Sempre: Redemption

15

The docks, Third and Wilson

Carmine stared at the message, heaviness in the pit of his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to delete it, pretend it never arrived, but he knew Sal would never accept that excuse.

And neither would Corrado, for that matter.

“There’s a big shipment coming in by boat in a few days,” Sal had said about a week ago. “They’ll load it onto trucks then leave. The trucks will stay parked there, just sitting there all night, begging to be stolen. A crew comes in and takes their pick. Easiest job there is.”

Carmine had blown it off at the time, figuring it had nothing to do with him. He hadn’t been integrated into their hierarchy, hadn’t been put into a street crew or assigned a Capo. Since the moment he had arrived, Sal had just used him for odd jobs, taking him wherever he went and involving him in his personal schemes, but this was different. This simple message—The docks, Third and Wilson—changed everything.

This wasn’t just Carmine being dragged into other people’s messes—this was him creating the mess. He was no longer the accessory after the fact. He was about to be the goddamn perpetrator.

Pulling a chilled bottle of vodka from his otherwise empty freezer, Carmine tore the top off and took a long swig, letting the burn make its way through his system. Liquid courage, people called it, but he was starting to think of it as Stupid Shit Serum. Grey Goose got him through quite a few rough nights since arriving in Chicago, giving him the strength to do things he was certain only an idiot would truly enjoy doing.

Tonight, he ventured to guess, would be one of those times.

He grabbed his gun from the top of the kitchen cabinet where he stored it and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans before leaving the house. His brand new Mercedes was parked in the driveway, shining under the gleam of the streetlight. He had leased it a week before, the same night he had had the conversation with Sal.

Carmine slid into the driver’s seat, taking a deep breath before starting the car. The drive through town was quick—too motherfucking quick—and he pulled up at the docks just a few minutes later. It was dark there, barely lit by moonlight, but he could make out the rows of white delivery trucks parked behind a flimsy chain-link fence. The gate was secured with a chain and lock, but there was no sign of any security beyond that.

Carmine parked and surveyed the trucks, unsure of what to do or where to start. There had been no planning, no instructions, no explanations, but he knew without a doubt there were expectations. And if he didn’t deliver, he would be the one to pay.

He climbed out of the car and started toward the gate when a car wildly whipped from behind a nearby building, sending gravel flying as it headed for him. The headlights were blacked out. Through the darkness, Carmine couldn’t see who was driving.

Jumping back, his heart thumped violently against his rib cage as fear coursed through his body, fueled by strong adrenaline. He reached for his gun, terrified, as the car came to a sudden halt and the doors flew open. Two guys jumped out, one from the passenger seat and one from the back. The doors had barely closed again when the car was thrown into reverse, skidding backward before speeding away.

It happened fast, mere seconds passing before the two guys approached. Carmine had his gun by his side, his finger hovering on the trigger, when a voice cut through the night. “DeMarco? That you?”

Carmine loosened his grip on the gun, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “Remy?”

Remy Tarullo stepped out of the shadows and into a sliver of moonlight. He was dressed all in black, a ski mask loosely sitting on his head. “Hey, man! Good to see you again! Mr. Moretti said they were gonna be sending you out, you know, having you join the crew. Told us to show you the ropes.”

Relief washed through Carmine, rinsing away his unnerving fear. He slipped his gun back away. “My uncle sent you?”

“Yeah. He’s our Capo, you know . . . guess he’s yours now, too.” Grinning, Remy slapped him on the back. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“No, I just . . .” He didn’t know what to say. He was nervous, but he couldn’t admit that. “. . . I figure it’s better to not go at it alone.”

“I get it,” Remy said, pulling out a pair of gloves from his back pocket and slipping them on. He pulled his mask down, covering his face, before reaching into his coat for an extra set of both. He tossed them to Carmine, who put them on as Remy’s friend did the same. “You don’t happen to have any bolt cutters in your car, do you?”

“Uh, no,” Carmine said, slipping the ski mask over his face. He suddenly felt short of breath, suffocated by the thick material. “I didn’t realize I’d need any.”

Remy shook his head slightly. “You really did come unprepared.”

Understatement of the fucking year, Carmine thought. “Can’t say I’ve ever stolen anything.”

“No big deal,” Remy said. “You probably never had to, being a DeMarco and all. You even get to shadow the Boss all the time . . . man, you don’t know how many of us would kill for that chance.”

There was no hostility to Remy’s voice, but the words made Carmine’s hair bristle. He didn’t doubt there were people out there who would kill him if they thought it might get them closer to the top.

Remy looked around briefly, as if searching for something, before pulling some small tools out of his back pocket. He jogged over to the fence, easily and methodically picking the single lock. He ripped the chain off before shoving the gate open, him and the other guy running inside. Carmine was right on their heels, dashing inside the lot behind them.

“Split up,” Remy ordered, waving at the two of them. “Check those trucks and tell me what you find. Make it quick.”

The men scattered to different sides of the lot, gunshots cutting through the night air as they shot off the locks on the back of the trucks. Carmine followed their lead, pulling out his gun and aiming it. He winced when he fired his first shot, his hand shaking and throwing off his aim. He had to shoot it three times before he hit his mark, hearing shouts through the lot as the men shared their loot.

Carmine flung open the back of his first truck, squinting in the darkness to read the boxes. “Uh, laptops.”

“Try the next one,” Remy ordered. “Too risky. A lot of them can be traced.”

Carmine moved on to the second truck, getting the back of it open with the first shot. “TVs.”

“Hot-wire it.”

Carmine blanched. He didn’t know the first thing about hot-wiring anything.

The third man found a load of DVD players and broke a window to climb in the front of the truck. Remy looked over, seeing Carmine just standing there.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Carmine’s shirt and pulling him to the front of the truck. “Break the window and get in.”

Carmine did as he was told, having no time to argue. He smashed the glass and unlocked the door, climbing inside. Remy pulled a flat screwdriver from his back pocket, passing it through to him. “Carefully put it in the ignition and see if it’ll turn.”

The truck on the other side of the lot came to life a few seconds before Carmine’s did. Remy let out a laugh as the engine roared and shoved Carmine humorously. “See, man? Let me drive it to the spot. Follow us in your car.”

Wordlessly, Carmine jumped out of the truck and ran back to his car. He ripped the mask off, taking a deep breath to steady himself as the two trucks tore out of the lot. Carmine followed them into traffic, staying right on Remy’s bumper.

Sirens blared in the distance. The trucks pulled off the main road as the flashing lights rapidly approached, weaving through traffic. Carmine was on edge, watching his rearview mirror as he pulled into the alley behind them. Three cop cars flew right by after a moment and kept going.

Carmine exhaled sharply. Too fucking close.

They drove down some back roads deep into the south side, coming to a stop at a large warehouse. They pulled the trucks inside, out of view, and Carmine parked his car behind them.

“Woo!” Remy hollered, jumping out of the truck. His friend joined him, the two of them cheering and sharing fist bumps, before Remy turned to Carmine. “You feel that, man? That high?”

Carmine nodded and smiled, although it was a lie. All he felt was nervous energy surging through him. He was on the verge of being sick.

The three men spent the next hour watching the trucks being unloaded before taking their payment and driving away. The stolen trucks would be discarded at a chop shop, nothing going to waste. Every bit of it was salvaged and sold, melted down and concealed, so not a fragment of evidence remained.

“What a rush,” Remy said, fidgeting excitedly in the passenger seat. “That’s what I live for. The violence I could do without, but the stealing . . . there’s nothing like it. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to sleep tonight. I mean, fuck! It was a close one! Just a minute later and we would’ve gotten caught. Ain’t that shit great?”

Carmine found nothing great about it.

“Let’s go get a drink,” he continued, not giving anyone else any time to speak. “I don’t know about you, but I need something hard after the night we just had.”

Finally something Carmine agreed with.

Luna Rossa was busy for a Friday night. Unlike the last time Carmine had been there, black sedans were merely sprinkled within the sea of other vehicles, cars and trucks of all types crammed into the lot. It looked almost like an entirely different place, loud hip-hop music blaring from the building.

“I’ve never been here,” Remy said. “Lived in Chicago my whole life, been involved in this shit for years, and until tonight I never stepped foot in this place.”

Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Didn’t feel right just walking in. Guys like us only get invited here when we’ve done something to piss Mr. Moretti off.”

“I got invited by the Boss as soon as I moved here,” Carmine said. “Looked like a different place that night. It was old school.”

Remy laughed. “You know how the saying goes: When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

The guard looked at them when they entered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the three men, but he said nothing, merely tipping his head in greeting. They walked through the club, bass from the music vibrating the floor beneath their feet, sending energy spiking through Carmine’s body. He found it relaxing, the chaos and noise so loud he could hardly think.

A booth in the back was empty. He slipped into it, barely having enough time to sit down when a woman stopped right in front of him. He looked up at her, their eyes connecting right away as her serious expression shifted with a smile. “DeMarco, right?”

It took him a moment to place her face . . . the same waitress who had served him last time. “Uh, yeah. Hey.”

“You want your usual?” she asked. “Vodka?”

He was stunned she remembered. “Yeah, sure.”

“And your friends?” She turned to them. “What can I get you fellas?”

They rattled off their orders—scotch for Remy and a beer for the other guy. The waitress walked off, returning with their drinks in a matter of minutes, and Carmine downed his before she even had a chance to walk away. She let out a laugh, holding her finger up to silently tell him to wait, and retrieved the whole bottle of Grey Goose from behind the bar. “Anything else you need, just let me know. My name’s Eve.”

“Thank you, Eve,” Remy said, winking. “You can call me Adam.”

Carmine rolled his eyes as the girl laughed before walking away. “That was fucking terrible.”

“Hey, girls love that cheesy shit,” Remy said. “I know my girl does.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Carmine asked, pouring himself another shot.

“Yeah, her name’s Vanessa. How about you?”

Carmine downed his second shot. “No, no one.”

“Well, then.” Remy took a swig of his scotch. “Lucky for you, Eve seems interested.”

Remy pointed with his glass and Carmine turned his head, spying the waitress leaning against the bar. Her eyes were focused directly on him.

Sighing, Carmine turned back around and said nothing.

The night wore on in a haze as the alcohol flowed freely to their table. They drank the hours away, laughing and yelling and carrying on. Girls came by their table, flirting and giggling, mooching off their drinks instead of buying their own. Carmine hardly noticed, too drunk to even care.

Too drunk, in fact, to care about much of anything.

It was after midnight when the atmosphere suddenly shifted. The thumping bass from the speakers abruptly cut off, and the chaos of the crowd dulled to a murmur. Carmine looked around, tensing as his uncle casually strolled through the club, his hands in his pockets. He headed to his office but stopped at the entrance to the hallway when Eve yelled his name. She said something to him, pointing directly at their booth, and Carmine blanched as he turned around. Fuck.

Corrado diverted then, bypassing the hallway to head straight for them. “Carmine,” he said, his eyes scanning the three of them. “Gentlemen.”

“This is Remy,” Carmine muttered, pointing at him. “And this is . . .” He hesitated. He didn’t even know the other guy’s name.

“I know who they are,” Corrado said tersely.

“Mr. Moretti, sir,” Remy said. “Great club you have here.”

Corrado nodded, but offered no response to the compliment.

“We were just getting a drink,” Carmine slurred. “You know . . . or two.”

“I see that,” he said. “You guys just be careful getting home.”

“Yes, sir,” Remy said. “Thank you.”

Corrado’s eyes lingered on Carmine for a moment before he walked away, disappearing down the hallway.

Remy shook his head, gulping the last of his drink. “Man, he’s intense as fuck.”

Carmine laughed bitterly. “You’re telling me.”

Thump. Crash. “Shit!”

Haven’s eyes shot open at once at the noise. Disoriented, she stared at the low ceiling above her bed, surveying the textured white paint as if it could somehow tell her what happened. Sunlight streamed in the small window across the room, sweeping across the faded wooden floor. It was warm, almost peaceful, and all was silent for a long moment.

Had she imagined it?

She started to close her eyes again when another bang rang out. Following it was the clicking sound of high heels against wood, accompanying a woman’s frustrated growl. Confused, Haven’s stomach twisted as she threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. She walked through the apartment at the same time the high heels started along the floor above her, following her direction as they made their way to the staircase.

Quietly, Haven unlocked her front door and peeked out as the woman started down the stairs. She was tall and curvy, her long hair an unnatural burgundy shade. She lugged two empty cardboard boxes with her and dropped them in the small foyer right outside of Haven’s door.

Haven didn’t want to be caught spying, but the woman saw her before she could slip back away.

“Hey there!” she said enthusiastically. “I’m Kelsey.”

“Hav—uh, den.” She cleared her throat. “Hayden.”

“Do you live here, Hayden?” Kelsey asked, pausing to take a breath but not long enough for Haven to actually answer. “Thank God you’re a she and not a he. I was totally convinced I was going to be living above some creepy bald dude with a potbelly who smelled like beef jerky and cheap beer. Yuck. Could you imagine? Ugh, I bet you were worried about the same thing, some pervert tromping through here all day and night. Am I right?”

Haven smiled timidly. She hadn’t even considered it. The thought of someone moving into the vacant second floor never crossed her mind. She had assumed Corrado rented the entire building.

“So what do you do?” Kelsey asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Are you a student or something?”

“Uh, yes,” she replied. “I go to the School of Visual Arts.”

Kelsey’s eyes widened. “No shit? Me too!”

Haven was taken aback. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Kelsey said. “I’m majoring in graphic design. You?”

“Painting.”

“Fine arts? Ugh, I could never do that.” Kelsey waved her off dismissively. “So have you gone to orientation yet?”

“No.” Haven frowned. She had been putting it off, her nerves getting the best of her. “I should probably do that, though.”

“Totally,” Kelsey said. “I was about to head over there myself. We can go together! Everyone needs a walking buddy, right?”

“Right.” Haven glanced down at herself, still wearing her plaid oversize pajamas. She hadn’t even brushed her hair yet. “I need to change first.”

“Me, too,” Kelsey said, scrunching her nose in disgust. “I can’t go out looking like this. I broke a sweat and didn’t even enjoy myself doing it.”

Kelsey immediately turned, leaving the empty boxes where she had discarded them as she bolted back up the narrow stairs.

Twenty minutes later, Haven sat on the bottom step in the foyer, freshly showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a red tank top. She tinkered with her keys as she waited, listening to the noise from above as Kelsey stomped around her apartment. Her loud footsteps echoed through the old building, the flimsy floorboards creaking and groaning. The building, although freshly remodeled, showed signs of its age.

Haven waited, and waited, and waited some more. Another twenty minutes passed, and she was about to give up, when the sound of Kelsey’s high heels started clicking her way. Haven stood and glanced up the stairs, studying the girl as she approached. Her clothes were pristine, vibrant and crisp as if they had never been worn before. Her lips shone brightly from gloss, her eyes masked with dark makeup. She was a pretty girl, but Haven thought she looked much better without all of that covering her face.

“Ready?” Kelsey asked.

Haven nodded. She had been ready.

Although she wore six-inch high heels, Kelsey walked confidently, her steps effortless, her stride long. Haven strolled along beside her, listening as the girl prattled on and on about everything. By the time they reached the school a few blocks away, Haven knew all she needed to know about Kelsey—an only child, the daughter of a congressman, she had failed out of NYU and decided to give art school a chance after her parents forced her to move out to teach her responsibility.

“So, yeah . . . my dad says I only get three strikes before he cuts me off, and failing out of NYU was number two.”

“What was the first strike?”

She shrugged. “Being born?”

Haven’s expression fell as she blinked a few times, those words striking her hard. She certainly could relate. “You really feel that way?”

“Sometimes,” Kelsey replied. “I’ve always had a strained relationship with my parents. My dad’s never here in New York and my mom, well . . . if I’m not on the bottom of a wine bottle, she’s not interested.”

“That’s, uh . . .”

“Pathetic?” Kelsey laughed. “I know it is. And first strike was actually probably when I almost failed graduating from high school. I was boy crazy and skipped too much. That’s over with, though. I’m committed now. I don’t have time for a boyfriend.”

The two of them stepped inside the building on 23rd Avenue, following the signs to the busy registrar’s office to have their student IDs made. Haven stared at hers when it was finished, ignoring the wrong name and instead focusing on the fact that her picture was prominently displayed on a badge granting her admission.

For the first time in her life, she was a student at a school.

The afternoon was chaotic as she went from building to building, meeting the administration and other students. Overwhelmed, Haven’s palms sweated and heart raced as they showed her the studios and enrolled her in classes, explaining the requirements as they took her around to the various galleries. Mandatory volunteer hours, optional summer sessions, semi-annual galas, and monthly counseling sessions . . . her anxiety skyrocketed, but it seemed to melt away the moment she stepped into the school’s library.

Tall stacks of books surrounded her, towering above her, welcoming her in to their familiar embrace. It reminded her of life in Durante, a time and place she had tried not to dwell on during the weeks as she settled into New York. Her life was starting anew—new people, new places, new things, new chances—but the old seemed to still have a strong grasp on her heart, squeezing and constricting, forcing her to hold back, longing and yearning for the love she had left behind, instead of looking ahead.

She lost Kelsey somewhere in the bustle of the day and ran into her again hours later as the sun was setting, the long day coming to an end. Kelsey stood in the lobby of the fine arts building next to a guy with spiky blond hair, her hand pressed against his chest, her face lit up with intense fascination.

They separated after a moment, the guy jogging past Haven and out the door. Kelsey stood there, silently fidgeting as she bit down on her bottom lip, but she let out a squeal when she spotted Haven. “My God, did you see him? Wasn’t he gorgeous?”

“Uh, sure,” Haven said, glancing out the massive glass windows at the boy standing on the sidewalk with a group of friends. “Who is he?”

“His name’s Peter something-or-other. He’s a senior! He asked me for my number, so of course I gave it to him. God! Do you think he’ll call? I hope he calls.”

Haven looked at her incredulously. “I thought you didn’t have time for a boyfriend.”

“I don’t,” she said, waving her off with a laugh. “I can date, though. No harm in that. Besides, a girl has to have some kind of fun, right?”

Rhetorical question, but Haven shrugged in response anyway.

“What about you?” Kelsey asked as the two of them headed out on their way back home. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

The innocent question, asked offhandedly, was like a sucker punch to Haven’s chest. It was the first time someone had asked her that. “Not anymore. I did, but . . . not anymore.”

Kelsey’s elated expression dimmed. “Ah, bad breakup?”

“You could say that.”

Kelsey shook her head. “You’re better off without him, whoever he is.”

“Carmine,” Haven mumbled. Something about saying his name aloud, acknowledging he existed . . . that they had once existed together . . . loosened the tight knot in her gut just a bit.

“Breakups suck,” Kelsey said. “I’ve never really been a one man kind of woman because of that. My dad always says ‘don’t put all your eggs in one basket, honey,’ so I figure, why put all my hope in one man? I like to play the field a little, see what’s out there.”

Haven would come to learn during the next few weeks, as she got to know Kelsey more, exactly how much of an understatement that was.

Every few days there was a new love interest, boy after boy coming in and out of the apartment above hers. Peter, Franco, Josh, Jason . . . Haven stopped keeping track eventually. She would hear them tromping along upstairs behind Kelsey, the sound of their heavy footsteps echoing through the connected apartments, and she would smile politely if she ran into them in the foyer, but she didn’t bother to say hello.

The faces all blurred together over time, a mash-up of a man Haven had no interest in getting to know.

School started during those few weeks. Classes and studio sessions swallowed up Haven’s time—painting, drawing, and art history taking up most of her days. After school was over, instead of heading home, she would go to the library and lose hours inside those thick walls, drowning in books and studying text. It monopolized her attention, but she flourished under the stress.

For yet again in her life, she had a strict schedule. Yet again, she had a list of things to do, and if it wasn’t done she knew there would be consequences. Failing wasn’t an option because, in Haven’s world, failing was as good as giving up on life.