48 - Eye For an Eye
Logan
The minute I see my fiancée bound and gagged, I know someone will die today.
Someone needs to fucking pay for the torment and humiliation they’ve put my girl through.
I thought I knew what anger was. Hell, I’ve spent most of my adult life coming to terms with my issues.
I attended therapy like a good boy to talk it out.
I took the medication they prescribed. I underwent various unconventional treatment plans that nearly drove me insane.
And when none of it worked; I turned to self-medication.
Self-sabotage. I fought. Lashed out. I was fucking feral.
Anything to make me feel something, to help ease the endless guilt.
Nothing I’ve ever felt in my entire twenty-one years on the fucking planet compares to the rage gripping my body right now.
I want to cleave and carve and gouge. I want to destroy and decimate and drown in the lucid screams of the fallen.
They’ll beg me to stop, but I’ll be every type of fucked-up creature from their nightmares. Their own personal Freddy Krueger.
Every fibre of my being thirsts for blood.
Need’s blood.
Red.
All I see is fucking red.
A firm pressure lands on my shoulder, and a shudder wracks my body
“Logan. Breathe.” Ezio’s voice is steady, unwavering.
When I finally see through the haze of smoke dampening my vision, I freeze. The pounding in my heart matches the pounding in my ears. My skin breaks into oppressive sweats, hands so clammy they’re slippery and wet. A silent scream clutches at my throat as I gasp for every breath.
Cillian Delaney is holding a revolver to my pregnant fiancée’s head.
“No.” My fractured voice doesn’t sound like my own.
His eyes grow wide in manic excitement. “Oh. You are in there, lad.”
Clarke’s calculating stare flits to the other kid, eyes narrowing. “You were there. At the party.”
Brow’s furrowing, I follow his gaze, tracing features that already exist in my memories. Silver eyes, bleached hair, skin white as a sheet. Clarke’s right.
“You played the game with us,” I conclude with a snarl. “You were spying. Using her to fucking bait us.”
“No, I–” his words die under a single, sharp look.
“You’ve been busy, cuz,” Cillian says with a raised brow. “Good work. Daddy will be so proud.”
Clarke Snorts. Blood fills my mouth, teeth cutting into the flesh.
“Enough,” Clarke’s brutish demand is nothing short of animalistic. “Let her go, Cillian.”
“But don’t you think she looks good like this?”
My nostrils flare when he hooks his fucking arm around her shoulders and ruffles her hair. I want to hack that arm off at the elbow with an axe.
“She’s pretty but talks too much for my liking. Much better with something stuffed between her lips.”
I lurch forward, my blood practically boiling with rage. But a fist coiled in my shirt yanks me back hard.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Cillian taunts, driving the metal deeper into Cordelia’s pale skin. Clicking the safety off.
“Don’t lose your shit, Cox,” Clarke’s voice is clipped. “Not unless you intend to lose your girl in the process.”
His words grate on my nerves, but I know he’s talking sense.
I sweep my gaze back to Cordelia, who whimpers another strained sob.
Black lines streak her cheeks, and there’s so much drool leaking from her mouth it’s collecting between her milky thighs.
I am the only fucking person who should see her like this.
The only one able to tie her up and silence her.
And that’s reserved for the fucking bedroom.
“What do you want?” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Other than you to all suffer for what you did? I haven’t decided yet.”
My top lip curls into a snarl until I’m more or less foaming at the mouth.
“She’s pregnant,” Ezio states, as if her huge belly isn’t proof enough of the fact. “We don’t harm innocents.”
“She’s unharmed,” Cillian says with a nonchalant shrug.
The thunderous crash that echoes through the room has all of us jumping out of our skins.
A glance over my shoulder and my skin turns ashen.
Uncle Scar, Marco, Vincenzo, and my dad stand in formation behind us, prepared to tear down the whole dilapidated building with everyone inside.
Guns drawn, cold gazes locked on Cillian.
My uncle is armed with an AK-47. He means business.
“Stand down.”
I narrow my eyes. The shrill command batters my ear drums but I’m the only one that doesn’t follow the order.
“I said. Stand. down.”
The hand clutching my pistol quakes, index pressed close to the trigger. A mere slip of a finger away from firing.
“The real mafias joined the party,” Cillian smirks, and I want so badly to slice his face up; give him a Chelsea-smile. The fucker would have no choice but to grin then.
Scar stalks forward, positioning himself on the front line, feet spread wide in an unmistakable display of prowess and power. Marco’s sharp eyes watch his every move.
“Cillian,” he addresses him, voice low but controlled to the umpteenth degree. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
“Your–,” he continues, but backtracks. “Kids killed my feckin’ brother.”
Scar nods; the picture of calm. He’s spent years honing his skills and moulding himself into the perfect psychopath for the mafia.
“Si.” His simple affirmation has Cillian’s eye twitching, but he nods. Scar turns to face us, black eyes frigid. “Step outside.”
I don’t move. My brows arch downward.
“I am not leaving her.”
Dad pins me with a look. “Yes, you are, son. Now.”
“That’s right. Let the adults talk.” Cillian’s fucking Irish twang. It’s so much more grinding with sarcasm mixed in.
Clarke and Ezio leave quietly, even though it’s clear it pains my best friend to do so.
Vincenzo takes a step towards me, dark eyes brimming with intimidation, daring me to oppose him.
I square my shoulders, and he arches an eyebrow.
He bunches up the slick hair at his nape, tying it back and making it clear this won’t end well for me if I refuse to follow orders.
“Take the fucking gag off,” I growl, eyes sweeping to meet Cillian’s. “Then I’ll leave.”
Cillian gives another shrug and unbuckles the strap holding the gag in place.
Cordelia spits it out, coughing and sputtering, getting used to breathing freely again.
Her eyes find mine, cerulean crystals radiating through my darkened soul.
She smiles. It’s small, and nothing like her usual cheeky grin. But it’s there.
Without hesitation, I raise my gun. But before I get a chance to aim, Vincenzo’s arm snakes around my throat, squeezing tight. The gun wavers in my hand, and Dad snatches it away before I can react.
“Get him out of here,” Scar seethes as I thrash and fight for control.
It’s no use though. Vincenzo’s grip is unrelenting, and with Dad’s weight pressing into my back, they drag me from the room.