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 wouldn’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.
But I failed, he’d respond, if he could. He knew he’d never see Sophie again. Grant was better for her anyway, much better.