Sempre: Redemption

21

Carmine sat alone in a booth in the back of the club, shot glasses scattered along the table in front of him. He could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, diluting his blood stream and hindering the thoughts from flooding his brain. They still came, a slow trickle of memories washing through him, but he found it easier to tolerate in smaller doses like this.

It still hurt, though. It was still a constant reminder of what could have been but wasn’t, and as far as he was concerned, never would be. There were reminders everywhere: in the deep brown of the wooden table that resembled the color of her eyes, in the twinkling of the club lights that made him think of catching fireflies, in the melody of the song playing that sounded vaguely like the one she used to hum.

She was everywhere, yet nowhere, and every second that passed felt like walking away from her all over again. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t forget. The memory of Haven haunted him.

He downed the last shot on the table, closing his eyes as he savored the burn, hoping it would finally be the one to kill the pain.

If someone years before had asked Carmine what life in Chicago would be like, he would have given them some cliché answer about money, power, and respect, but he knew better now. La Cosa Nostra wasn’t about any of that.

As Sal sat comfortably, pointing fingers and calling shots from his twelve-million-dollar mansion while drinking the best scotch money could buy, the men carrying out the jobs were barely scraping by. They were risking their lives for people who just stood by while they struggled, not caring what happened to them as long as they handed over a cut of their take.

It was all about paying tribute. If a group of guys hijacked a shipment, right off the top more than half went into the pockets of the administration. After giving the associates their cut and paying off everyone who looked the other way, each man was left with barely enough to pay their rent.

A taste, they called it. Everyone always wanted a taste. They claimed, as a family, that they all worked as one. They said it was a matter of respect. They said it was the honorable thing to do.

As far as Carmine was concerned, it was utter bullshit.

Where was the respect in being summoned out of bed at three in the morning to watch a man get his head bashed in because he borrowed money he couldn’t pay back? Where was the respect in burning some man’s house down, taking away everything he had worked for his entire life, because he gave the Boss a look he didn’t appreciate? Where was the respect in intimidating a seventeen-year-old girl and threatening to kill everyone she loved because she witnessed something she shouldn’t have seen?

Assault, extortion, hijacking, kidnapping, robbery, bribery, gambling, chop shops, prostitution, corruption, arson, coercion, fraud, bootlegging, human trafficking, and murder . . . where was the respect in any of it?

He sure didn’t fucking see it.

“Bad night, man?”

Carmine glanced over as Remy slid into the booth across from him. “You could say that.”

Remy motioned for the waitress and asked her for a rum and Coke, taking it upon himself to order Carmine another shot of vodka.

“I figured,” Remy said. “You got that look about you tonight, that ‘I’ve seen shit that can’t be unseen’ look.”

Carmine pushed the empty glass aside with the others. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try to forget.”

“True, but you’re doing it the wrong way. Alcohol is a downer. As if this all isn’t depressing enough, hitting the bottle just drags you further down. You go from being a moody bitch to a miserable cunt, and nobody likes a miserable cunt, DeMarco. Not even me, and I love everybody.”

Carmine managed a small laugh at that. “It numbs me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it probably numbs you enough that you won’t feel the concrete shattering your bones when your depressed ass leaps off the top of Sears Tower,” he said. “But you should never jump unless you know you can fly, or at least float. Nobody wants to fall. That’s how you end up hurt.”

Carmine stared at Remy as he tried to make sense of his words. He wasn’t sure if he was just too damn drunk or if the man intentionally talked in code. “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or if you’re just a fucking rambling idiot.”

“Why can’t I be both?”

Carmine shrugged. Maybe he was.

“Anyway, you wanna know how you really unsee?” Remy asked. “How you really forget?”

“How?”

“Instead of dragging yourself down more, lift yourself up. You don’t wanna be numb, man. You wanna be happy.”

Carmine shook his head. Happy. He remembered a time he felt that way. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong.” A sly smile turned Remy’s lips. He leaned across the table, closer to Carmine, and whispered conspiratorially, “I think it’s time I introduced you to Miss Molly.”

“Molly?”

Remy nodded. “She’s beautiful. Just one night with her will change your life.”

It was strange, abrupt yet slow moving. One second there was nothing and suddenly it was there, tiptoeing through his veins. There wasn’t an intense rush of sensation, blinding and all consuming. Carmine didn’t feel like he was sky high. No, for the first time in quite a while, he felt like he had his feet firmly planted on the ground.

He tried to find the words to describe the feeling, but none existed. It was new, yet somehow familiar, like a combination of everything good that ever lived inside of him. It was his mother being alive. It was being in love with Haven. It was playing football, and going to college, and having a future. It was forgiveness. It was understanding. It was all that was wrong suddenly becoming right. It was sunshine, and light, and spewing goddamn rainbows. It was walking on water before turning it into wine. It was Heaven. It was bliss. It was being blind for a lifetime and suddenly being able to see. It was freedom. It was happiness. The stars had aligned and wham bam . . . motherfucking world peace.

“What is this shit?” Carmine asked, rubbing his nose absently as he eyed the remnants of the white powder on the table. It glistened like flecks of glitter under the club lights, mesmerizing him. His senses were heightened, the notes of the music echoing from the speakers rippling across his flushed skin before sinking in.

He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly yearned to play the piano again.

“I told you—Molly,” Remy replied. “Pure powder MDMA.”

Carmine smiled to himself, the first genuine smile to grace his lips in months, and he felt a burst of gratitude. Molly was beautiful. She was ecstasy.

Literally.

He had heard of it, of course, mainly being taken in pill form, but he had never encountered it before. Ecstasy hadn’t yet infiltrated his small North Carolina town as it had in the big cities.

“So how do you feel?” Remy asked. “Still numb?”

Carmine shook his head. Numb was the complete opposite of the sensation stirring within him. It settled deep in his chest, filling the gaping hole as it wiped away the pain, the ache, the heartbreak. “I feel like I could take on the world and actually fucking win.”

Remy laughed as he picked up his glass of rum and Coke and drank the last bit. “Yeah, well, you can’t. The world will still destroy you, my friend, so don’t do anything stupid . . . not if you wanna live to see another day.”

Standing, Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small baggy filled with the glittery white powder. He dropped it on the table in front of Carmine. “My treat. Just use it sparingly, okay? A little goes a long way.”

Carmine picked it up, concealing it in his palm. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Remy took a step before pausing. “Seriously, please don’t mention it, man. I’d rather people not know, you know.”

“I understand,” Carmine said, staring down at the packet stashed in his hand. Their bosses frowned upon drugs. The men up top may have looked the other way and arranged exchanges off the record to make a quick dollar, playing invisible middlemen in a bigger game, but they were never to get their hands dirty in the drug trade. It was too dangerous—too many people involved, too much publicity, too much risk for exposure. It was one of their biggest rules, second only to keep your fucking mouth shut and never rat on your friends.