head turns at the sound of Logan’s voice in my space, pulling in a deep breath for the long-ass day ahead. This dick could use a cut or two driven deep into his chest, help him grow the hell up and realise Cane money doesn't solve everything.

  He goes straight to my refrigerator and pulls out another Coke, swigging it down without asking if it’s okay.

  “Good?” I ask, feeling like ramming the thing down his throat.

  “Yeah. I'm still trashed. I needed it.”

  I look him over. No one would know he’s trashed. He's sharp, precise, his suit in place and stubble trimmed neatly. He looks more and more like Nate every time I see him. Heavy Cane brow. Black hair. Leaner than both of them in his eighteen-year-old frame, but he won't be one day, and he's clearly as interested in booze as his father. Coke, too, from what I know.

  “You gonna grow up anytime soon?”

  He comes over and sits opposite me.

  “Get your head out your ass, Carter. Just ’cause you don't know how to have a good time doesn't mean we all have to follow your lead.”

  Dick.

  “I’m here, aren’t I? On time?”

  I check my watch. Seven a.m. He certainly is.

  I stand and wave my fingers at him. Trashed or not, he's got work to do today. Work he's not gonna like. I'm not gonna have much fun with it either. Today, I don't have the patience for it or him. I walk him along the corridors to accounts, smiling the entire way, and then open the door into Nate's office.

  “Logan’s here for that coding you wanted,” I announce.

  His face rises from over three screens, an arch to his brow as he lowers his blue glasses to look at me. “You know, for that thing you were talking about.”

  “Ah, yes. The thing.”

  Neither of us have any idea what we're talking about, but Nate is as interested in getting his nephew back on track as his brother. He points at the small desk in the corner and nods at Logan.

  “All allied accounts need restructuring. Dating back two years. See if you can organise the coding more efficiently than I have,” he says, skulking back behind his screens again.

  Logan huffs and goes to sit, mumbling under his breath about the shit he shouldn't have to do. We all have to do it. Every bit of it. I did it before him, and his kids will do it after us. It's how it works in this business. Track it. Acquire it. Own it. Enforce it.

  And, if necessary, hide it.

  “Carter?” I look back towards Nate, unable to see him.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve spoken to Quinn about Miami?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On track?”

  “Sure. I’ll leave tomorrow. It’ll run fine.” My eyes shift to Logan, watching as he tries to listen to every damn word we say. I’m not sure why he’s not allowed in on it in all honesty. It’s something Cane still does if it has to, certainly to placate Vico. He should know. Maybe he could do it then. “There are no problems, Nate. I’m on it.”

  He waves his hand at me, dismissing me, and I leave. I've got at least four hours of peace now. Enough time to get on with my own tasks for the day. Tomorrow is a different story. As is this afternoon when Logan cracks whatever Nate assigned him, thinking he’d find it difficult. But for now, I'm free to do what I want, and that means turning over the raft of emails regarding the clubs and casinos. They’re my main priority around here. I run the face of Cane on the entertainment front, making sure the world knows that we are legitimate.

  We’re not. Not entirely. And when things need doing, I do them in the way that’s necessary to achieve results, but mainly we’re a corporate powerhouse these days. A sharp one.

  I walk back into my office and open my laptop, intent on getting work done so I can get Logan over to the east docks later. He needs to understand that place as much as the Regent, especially the old warehousing that Cane acquired and is turning into a hotel. It’s almost complete, a huge overhaul costing the company millions. Fuck knows how they got hold of the land two years ago in the first place. It was supposed to be housing. Instead, they’re building an entertainment venue to rival Navy Pier. No idea how they got planning permission for that either, but as always, Cane gets what Cane wants.

  * * *

  Logan tips his head around the door a couple of hours later.

  “You’re done?” I ask, surprised that even he can manage Nate’s work that quick.

  “Yes. What are we doing now?”

  “Alright. We’ll head d
own to the docks then. I need to catch up on the site. It’ll only take a couple of hours.”

  He files in behind me, and we head back through the building until we’re at the car again. He snubs it and bypasses me, bleeping the alarm on his Ferrari. My eyes roll, uninterested in his need to display his wealth. Fuck if I’m going in that. He can follow me if he has to wave his money around. In fact, I'll make my own way there and meet him in a while.

  I open the door and slide in, starting the engine.

  "Logan, I'll be there in half an hour. I've got something to do first," I call. He nods at me and slams his door, tyres screeching out the parking lot, leaving dust in his wake.

  Half an hour should be enough.

  I pull out, blinking in the sun as it filters in from the ramp to outside, and reach for the switchblade in the glove compartment. It's only a small thing I need to deal with, but disrespect leads to bigger things. They could end meaning money goes missing, or corners of Chicago get lost to gangs rather than respecting the hierarchy Cane has spent its life achieving. It's another thing I do that keeps me feared and talked about. I keep these streets thinking, worrying. That way, nothing gets taken for granted because of the flashy building Quinn and Nate now sit in. They might not fight corners like they used to, but if needed, I do.

  Ten minutes later I pull into the Fuller Park area and stop, eyes searching for any other problems nearby. There isn't any that I can see, just the usual miscreants hanging around ready to dive on some chump who stupidly drives into the wrong part of town. I walk towards the back of Choltie’s lodge, my blood quietly pumping to get me ready. Thing is, these dicks dared cross the river, and that upset the border control I delegated for them for drug running in and out of Chicago. It might not be what we do anymore, but we still get a healthy cut for allowing it to happen on our turf. So, yeah, I'm pissed about the angst now riding the two cartels. Makes my life difficult.