13. Logan

CHAPTER 13

LOGAN

On my day off, I stand in the hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as I face my mother's oncologist, Dr. Patel. His expression is grim but his eyes are filled with sympathy. Whatever sympathy he can spare anyway.

"I'm afraid the chemotherapy isn't working as well as we had hoped, Logan," he says, his voice kind-hearted yet firm. "The cancer is spreading again and the surgery will not do her any good at this point."

His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I swallow hard, my throat tight. "What...what are our options?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady. Deep down I know it. I know there are no options but I can’t hear it yet. I simply refuse.

Dr. Patel sighs. "I think it's time to start focusing on her comfort and quality of life. The aggressive treatment is taking a heavy toll. I’d suggest continuing chemo, of course, which could prolong the inevitable, give her a few more months, but ultimately the decision is yours."

Panic rises in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. I can't lose her. Not now. "There must be something else we can try. Experimental treatments, clinical trials..." My words come out in a desperate rush.

"Logan..." Dr. Patel begins, but I cut him off.

"I have money. I'll pay whatever it takes. I know those trials are expensive. Not an issue for me. I have money, Doc." The phrase tastes bitter on my tongue. Money I earned working for men I once swore to put behind bars. But I'd give every last dime if it meant saving my mother.

Dr. Patel places a hand on my shoulder. His touch is meant to comfort but I feel none of it. "I'll look into it, but I want you to be prepared. It may be time to start making arrangements."

Arrangements.

The word echoes in my mind, cold and final. I nod numbly, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

"Take some time with her," Dr. Patel says softly. "I'll be back to check on her later." He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before walking away, his footsteps like thunder in the quiet hallway.

I stand there for a long moment, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I clench my fists, anger and helplessness warring within me. I should have been there for her more. I should have found a way to get her better treatment sooner.

But I failed her, just like I failed my father. And now, all the money and connections in the world might not be enough to keep her with me.

The gloom of the bar immediately soothes my eyes and is a welcome respite from the sterile glare of the hospital. I slip onto a stool, the worn leather creaking beneath me. The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations wrap around me like a familiar blanket, muffling the chaos in my mind.

I shouldn’t be here. I’m not a cop anymore and this place is crawling with cops. It’s the bar we used to come to to celebrate things or to drown our sorrows. I guess I ended up here out of habit.

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, my voice rough.

As he slides the glass toward me, I stare into the amber depth, searching for answers that refuse to come. My mother's gaunt face swims before my eyes, her once vibrant smile now a pale shadow of itself.

I down the whiskey in one gulp, relishing the burn over my throat. It's a futile attempt to numb the pain, but I'll take what I can get. God knows I need a break.

"Another," I say, tapping the empty glass on the scarred wooden bar.

Just as the bartender sets down my refill, the door swings open, letting in a gust of hot air and a noisy group of cops. My muscles tense, every instinct screaming at me to leave before they notice me, before shame and embarrassment take over reason.

But it's too late. A pair of familiar brown eyes locks on me. Curtis.

He stares at me for a second, surprise flickering across his face before it's replaced by a cunning smile. He says something to his buddies and then saunters over. His movements are relaxed but his eyes remain sharp.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, sliding onto the stool next to me without waiting for an invitation. "If it isn't the legendary Logan McKenna."

I grip my glass tighter. "Curtis," I acknowledge, my voice flat but polite. "What’s going on?"

Curtis chuckles. "Just came for a drink with the boys. Had a solid win this week. Arrested a couple of big shots working for that madman Toro. One may crack. But I have to say, I'm surprised to see you. Thought you'd be too busy running errands for Vlad Solovey."

My jaw clenches at the poorly concealed sarcasm in Curtis’s voice. I know it was my choice to do what I did—to cover for him. I could have said no, but I said yes. Being angry at the man whose family I saved seems counterproductive. Still, I am angry. I feel like a failure because of my choice. And Curtis Sala’s proximity only makes everything worse.

"News travels fast," I say, schooling my features into neutrality, but inside, my mind is a maelstrom. How the fuck does he know? "Keeping tabs on me, Curtis?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, with nonchalance that doesn't fool either of us. "You’re not the one we’re after. It's Solovey that's got our attention. Your name simply came up in the process."

"Interesting." The ice in my drink clinks like a warning bell as I take a slow sip, buying time, trying to read between the lines of Curtis's half-truths. "Why the sudden interest in Vlad?"

"Let's just say certain aspects of his business have sparked our interest for a number of reasons." Curtis leans in closer, lowering his voice. "Aren’t you curious at all about him?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," I remind him, a loaded statement that hangs in the tight space between us. Our past is a minefield, and every word treads close to detonation. Everything is mixed in—friendship, loyalty, cowardice, betrayal. I can’t untangle any of it anymore. It’s just an assortment of emotions cramming my chest.

"Good thing we have nine lives then, isn't it?" Curtis chuckles, his gaze never leaving mine. Something flickers in his eyes as he keeps on looking at me. Maybe regret and guilt. But it’s gone just as quick as it appeared.

"Something like that," I concede, taking another sip of my whiskey.

Curtis leans back a little. All the pretentiousness fades away and his expression grows serious. It’s the face I know well, the face of my partner, the face of the man who watched my back for five years.

"You know, there's talk that Vlad had a hand in what happened to his old man," Curtis murmurs.

My heart throttles against my ribs, but I keep my face as still as the surface of a frozen lake. "Is that right?" My mind is spinning. Vlad’s mixed up in Yuri Solovey’s murder? Impossible. Or is it?

"Do you plan on arresting him?" I ask. If Vlad is in trouble, my job could be in trouble too, and I can’t afford to lose a gig paying this well right now. Not with my mother so sick.

"Thing is," Curtis continues, oblivious to the hurricane he's just unleashed in me, "arresting a guy like Solovey? It's like trying to handcuff smoke. He'd be out before the ink dried on the paperwork. Guy's got the best lawyers in the city."

"Sounds about right," I agree. He’s got the best everything in the city actually.

"The evidence is circumstantial. Won’t fly in front of any jury, even if half of them are paid to convict him."

"If the evidence is so weak, is it possible he’s not the one?" I ask, for some stupid reason hoping that Vlad is a decent person. He’s treated me right. I haven’t seen anything suspicious happening in his place. The exception is the hit on Sasha, of course. But Curtis doesn’t need to know that. Not my job to tell him.

"It’s strange that Isaac Thoreau's gone missing the same day Yuri was executed," Curtis adds, eyes scanning the room like radar, always searching for something. "Word is he's mixed up in all this mess, but without proof, it's just whispers in the wind."

I file away every syllable, a mental ledger of debts to be collected. Thoreau's name is a new entry here, a possible link to whatever hell is gunning for Sasha. At least that’s what I think first. I still need to process this information. "How's Connie and the junior?" I ask, steering the conversation into safer waters, not wanting to talk about Vlad.

"Great, great. Aiden just started Little League," Curtis replies, his guard dropping with the mention of his family, a faint smile softening his features.

"Good to hear." I nod once, sharply, and knock back the glass with a practiced tilt of my head.

At least my decision five years ago resulted in something positive.

I sit at the edge of the chair, fingers woven tightly around the thin hospital blanket that covers my mother's frail legs.

"Ma, Doc says he’ll check about a trial," I start, my voice steady but it feels like I'm pushing the words through gravel. "New drugs. Could be promising."

Ma’s eyes are dull when she looks at me, no longer the vibrant pools of life they used to be. She shakes her head and a shadow passes over her face, the kind that no light can touch. "I don't want it, baby."

"Ma, please," I beg, the desperation creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. "We can't just give up."

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, her hand—a map of veins and fragile bones—reaches for mine and I let her take it, "I've fought enough. I'm tired."

My heart is a drumbeat against a dam about to burst. "But this could be it, the thing that—"

"Logan." Her voice is a whisper, but it halts me, slices through the chaos brewing inside. "I'm too old to be someone's guinea pig."

A solitary tear betrays me, carving a hot path down my cheek. I blink away its companion, threatening to follow.

"Let me go home," she says, softly as I adjust the beanie on her head with my other hand. "Let me have my balcony garden, my bed... my dignity."

"What about chemo?"

"I want to stop." The finality of it is a punch to the gut.

Every instinct screams to fight, to claw against the inevitable closing in, but it's her life, her choice. "Okay, Ma," I whisper. "Okay."

The silence that follows is suffocating, filled with unsaid goodbyes and relentless ticking of the clock—each second a reminder of the death coming for my mother.

I hunch over her hospital bed, both my hands now clasped in hers. "Ma… What am I going to do without you?"

Another tear runs down my face against my wishes, but I’ve been keeping it all in for so long, I can’t anymore. I need to cry. Yes, I feel stupid. I'm an adult. But right now I feel like a little boy again, unprotected from the evils of the world.

"Shh," she soothes, her fingers trembling as they brush away the waterworks. Those fingers, once so strong when they'd bandaged scraped knees and fixed broken toys, are now frail and ghostly pale. "It's okay, my boy," she murmurs. "It’s okay."

Her voice is the gentle rustle of leaves. Leaves in a graveyard where no other sounds exist. "I'll be with your father soon. That's something beautiful, isn't it?"

My lips tremble. "Yeah, Ma. Beautiful."

"And you..." She pauses, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "You've got to promise me something."

"Anything," I whisper, a soldier awaiting orders for the last time.

"Live," she commands with the authority that has never faded, not even in the face of death. "Truly live, Logan. Don't let the shadows of this world swallow you whole. Don't let the past keep a hold on you."

My chest is tight, each breath a battle as I nod, unable to form words. A promise, a plea, a final wish—I understand them all without her saying more.

"Your life is yours alone," she continues, a matriarch even in her final days. "No one else gets to tell you how to walk it."

"Ma, I—"

"Let me go with grace. Let me leave knowing you won't be chained by grief or guilt. I had a good life. I lived well and I’m proud of you. Proud of what you became and that’s something I’m going to hold on to when I go. Hold on to the miracle that you are."

"Okay," I choke out, the simplest sound now the heaviest burden. "I promise."

"Good." She squeezes my fingers in hers. "Good. That’s all I needed to hear, my boy."