Chapter Four
Staring out of the window, I watch the world below pass me by.
It’s only been twenty-four hours, but I’m done. I was done before he landed that punch and finished the second I felt his foot hit my ribs. What the hell it was all for, I don’t know, but he can rot with his little bitch on his own from now on. Do whatever the hell he wants. The Yakuza have been around for years, always hovering and trying to snatch ground from us. It’s something we talked about when he wanted to legitimise, something we agreed didn’t matter to us going forward. They’re just another syndicate ready to monopolise the world, one we played with for a while, but they’re nothing to do with us anymore. Nor are we a threat to them now.
Screw him and his moods.
“Can I get you another drink, Sir?” the stewardess asks.
I shake my head at her, tired of everything, drink included, and keep staring into the clouds. I just want some peace for a while, to be left alone with my thoughts so I can organise what I’m doing. LA was my first step. I thought the distance between us would work, give me some clarity, time to evaluate, but it was constant damn noise and adrenalin, all fuelling the one thing I didn’t want to do—gamble. So now I’m on a plane. Not Cane’s plane, I’ve chartered one from LA, so I can go under the radar. Used my own assets rather than have him track me. I don’t want him knowing anything about what I’m doing, or where I’m going. I’m alone now. On my own.
Whatever that means.
It’s been running through my head the entire time. On. My. Own. I’ve never been that. Never. Right from the word go, I’ve been under him, under Father. Always second or third in command. I might have made decisions, but they always had to be proved, justified. Now it’s just me. My money. My destination. My rules.
Fuck Cane.
Eventually, I close my eyes and try to drift off into sleep. Everything still hurts. Ribs, jaw, pride. I’m raw. Wounded. Not from the beating he gave me, but from the loss. He’s cut a fucking hole open in me that I never thought possible. He spent all those years teaching me not to feel a damn thing, telling me right from word go that I had to turn to stone, show nothing to the enemy. And that’s exactly what I did for him. I forgot the real me. Left him behind the moment I watched Quinn come home that first night, blood seeping from his chin and hands shaking after the first kill. I knew then that our lives would never be the same again, that he was right. Emotion would be nothing but a vulnerability in our life. So I calculated from then, did as I was told, and used no emotion to count costs rather than have decency hinder us. I did it for him, my brother, knowing that loyalty came first above all other things. But this?
This is fucking personal. In house.
It’s not something he’s going to be forgiven for.
* * *
“Sir? We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes.” I crack half an eye open, wondering how long I’ve been asleep. “Can I get you anything before we touchdown?” My jaw stretches around as I look fully at her, eyes trying to focus.
“How long have I been out? What time is it?”
“About three hours, Sir,” she replies, opening the blinds. “It’s just gone three p.m. local time.”
I pull in a long breath and nod, turning to look out of the window. Blue skies and not a cloud in sight greet me. An endless oblivion of what should be optimism. Not that it means a damn thing to me. The buoyancy that should come as I look down at clear turquoise water doesn’t arrive. It won’t anytime soon either. Loyalty, the one thing I could always count on, has been torn from me. I’m half what I was twenty-four hours ago, alone for the first time in my life, and infuriated with the damn thought.
Sunlight bursts in through the window, breaking my gaze. I ignore it and close my eyes again, hoping that something will make sense in the weeks to come. Because at the moment, nothing makes any fucking sense at all. I have every damn right to be pissed about Emily and even more right to be aggravated about my father. He might have been at death’s door for years, and he might have been the old cunt Quinn considered him to be, but that didn’t give him the right to end his life.
Images stream into my thoughts. Abhorrent images. A pillow. Muffled shouts for help. His old hands scrabbling at sheets as my brother held him down. There wasn’t any blood when I found him on that Tuesday morning. No bullet holes. No wounds. He just looked like he’d died in his sleep, which was fucking coming one way or another anyway. No one questioned it. Hell, in some ways I was glad of it, glad he was finally out of pain and suffering. All those damn doctors and monitors, machines and endless checks were heart stopping for years. Like we were all waiting for the end, ready for it to come so we could be at peace in this new generation we aimed for. I was alright with that, at peace with the old man moving on. Now, though? Now I feel contempt for the thought. Scorn.
My stomach lurches as the plane starts its descent. I’m not sure if it’s the plane or the visions that keep coming. Josh first, protection or not, and then Father. He would’ve enjoyed doing it, too. My brother, the killer. I can see his fucking scowl now, a slight sneer attached to it. He wouldn’t have planned it with any real reflection. It would’ve been something he just let build inside until the right time came, an act he considered useful to the forward momentum of his new generation of Cane. Revenge for mother maybe. Hell, perhaps the old man knew it was coming eventually. It was he who made Quinn what he is after all, built him into the mechanism he is. I snort. The fucking irony would be entertaining if it wasn’t in my own family.
It’s one fucked up life we all lead.
The wheels touch down under me, jolting me out of my contemplations and back to the reality I’m making for myself. Holiday. The damn word is barely comprehensible. I’m not on holiday. I’m running. No matter how much I try to justify it, he’s fucking right. I’m running from him and the loyalty I should still feel regardless of everything. My fingers press into my eyes, trying for sense again, but still the confusion about loyalty tells me to turn this plane around and go home. It’s all there’s been for so long I don’t know how to get rid of it. Home. Cane.
Quinn.
“Sir, final checks have been completed. The steps are down when you’re ready.”
Ready.
I open my eyes and look at her hovering in the foreground, her head tilted at me as if she doesn’t know what to do. She smiles a little and tries for professional as she holds a hand out towards the door. “Your bags will be sent to the hotel.” Still I stare, enjoying the discomfort of her building apprehension. It hardens my dick a little, waking up some other emotion that barely comes out for play unless a whore’s available. “Can I…can I get you anything else?” My brow quirks. Perhaps fucking is what I need. Lots of it. Maybe that’s the answer to this internal mayhem. A good week or two balls deep in anything that moves and is willing to play my games. No calculations. No deciphering or analysing. Just fucking and endless pussy to taunt. “Is there a problem, Sir?”
I smile and pull myself upright, hand reaching for my laptop case.
“No, no problem.” I walk past her, dropping a bundle of cash on the side table and wondering what Bora Bora will bring. Some fucking clarity hopefully.
“Thank you, Sir,” she calls behind me as I turn out into the sun. “Are you sure I can’t do anything else for you? Your car’s ready and—”
“No, you’re done,” I cut in, staring at the car and sliding my sunglasses on as I walk down the steps. She’s no whore, and I don’t force anything unless it begs for it. Those days are done.
