24 - Secrets Out
Logan
Clarke: Ready?
Clarke’s message lingers beneath my hovering finger, expecting to be answered.
What I want to type back is no, I am absolutely not fucking ready to tell Scar about the shitstorm that I’ve brought down on us.
Except we don’t have a choice now. We have to tell him who was behind Fionn’s demise.
And that may well mean that we’ll never see the light of day again.
Which is why we’ve strategically planned to tell him today; the morning of the funeral; in hopes that he won’t beat the living shit out of us.
Cordelia’s protection is my priority now.
Hers and our babies. I’m going to be a father by the time I’m twenty-one.
It’s hard to get my head around. Just one time was all it took: one life-changing night.
This time next year I’ll be changing shitty nappies and dealing with temper tantrums. Technically, we weren’t being irresponsible.
Okay, well, maybe I was, but we took precautions.
It’s just, well, fate; she had other plans to fuck with our futures.
And yet, she led me to her—my own personal temptress, weaving her siren song of seduction.
With a golden mane that glows in a halo of light when it catches the early morning sun.
That cute little button nose that makes me want to boop it every time she scrunches up her face.
And those eyes, crystalline and bright, sparkling through the darkness, lighting every corner of my goddamn soul.
Life will never be the same again.
Cordelia’s attendance at Delaney’s funeral will raise eyebrows. People are going to want to know who she is and question why she’s there. And because of that, we need to disclose what happened that night. Because it’s all connected.
The dare, the photograph, the murder.
The pregnancy.
I let out a laboured breath and fumble to button up my fancy dinner jacket, then swipe my phone from my pocket.
Me: Guess so
The steps to the front door seem to extend for miles.
The house is nearly as full as the day we held Clarke’s party.
The number of mobsters crammed into the estate is enough to intimidate even the most fearless of people.
The last time I encountered this many was at a family wedding, and even then, the numbers were fewer than today.
Scar must think something heavy is going to go down to have enlisted this much outside help.
Everyone’s here, from close family, bodyguards, and friends to distant cousins twice removed. Many members aren’t related by blood, but we refer to them as such anyway because loyalty runs deeper than lineage. And if push came to shove, any of these people would have my back.
“Logan Cox.”
I whip around upon hearing my name. Ezio’s dad crosses the hall, striding towards me like a man on a mission.
It’s been a fair few months since I’ve seen him; he tends to spend much of his time maintaining order from various locations around Italy.
I was born and raised here in London, but after the alliance formed, they brought the ‘kids’ over to England to attend school here.
Stuck us all together in a private school for the elite, forced to learn foreign languages and attempt to communicate with each other.
Vincenzo’s lips draw into a thin line, sharp cheekbones accentuating how pissed off he looks. What rattled his cage?
“Uncle Vin,” I greet him with a nervous smile.
Without a single word of explanation, he slings a hefty arm over my shoulder and proceeds to drag me towards Scar’s office.
Ezio and his father are leaner in build than most, but that doesn’t make them any less formidable.
The scent of cigarette smoke surrounds Vincenzo as we walk, and somehow it makes him all the more intimidating.
At the end of the hall, he pushes me through the oak doors.
I catch myself just before falling flat on my face.
The facial scars have finally faded, and I told Cordelia I’d lay off the fighting, so a gigantic bruise or a broken nose would be a tad difficult to explain.
It’s doubtful she’d believe my ‘I fell over’ excuse; it’s about as believable as the whole ‘the dog ate my homework’ line - even if it was the truth.
The boys snigger at my stupidity, unable to stop themselves, whilst I sink into the vacant chair, staring ahead.
Vincenzo remains standing at our rear, but Dad, Scar, and his muscle watch us with keen eyes from the front.
We’re not likely to run. Three against an army of at least a hundred. No thanks.
Scar’s enforcer catches my eye, lips curling into a deadly smirk. His dark eyes say, ‘Just try it, my boy.’ Eurgh. If Marco’s here, I guarantee someone will be keeping a close eye on us today too.
“Alright, boys,” Scar growls, scanning over each of us individually. It irritates the hell out of me that we’re still referred to as kids; because we’re not. We’re grown men. “Someone wants to tell me why none of you lifted a finger to defend the pub?”
The wooden plank is unforgiving as I shift, chasing a comfort that doesn’t exist.
“I called you,” Clarke supplies brusquely, resting his chin lazily in his hand.
“Not good enough,” Scar snaps. “The staff pay us money to protect them, and you failed to fulfil that obligation. Now, thanks to you, I’ve had to renegotiate a new fucking deal.”
And I’m guessing, if his face is anything to go by, the deal isn’t quite as tasty. Whoops.
“You know better, lads,” Vincenzo pipes up from behind us.
“Hold on,” Clarke cuts in, slamming the flat of his palm against the table. “I called this meeting to explain what happened.”
“Then fucking explain yourself, Ragazzo,” Scar seethes, beady eyes narrowed, teeth clenched.
“This better be good,” Dad adds, running his knuckles down his jawline.
All eyes navigate to Clarke, and he revels in the attention, like a pig in shit.
A coy smile plays on his lips as he flexes his proverbial muscles, enticing everyone to take the bait and hang on his every word, including me, and I was there when it happened.
There’s a vein in Scar’s neck that’s so pronounced it might need its own bloody chair soon.
“We did it.”
“You. Did. What?” Scar’s voice can barely pass as human at this point. He sounds like a feral beast that’s ready to feast and rip someone’s throat out.
“Delaney,” Clarke says simply, jutting his chin in the air, dark eyes gleaming.
Scar moves so fast that the movement is nothing but a blur. For a fifty something year old, greying mafia leader, he’s sure sharp-footed, with the reflexes of a damn alley cat. Marco barely manages to intercept the assault.
“Wait!” My dad yells, ramming his hand between father and son without an ounce of consideration for his own safety. “Not today. We can’t do anything to raise suspicion.”
“He’s right,” Vincenzo adds, exhaling a breath, “the Delaney’s are already going to be breathing down our necks. Let’s not give them ammunition.”
I side-eye Clarke, who’s grinning like a psychotic chipmunk. Because it’s gone exactly how he planned.
Scar’s pitch-black orbs pinball around the bodies in the room.
“If you weren’t attending this funeral, I’d beat you all black and blue.
” He’s fuming. I’m half expecting him to start frothing at the mouth like a rabid hound.
He swipes Marco’s hand from his chest, breaking out of his hold with ease.
Dragging a large hand down his face, he pins us with his attention once again. “Anything else?” he grits out.
My shoulders curl forward as I let out a weighted breath. Sweat rolls down my neck, and I have to pin my arms across my chest to hide the tremble in my hands. Ever since I was handed that positive pregnancy test, I’ve been dreading this day.
I rub my chin, the rough stubble scratching my fingers as I attempt to build up enough courage to speak through the rising tension. When I force my lips to part, Clarke interrupts.
“Si,” he says, angling his chin just enough to flash me his wicked smirk. My eyes grow wide, and I jerk my head in desperation. And then he utters the words. “Cox’s donna is pregnant.”
And suddenly it’s no longer Clarke and his dad that have Marco leaping into action; it’s me and my best mate.
Luckily for Clarke, Uncle Vin’s close enough to get a hold of me before I tear the bastard’s eyes out.
He jams me in a goddamn chokehold under his burly forearm, and I’m swiftly reminded of the altercation in the car park, when his son pulled the same move.
“You fucking prick!” I scream until Vin squeezes my neck like a sponge, cutting off my air supply. That’s one way to shut me up, I guess. I choke and splutter, trying to force air out of my restricted lungs. Clarke, the moron, laughs like he’s just cracked the best joke of the century.
“Abbastanza!”
The sheer volume of the Italian rumble has everyone’s eyes snapping to attention, let alone the intent behind it.
“Sit the fuck down,” Scar demands, and I drop back into my seat. Vin’s long fingers remain curled around my shoulder in silent warning. Those void eyes level with mine. “Who is she?”
My throat might as well have razor blades in it.
“Cordelia Rousseau,” I reply, and her name feels sticky on my tongue.
Silence.
“Collette Rousseau’s daughter.” It’s not a question; he’s aware of who I’m referring to. “I thought I told you to–”
“Aye. You did,” I blurt, and Vin’s fingernails dig deeper into my blazer, enough to feel the sting. “But it happened. We got her to swear on the code. You can’t hurt her. She’s one of us.”
That last sentence pains me to speak out loud, and my chin drops to my chest in defeat.
Scar takes an audible breath to re-compose himself, and Clarke finally does something helpful, stepping up to play the video recording.
Her sobbing and hopeless pleas break my heart all over again.
Because I’m the one responsible for them, for causing her misery and distress.
Surprisingly, we leave the office without any new war wounds.
Pretty sure our dads wanted to rip us new arseholes, but our timing was on point, and with the imminent service today they had no choice but to abscond.
The video seemed to quell Scar’s anger to a degree.
But he wasn’t fully convinced, and his answer to making sure Cordelia kept her mouth shut was to ‘put a ring on it’ which had me raging on the inside.
His final suggestion: to do something nice for her upcoming birthday, ‘butter her up, make her agreeable,’ made me see red.
My jaw clenched so hard, my teeth ached. But with the funeral commencing in just a few hours, we had no time for another explosion; literal or otherwise. We’d gotten out clean, but the taste lingered long after, foul and bitter in my mouth.