Sempre: Redemption

12

The black dress shoes, half a size too small, made it difficult for Carmine to wiggle his toes. The suit, crisp and brand new, was stifling, the material scratching his skin as he rode in the passenger seat of Corrado’s Mercedes.

Uncomfortable, he tugged at his blue silk tie. It suffocated him, like a noose tied around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to loosen his collar and take off the coat, maybe even kick off the damn shoes, but he was pretty sure that would only irritate his uncle.

“What’s wrong with you?” Corrado asked as if on cue, cutting his eyes to him from the driver’s seat. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m trying.” Carmine shifted in the seat and pushed the small switch to lower the automatic window, but nothing happened. Corrado had them locked. “It’s a furnace in this car. I’m sweating like I’m in a fucking sweat box here.”

“Such a way with words,” Corrado deadpanned. “I advise you to keep your day job.”

Carmine rolled his eyes. Like he had a choice. “Do you have the heat on or something?”

Corrado shrugged him off. “It’s just your nerves.”

He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. They were heading to a party at Sal’s house and Carmine was on edge. He hadn’t wanted to go, making excuses to get out of it, but even the social gatherings were mandatory.

“Stay away from the alcohol tonight,” Corrado warned him.

Carmine looked at him incredulously. Not drink?

“You’ll be in a room with some of the most dangerous men in the country,” Corrado said, noticing the question in his expression. “You’ll want to be coherent.”

“Why?” Carmine asked bitterly. “I thought we were all family.”

“We are family,” Corrado replied. “And you saw what I did to my only sister.”

Carmine’s stomach lurched at the memory.

By the time they reached Sal’s mansion, Carmine was pouring sweat. He took a deep breath, trying to relax as he followed his uncle to the door. A young girl swiftly opened it for them. She didn’t speak, nor did her eyes move from the floor.

Once they were inside, she closed the door and positioned herself against the wall out of the way. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen, a skinny girl with blonde hair and pale skin.

Carmine eyed her cautiously, knowing what she was right away. Her body language, the way she slinked into the background like a chameleon blending in with its surroundings, told him a story no words would ever say.

The pressure in his chest nearly bucked his knees as he thought of Haven.

“Carmine! Corrado!”

Sal’s voice drew Carmine’s attention away from the girl. His godfather approached, his arm around his wife’s waist. She scowled, sipping a glass of champagne, refusing to lower herself by speaking to any of them.

“I’m glad you gentlemen could make it,” Sal said, pulling away from her to hold his hand out. Carmine fought a grimace as he pressed his lips to the back of it, near the man’s massive gold ring.

“Of course,” Corrado said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Sal raised his eyebrows, dramatically looking over Corrado’s shoulder. “And your wife? Where is Celia this evening?”

“She’s feeling under the weather tonight,” Corrado replied.

“Ah, such a pity. Send her my well wishes, will you?”

Corrado nodded, and it took everything in Carmine not to roll his eyes. There was nothing wrong with Celia. She had just refused to spend her evening with them.

They delved into conversation and Carmine lingered there, knowing it was expected of him. People sought out Sal all evening long as they arrived, and he always made a point to introduce them to Carmine. He plastered a smile to his lips as he played along with the game—pretend to like them, pretend to have fun, pretend there’s nowhere in the world he would rather be.

Pretend he didn’t want to fucking punch somebody in the face.

Each minute felt like forever, the two hours that passed an entire lifetime in his mind. Sal constantly chattered, boasting and bragging as he showed off for Carmine. He was being groomed, he realized. Sal was already trying to mold him into one of them, a puppet, a soldier, by poisoning his mind with thoughts of money, power, and respect.

He waited until Sal was drunk before slipping away from the group, hoping he would be forgotten. The smile fizzled from his face as he strolled through the house, heading straight for the drink table. He grabbed a small glass and filled it from an open liquor bottle, disregarding Corrado’s warning. The burn lessened the pressure in his chest, unwinding the knots and loosening his taut muscles.

He leaned against the table as he drank, his attention shifting to the front door. Hours had passed, yet the girl still stood there, as silent and still as ever. He studied her, wondering where she had come from and how long she had been trapped in Sal’s home. He couldn’t recall her ever being there before.

She snuck a peek after a moment, tipping her head up slightly so her blue eyes met his. Her brow furrowed when she saw him watching her, and she dropped her gaze again quickly.

“What’s your name?” Carmine asked curiously.

She peeked up once more but didn’t have a chance to respond before laughter sounded out behind him. Carmine turned at the noise of a clinking liquor bottle and froze, the glass nearly slipping from his hand as he stared at the badly scarred face. The familiarity took his breath away.

“Her name’s Annie, I think,” Carlo said, casually pouring a glass of scotch.

“Abby,” the girl whispered, her voice shaking as she corrected him.

“Not that it matters,” Carlo continued, shrugging. “You can call her anything you want.”

Carmine couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. Everything about the man screamed vile, from his callous words to his horrid face. “I prefer to call her by her name.”

Carlo looked over at him, studying him carefully. “DeMarco’s kid.”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense.” Carlo brought his glass to his lips. “She’s your type.”

Anger swept through Carmine. He fought to control himself, forcing his feet to stay where they were. He wouldn’t be provoked. Not here, not now. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, no reason to be ashamed,” Carlo said. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve always liked to sample the help, too. Little Annie over there is a sweet thing. Submissive. Didn’t even put up a fight. Not that any of them do. Well, except yours. Feisty one, isn’t she? Didn’t get that from her mother.”

Carmine’s rage spiraled over. “You son of a—!”

Before he could leap over the liquor table and pound his fists into the man’s grotesque face, the noise in the room grew louder as a slew of guests filtered in. They scattered through, some heading for the door while others made their way to the back den. Carlo took a step back, tipping his glass at Carmine with a menacing smile. “Nice to officially meet you, kid. I’ll see you around.”

He sauntered away as Corrado approached, grabbing the glass from Carmine’s hand and slamming it on the table. “Your ability to listen is astounding.”

“Do you know what that motherfucker just said to me?” Carmine asked, clenching his hands into fists. “He just—”

Corrado cut him off. “I don’t care. He’s made, Carmine. You don’t disrespect a man who earned his button.”

Those words did nothing to lessen his temper.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Corrado said. “Party’s over.”

Carmine remained in place, looking to his uncle as he started walking through the house. Corrado clearly planned to stay. “How am I going to get home?”

Corrado grabbed a guy as he strolled past, clutching the collar of his shirt to stop him from leaving. “Take DeMarco here home, will you?”

The guy nodded tersely. Corrado posed it as a question, but they all knew it wasn’t open for negotiation. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s how,” Corrado said before disappearing into the den.

Carmine followed the guy outside, finally loosening his tie and pushing his sleeves up as he went. The guy was fairly young, mid-twenties at most, with bushy eyebrows and short brown hair. He wore a pair of baggy jeans and a plain white t-shirt that made Carmine bitter. Why had he been forced to put on a suit?

He expected to be led to yet another Mercedes, but was surprised when the guy stopped beside an old gray Impala. Carmine eyed it peculiarly. “This is yours?”

“Yeah,” the guy said, unlocking the doors so they could climb in. “Something wrong with it?”

“No, I just thought . . .”

“You thought I’d drive one of those?” he asked with a laugh, nodding toward the row of black cars. “I wish I could afford one. Maybe someday. But for now, this baby will do.”

“It’s nice,” Carmine said, settling into the cracked leather passenger seat. The interior was stained and it smelled like a combination of oil and sweat, but he felt more at ease in it than he had in Corrado’s car.

Laughter cut through the air, nearly drowned out by the engine roaring to life. It rumbled as the car shimmied, violently shaking as it almost cut off. “She’s a piece of shit, man, but she’s paid for.”

Carmine didn’t say much during the drive, but the guy’s endless chatter filled the car the entire time. It was distracting and consuming—exactly what he needed. When Carmine was busy listening, he had little time to think, little time to dwell on the things that kept him awake at night.

It wasn’t until they had pulled onto his street and the car slowed near his house that it struck Carmine—he never gave the guy directions. “How do you know where I live?”

“You’re shitting me, right?” he asked. “You’re a DeMarco. Your family is like royalty, and even a fucking British hobo knows where Buckingham Palace is.”

Carmine shook his head. He should have known. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime, man. I’m Remy, by the way. Remy Tarullo.”

Carmine opened the car door but froze when that name struck him. “Tarullo.”

“Yeah, like the pizzeria over on Fifth Avenue.”

“Any relation?” Carmine asked.

Remy nodded. “My pops owns the place.”

Carmine’s mouth went dry. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t swallow. He hadn’t been there in a long time, but he knew the place well.

“I don’t go around there much, though,” Remy continued. “Pops doesn’t really agree with my life, if you know what I mean. Well, hell, never mind. I guess you don’t know. Yours is a part of this. You don’t have to deal with him looking at you like you’re a disappointment, like you’re fucking up everyone’s life being a part of this.”

Carmine said nothing, because Remy was wrong. He knew that feeling well.

“Anyway, I’m rattling on here,” Remy said, tinkering with an old gold watch around his wrist. “Sorry, man. Just a sore spot, especially since what happened to my little brother.”

Those words made his heart rate spike. Dean Tarullo. Carmine nearly forgot all about the boy from the warehouse. “What happened to him?”

“He got mixed up with the wrong people, I guess. Disappeared months ago.”

“So he’s missing?”

Remy’s voice was quiet. “Yeah, but not the kind of missing that’ll ever be found, if you get what I’m saying.”

Gunshots flashed in Carmine’s mind, the memory of Corrado silencing the boy forever infiltrating his mind.

“Yeah,” Carmine muttered. “I know what you mean.”

Haven sat on the green metal park bench, watching the activity all around her. She had just gotten out of her last art class and her final project lay beside her, the canvas carefully wrapped and secured in brown paper.

It surprised Haven how therapeutic painting turned out to be, two weeks of art doing what three months of waiting and crying couldn’t begin to touch. It opened up a part of her, exposing her nerves for the world to touch. Drawing was technical, the lines and details needing to be precise, but she could let go while painting and pour her emotions into it. Each piece of artwork held special meaning, but she knew others would look at it and see something entirely different.

She enjoyed that about art, like it held a hidden code only she had the key to. She was telling her story, getting out every gritty detail of her tortured life, but people were none the wiser. She could never tell the world, but there was nothing that said she couldn’t show them . . . as long as they didn’t know what they were looking at.

Haven sat there for a while, enjoying the peaceful spring evening, before gathering her things and heading across the street to the apartment. It was approaching dusk, and Dia would already be home from her classes. They had made plans to go out to commemorate the end of her workshop, but Haven didn’t feel much like celebrating. She felt another void deep inside now that it was over.

She reached their building, walking into the lobby as the elevator opened. A man stepped out of it wearing a black baseball cap and spotted her, holding the door.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling politely.

He nodded. “Don’t mention it.”

She stepped into the elevator and pushed the number 6 button, humming to herself as the elevator dinged with each floor. She strolled down the hallway to the apartment, finding the door wide open with Dia in the living room. She held a small brown box up, shaking it zealously before holding it to her ear. Her hair was a soaked mess of colored streaks sculpted on top of her head, chemical fumes from hair dye potent in the air.

Haven shut the door behind her and dropped her canvas beside the door. “What in the world are you doing?”

Dia swung around, startled, and smiled sheepishly for having been caught. “Just trying to figure out what’s inside.”

“Why don’t you just open it?”

“Because it’s not mine,” Dia said, holding it out. “It’s yours.”

Haven gaped at the box. “Where did it come from?”

“A guy just dropped it off a second ago.”

She blinked a few times. “The mailman?” Who would send her a package? Dominic? Tess? Maybe Celia?

“Actually, I think he was a police officer.”

Haven stared at her as those words sunk in. “Did he tell you he was?”

“No, he didn’t say much, just asked if you lived here and left the box. I should’ve asked him, but I didn’t think about it. He would’ve had to tell me, you know. They can’t lie when you ask them.” Dia thrust the box forward. “I need to go wash my hair. I’ll be right back.”

Haven looked over the cardboard box, seeing no labels, nothing but a piece of packaging tape securing it closed. She cut the tape with a knife and opened the flaps, her brow furrowing.

Inside was a large clear plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE, holding a normal-looking notebook. Haven picked it up, along with a piece of paper addressed to her from the Department of Justice office in Chicago.

Miss Antonelli,

We send our sincerest regrets for the inadvertent seizure of your journal. It was done in error and has been returned to you in the same condition as when it was confiscated. Again, please accept our apologies. We appreciate your understanding.

Special Agent Donald Cerone

U.S. DOJ

She blinked in shock and tore the notebook from the bag. She couldn’t breathe as she scanned the pages of jumbled writing, her deepest, darkest secrets on display in front of her eyes. They had seen them. They had read them. They knew where she had come from. They knew what she was.

“What is it?” Dia asked, returning from her room within a matter of minutes. She rubbed her wet hair with a white towel, streaks of color now staining it.

“It’s, uh . . . a notebook,” Haven replied. “They took it when Dr. DeMarco was arrested.”

“Ah, damn. I thought it was something cool.” Dia pouted for a second before perking back up. “So, are we going out tonight?”

“I’d rather not,” Haven said, still staring at the notebook. “It’s been a long day. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to go to Durante for spring break, remember? You can come along if you want. We could hang out down at Aurora Lake.”

The thought of going back to Durante made her head pound even harder. She wasn’t ready to see that place again. “Maybe next time.”

“Rain check, then,” Dia said. “After I get back, we’re going to celebrate.”

A strong breeze blew through the abandoned ranch house in Blackburn from an open window on the first floor. Desert sand swirled along the wooden walkways like mini cyclones, sullying Corrado’s dress shoes. His nose tickled as he breathed in the soiled air, the scent of festering mildew mingling with the dust. It blanketed everything visible like a dull, gray shield, tarnishing colors and hiding the otherwise obvious flaws in the house—the old bloodstain on the floor in the foyer, the gashes in the wood from where someone had once been chained to the banister like a dog.

It appeared like just another forgotten stop along the desolate highway—nothing special, nothing out of the usual hidden beneath the layer of filth—but Corrado knew the truth. He had heard the stories and witnessed enough first hand to know the seemingly innocent house was practically a portal straight to Hell.

And the gatekeeper, he knew, had been his own sister.

The place hadn’t been touched in months, not since the day three people had died in the adjacent stable. He had done a quick clean-up job, ridding the grounds of everything incriminating, but the rest was to be left to Haven, the next of kin.

The estate was nearly settled, every penny of the Antonelli’s money transferred to an account for the girl. All that was left to deal with were the possessions, Katrina’s love for material things evident in the clutter.

Corrado wasn’t a superstitious man. He would often have to restrain himself from mocking Gia DeMarco during one of her delusory outbursts, but being there, strolling through the dead-silent house, he could feel the evil that still resided in it. It suffocated him, the air thick with hatred and bad intentions. It clung to everything, desperate and unyielding, trying to find its way inside him so it could live on.

He was too strong, too stubborn, to let it seep into his lungs or burrow in his chest. Instead it skimmed the surface, bristling his hair as it crawled across his skin, unforgiving and stifling. He had killed his sister, disposed of her, but the demons that possessed her, the pride and envy and vengefulness and bitter rage, remained. And he could feel it all around him, shoving against him, trying to force him back out with each step he took.

Doing his best to ignore the sensation, he spent the next hour going through the house, sifting through desk drawers and scouring rooms, looking for anything the girl might want. He thoroughly tossed the place, turning furniture upside down and destroying things with no regard in his search. He came up empty in the way of personal effects, but he found a bit of hidden cash and some jewelry he could sell for her. The rest wasn’t salvageable in his eyes, nothing worth saving.

No photographs. No mementos. No nothing in the way of admitting she was family or that anyone who ever lived in that home cared she existed.

He was in a downstairs closet, throwing things around, when he hit a wall panel and knocked it loose. He kicked it aside, peering into the hole, and caught a flash of something silver. He reached inside, felt around, and grabbed a handle, having to use some force to yank it out, a heavy cloud of dust coming with it. Corrado coughed forcefully as it infiltrated his lungs, his eyes stinging.

After stepping back out of the closet, Corrado surveyed the object with puzzlement. It was a vintage Halliburton aluminum briefcase, heavy and expensive. Age had dulled the outside, but it held sturdily together.

He tried to pry it open to no avail, striking at the lock, before conceding and throwing it to the floor. He considered leaving it there, frustrated, but something nagged him not to. It had clearly been hidden away for years, maybe decades. He couldn’t fathom what the briefcase contained that warranted such protection.

It was a riddle to him, a puzzle . . . a mystery he needed to solve.

Giving up, he snatched it from the floor again and headed outside, tossing it into the back seat of his rental car. He stared at the house, still feeling his skin trying to slink away. Dusk had come upon him, nighttime approaching fast as the sun dipped behind the desert cliffs. After debating for a long moment, he went back inside and gathered some books and clothing in the room with the open window. Finding a container of paint thinner in the cellar, he splashed a bit on the belongings before pulling a book of Luna Rossa matches from his pocket. He struck a single match and stared at the flame briefly before tossing it onto the pile.

It ignited swiftly as Corrado made his way back out to the car, leaving the front door wide open. He pulled away from the property, heading for the highway out of Blackburn. There was enough wind blowing and dirt in the dry air to cover his tire tracks, enough oxygen in the house to be certain the entire thing would go up in flames. Given the isolated location and the darkening sky, it would be hours before someone spotted the smoke, sufficient time for it to burn to the ground.

An orange glow lit up the bottom floor of the house when Corrado glanced in the rearview mirror. Mixing with the burn of sunset, it illuminated the ground surrounding it. The tension in his muscles receded as he watched it, the clawing at his skin fading away.

A small smile lifted the corner of his lips. What better way to send the evil back to Hell than a fiery grave?