His jet-black, spiky hair was paired with thick eyebrows. His white button-down shirt was open at the chest, but tucked neatly into expensive slacks with nary a wrinkle. Despite the humidity, Carlo appeared calm, cool, and professional. But Logan knew appearances could be deceiving. Beneath Carlo’s frosty exterior was a fiery rage that could ignite instantly. He retaliated for any perceived slight with fierce ruthlessness and torturous cruelty.
As Logan also exited his car, he thought back to the storied death of Vince, one of Angelo’s men. Vince had been stupid enough to criticize Carlo’s mismanagement of the Blackfoot heist after botched plans resulted in the arrest of several wise guys. Two days later, Vince had been found in his apartment, stabbed to death, with charred, black feet. The rumor was Vince’s feet had been singed while he was still alive, though nobody knew for sure, and the murderer had never been found. No one had openly questioned Carlo since.
The cousins approached each other guardedly. Carlo should have deferred to Logan, Don Enzo’s firstborn. Instead, Carlo acted like he was in charge, which made Logan’s blood boil. Logan had little ground to stand on right now, though, and he had nobody to blame but himself. Losing hundreds of thousands of family dollars and being on the run from the law had placed him in quite a vulnerable position—one he despised.
A sneer formed on Carlo’s face. “Still grieving la madre, Lo? When are you going to let her go?”
Logan felt his throat constrict, and his knuckles whitened as he curled his fists tightly, though he said nothing.
Carlo shook his head. “It was so easy to find you, cugino. You’re getting careless. You don’t think the cops will track you down here too?”
Logan’s jaw clenched. “What do you want, Carlo?” Hearing himself ask the same question Grant had asked him at their mother’s grave, Logan felt ashamed. Did Grant view him the way he viewed Carlo? An evil, no-good, slithering snake, so damaged he was beyond redemption?
Carlo narrowed his black eyes. “You know what I want. You know what the family wants—what the family needs. Two hundred Gs.”
Logan averted his eyes, and Carlo moved in closer, his forehead somehow dry while Logan’s beaded with sweat.
“We all know where the first hundred thou went, don’t we, Lo?” Carlo seethed. “You enlisted your little brother—the saint—and he can’t even steal back your own money.” Carlo laughed snidely. “But what about the second hundred thousand? Where did that go, cuz?” He sidled even closer to the larger man. “You holding out on us, golden child? You take that money for yourself?”
“I don’t have the money!”
“Then you get it,” Carlo snarled. “You and I got history—we’re family. And out of respect for that, I’ll give you some time to refill the coffers. But it better happen fast, cuz. If you don’t produce for the family, I’ll find someone who will.”
“Leave Grant out of this,” Logan warned.
Carlo laughed again, a maddening laugh. “That’s cute, cugino. You’re suddenly all protective of your brother—the same one you sent to prison for a three-year stretch.” He stared menacingly into Logan’s deep-blue eyes. “Which I hear ain’t quite a full three years now, is it?” The wheels turned in his head and Carlo smiled. “That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it? Searching for a saint. To what—warn him about me? Let him know I’m looking for him?”
Logan’s heart thumped though he showed nothing. He was much better at keeping his cards close to his chest than Grant. He was a much better liar.
“But you don’t know where he is, either. Turns out Karita’s baby boy is more resourceful than either of us predicted, sí?”
Swallowing hard, Logan remained silent. He remembered Carlo at eight years old. He’d been a spoiled boy, the only son of Angelo and Anna Maria Barberi, and the only cousin to Logan and Grant since Joe remained childless. When Carlo was eight, Logan was eleven and Grant six. Times had been different then.
The eight year old’s laughter echoed in the basement playroom. Looking at the frightened expression on his little cousin’s cherubic face, he taunted, “Why are you so scared, Grant Pants?”
Grant grimaced, furious that Carlo had somehow learned of his peeing his pants two years ago. Grant’s wary crystal eyes darted back and forth from his cousin to his older brother standing nearby. His voice trembled. “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”
“Trouble?” Carlo scoffed. “For telling my dad to shut up?” He exhaled derisively, “Hardly.”
Grant and Logan exchanged knowing glances. They wouldn’t dare talk back to their father. They knew what would happen if they tried.
“My dad told me his dad used to beat the crap out of him and Uncle Enzo when they were kids,” Carlo explained. “He promised himself that when he became a dad, he wasn’t gonna hit his kid, like ever.” Shrugging, he added, “So I can do whatever the hell I want.”
Grant’s eyes lit up with terror at hearing his cousin use a bad word like h-e-double hockey sticks, and he nervously glanced up the stairs to make sure his dad and uncle were still up there, unable to hear the conversation.
Logan felt his chest tighten. He wished Angelo could be his father instead. It wasn’t fair.
Carlo’s honey voice belied the menace in his words, bringing Logan back to the present. “Maybe Grant isn’t sufficient motivation for you, cuz. You threw him under the bus a little too easily. Maybe there’s somebody else you truly care about—somebody with great potential to become a real businessman, somebody who can contribute his share to the family, somebody who’s your own flesh and blood.”
Logan lunged for Carlo, gripping the smaller man’s arms. They were inches apart as Logan shouted, “Don’t you dare touch Ben!”
Carlo flinched as his cousin grasped the scarred flesh of his upper right arm. But he recovered quickly. “Get the fuck off of me, you Neanderthal.”
Realizing he was threatening Angelo’s son, the second in command, Logan reluctantly released his cousin.
Brushing off and straightening his shirt, Carlo glared. “Swear to God, you are as stupid as your father.”
Logan was at his limit. If this asshole didn’t shut up soon, he was going to receive the beating of his life—regardless of his position in the Mafia hierarchy. Shaking his head incredulously, Logan fumed, “My father saved your sorry ass, cuz. And, yes, turns out saving you was a very stupid move.”
Carlo couldn’t help but flash back to when he was ten years old, his body thrumming with excitement. The smell of booze and the palpable fury emanating off his Uncle Enzo, the thrill of secretly tagging along on an adventure, finally feeling like somebody important, hiding in the back of his uncle’s car, the hum of the tires on the highway …
He despised this memory. He wished he could banish the experience from his brain, but the images were there, and they would not go away. Carlo was forever haunted by his childhood mistake.
“That fucking pussy piece of shit!” Enzo raged, pacing the great room with a glass of scotch in his hand.
“Easy, brother,” Angelo advised from his place at the wet bar. The two men, both in their thirties, both with midnight-black hair and deep charcoal eyes, traded intense stares.