Sempre: Redemption

44

Carmine stood quietly near the doorway of the art studio, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The large room looked almost like a warehouse, everything painted off-white except for the dark concrete floor. Bright fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the dozens of colorful paintings on display around the room. The artwork shone prominently, begging for attention, but nothing stood out more than the scene in the middle of the room.

Haven sat on a small brown stool, a canvas set up in front of her. Crumpled paper littered the floor around her feet, sketches she had discarded tinged with splatters of paint she had spilled throughout the day. The messy chaos that surrounded her fascinated Carmine, considering she was the most naturally organized person he had ever met. She couldn’t let laundry pile up, floors needed to be swept every day, and dishes had to be washed as soon as they were dirtied. She believed everything had a place where it belonged, but at times like these, all of that went out the window.

When Haven painted, it was just her and the canvas. A tornado could hit and take the roof off the building and she probably wouldn’t flinch. The apocalypse could come and Jesus could be standing right behind her, trying to take her to Heaven, and she would keep him waiting until she finished. No one interrupted her, not even Carmine, which was why he just stood there, waiting by the door.

He didn’t mind, though. He enjoyed watching her. Seeing her there, listening to her humming as she worked a mere few feet in front of him, set his soul at ease. Not long ago he had been so close to giving up, exhausted by life’s sudden twists and turns, but she showed up right when he needed her the most.

It had been a few months since she had moved to Chicago. A new school year started, and she had enrolled at a small art school downtown, while Carmine continued on with his life . . . the same life he had been involved in since leaving Durante. It was the same, the shift in power not altering his circumstances at all, but yet something was different. He approached it another way. He wasn’t as reckless . . . not now that he had a reason to come home at night.

He still fucking hated it, though. Hated every second of life in La Cosa Nostra with every fiber of his being.

Haven sighed loudly, the sound exaggerated in the empty room. She stood and pushed her stool back to pace back and forth in front of the canvas. The painting of the tree looked fine to Carmine, but he could tell she felt something was wrong with it. She added a bit more color to the trunk before blending some yellow in with a few of the leaves, setting her paintbrush down as she took a step back. She eyed the canvas intently, tilting her head to the side as if looking at it from a different angle would somehow change the image.

Carmine chuckled under his breath and strolled over to her. She stiffened when she sensed him, taking a deep breath before relaxing again. “How long have you been here?”

“A little while,” he responded, placing his hands on her hips. He pulled her body back against his and leaned down, nuzzling into her neck. “How did you know it was me?”

“I smelled you,” she replied casually.

His brow furrowed. “Are you saying I stink?”

She laughed and nudged Carmine playfully as she turned around. “Of course not. You smell good, you know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” He smirked. “Like motherfucking sunshine, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Hmmm, why not?” He pulled her closer, pressing himself against her. “I always liked being cocky with you.”

She blushed and turned back to her painting.

“So a tree, huh?” he asked. “It’s nice.”

“It’s wrong,” she said, tilting her head to the side again as she studied it. “Don’t you think so?”

“Uh, it looks like a tree to me. What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s missing something. It doesn’t feel like the same tree, does it?”

“What tree?” he asked. “The white tree of Gondor? The fucking whomping willow? The one Eve stole the apple from?”

“The tree in Durante,” Haven said impatiently. “You didn’t even recognize it, so obviously it’s not right.”

“It’s a tree, tesoro. It has wood and leaves and acorns and shit. I’d say it’s perfect.”

“It doesn’t have acorns,” she said. “It’s a sycamore tree. Does it really look like an oak tree? They’re nothing alike.”

He sighed. How was he supposed to know? “Haven, baby, you could tell me it was the Joshua tree and I’d agree because I can’t tell the difference.”

She let out an exaggerated huff as she looked at him. “This coming from the same person who spent nearly an hour picking out a Christmas tree that time?”

“What can I say? I’m finicky. I don’t deny it. But not all of us have your memory. You see something and the picture of it is burned in your brain forever, but the only greenery I can identify is the kind I can smoke.”

“You mean this kind?” she asked, picking up her paintbrush. She dipped the tip into the container of green paint and quickly drew the outline of a marijuana leaf on the corner of the canvas.

He laughed. “Yes, that kind, but you probably shouldn’t have done that. You fucked up your painting.”

She shook her head with frustration, sticking her paintbrush in a container of murky water. “It doesn’t matter, Carmine. It was already fucked up.”

He gaped at her. “What did you just say?”

“I said that it was already—”

“Christ, tesoro, you can’t say that shit!” He cut her off before she could repeat herself. “Do you know what it does to me?”

She smiled, blushing, and her eyes darted directly to his crotch. Yeah, she knew exactly what it did to Carmine. Closing his eyes, he let out a groan.

“I’d apologize, but I can’t honestly say I’m sorry,” she admitted.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t apologize then,” he muttered. “You should always mean what you say and say what you mean.”

“But you never say anything mean,” she added.

His brow furrowed. “That’s not a part of the saying.”

“It fits.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s bullshit. Sometimes you have to say something mean.”

She looked at Carmine incredulously. “There’s never a time when you have to say something mean.”

“Yes, there is.”

Her eyes narrowed. “When?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Name one.”

He didn’t balk at a challenge, not even one that came from her. “When someone says something mean to you first.”

“Then you just walk away,” she said. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Well, what if you can’t walk away? What if they won’t let you?”

“And you think saying something mean is going to help you if that’s the case?”

She had Carmine there. “Well, what if you got something on you, like in your teeth. Shouldn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, but that’s not mean. That’s helpful.”

“What if it’s something permanent though, like your nose? What if you have a crooked, fucked-up nose?”

Her hand immediately went to her face, her fingers running down the ridge of her nose as she eyed Carmine hesitantly. He groaned, realizing it sounded like he was telling her that. He recalled how self-conscious she had been years before and felt like an asshole. Way to go, DeMarco. Insult her next time . . .

“Not you, tesoro,” he said. “I didn’t mean you. Your nose is fine. Fucking great, even. I’m just saying, you know, hypothetically . . .”

“Well, hypothetically, why would it be necessary to tell me? It wouldn’t be hurting you, so why hurt me?”

She had Carmine again. “Well, what if your painting sucked? Like this tree—what if it was honestly the worst tree ever painted?”

“It probably is.”

“But what if it was for a grade, and I had to tell you so you wouldn’t fail?”

“It is for a grade.”

He looked at her with disbelief before glancing back at the canvas. “You painted a marijuana leaf on schoolwork?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her nonchalance stunned him. “There’s something wrong with you.”

She laughed. She fucking laughed. If she were ever going to prove Carmine right, it was then. There was seriously something wrong with her.

“I can start over,” she said. “Maybe I’ll paint something else.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said. “I like this one.”

“Why?” she asked, eyeing the painting peculiarly again. “It’s just a tree.”

“But it’s our tree,” he said. Hadn’t they just been through that? “We climbed that motherfucker together twice. Fell out of it once. That makes it special.”

The smile that curved her lips warmed Carmine from the inside. He loved that smile. It meant she was happy—that he had made her happy. There was no better feeling than that. After spending so many years doing nothing but disappointing everyone who came into contact with him, it was nice to do some good for once.

“Okay, then. Maybe I’ll paint over it.”

“Yeah, make some happy clouds to go with your happy little magical tree,” he joked.

They stood there for a moment, engulfed in a serious silence as she mused over her painting, before Carmine grabbed her and pulled her to him again. She spun around with a laugh, wrapping her arms around him in a hug, but froze after a second when her hands slid down his back, reaching his waistband.

“Oh God, please tell me that’s not . . .” She trailed off, pulling out of the hug. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends on what you think it is.”

She gripped his waistband, her eyes narrowing. “You brought a gun in here, Carmine? You can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

She gaped at him. “Because there’s a sign on the door that says so! You can’t bring concealed weapons in this place!”

“Tesoro, relax. I carry it everywhere—you know that.”

“Yes, but here?” she asked. “It’s unlawful!”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “We live in Chicago. Me just breathing in the direction of a gun is illegal. Would you rather I get rid of it completely?”

“Yes.”

Her answer was quick and firm, catching him off guard. She looked at Carmine with certainty and he shook his head. “So you’d prefer me defenseless?”

She blanched. “Of course not.”

“Then what’s the big deal?”

“I don’t want you to get caught.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“All right, but—”

“No buts.”

She huffed at the interruption and completely ignored him. “But why do you bring it places like here? I get that you need it for work, but why when you’re with me?”

He shrugged. “You never know when something might happen.”

“So? You never know when it might rain, but I don’t see you carrying an umbrella everywhere just in case.”

He chuckled at the absurdity of the comparison, even though she was completely serious. “The weatherman usually warns me when that’s gonna happen.”

“And you don’t get warnings? Corrado doesn’t tell you when something’s going to happen? What happened to intuition?”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t always plan. Sometimes I only have time to react.”

She thought he was paranoid. Christ, he probably was paranoid, but rightfully so. He knew how ruthless the streets could be and if she were thinking clearly, she would see it too. He understood, though. His life still scared her. Hell, it scared Carmine just as much, but the best way to deal was to always be prepared.

And regardless of what she insisted, sometimes you had to be mean to make it. It was how the game was played. If you aren’t the predator, you end up the prey.

“Besides,” he added, “last I checked, a little rain couldn’t kill you.”

“But lightning can if it’s a storm.”

“And you think an umbrella would help you in that case?” he asked, throwing one of her earlier arguments back at her.

He waited for her to respond, figuring she would have something to say, but all he got was silence—completely tense, unnerving, motherfucking silence.

“Do you trust me?” he asked after a moment, knowing they were at an impasse and getting nowhere fast.

“Yes.”

“Then trust me about this, okay? We can argue about trees and phrases and any other thing you feel passionate about, but just give me this.”

She sighed, frustrated, but he knew that sound meant she was giving in. “Fine, but I get to pick where we go tonight.”

He frowned. “Yeah, about that . . .”

It was a Friday, which had become their day. Their schedules conflicted a lot, with her in school and Carmine out doing whatever he was told to do, but Friday nights were the exception. It was when the two of them got to be together and do the things normal couples did, like seeing movies and going to fairs. It was the one night a week when they put everything aside, when they didn’t have to think about the chaos in their lives, and they could finally just be.

Corrado seemed to understand, so he usually left Carmine alone that day. Usually being the key word. Sometimes he threw a wrench in their plans.

“There’s this thing tonight. Everyone’s supposed to be there.”

“What kind of thing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Just a thing,” he said, shrugging. “The new underboss’s son is getting married or whatever so they’re having a get together at Sicillitas.”

Typically those kinds of events took place at the Boss’s house, but Corrado wasn’t like the guys who used to run things. He tried to keep the Mafia out of his home, so special occasions were often spent in someone’s business now. Sicillitas was an upscale Italian restaurant owned by one of the Capos.

“So you have to go,” she said quietly.

“We,” he corrected her. “Corrado specifically said ‘You and Haven.’”

She frowned. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t want to go either, but Corrado was all about showing a strong front. He had gone out on a limb and vouched for her, something that made a few of the guys question his judgment. Haven integrating smoothly into their world was important to him.

Plus, even if Corrado would never admit it, Carmine was pretty sure he actually liked her being around.

“We won’t stay long,” he assured her. “The first chance we get, we’ll get the fuck out of there and do whatever you want.”

“Fine,” she grumbled.

He watched as she gathered her stuff, cleaning up paints and throwing away the discarded papers. He felt bad for not helping, but he knew he would do more harm than good. This was her sanctuary, and you just don’t go fucking with someone else’s safe place.

She put on her coat and grabbed the painting of the tree before turning back to Carmine. “You ready?” he asked. She nodded and smiled softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. No, they were filled with dread, the happiness he had given her moments earlier forgotten.

It made his chest ache. He needed a drink. Or two. Or ten. Something—anything—to dull the bitter ache of disappointing her.

Carmine led her out of the studio and she got into the passenger seat of the Mazda, clicking her seat belt in place as he climbed in beside her. The drive home was silent, awkwardness surrounding them, seeping through Carmine’s skin and twisting his insides. He hated when things got like that between them, because he never knew what to say to her. Sorry you’re annoyed, tesoro. I can’t help I’m a loser and Get used to it, since I’ll probably keep disappointing you just didn’t seem to cut it, even though it was how it usually made Carmine feel.

She said not a single word when they arrived home, grabbing her things and getting out of the car before he could even shut off the engine. She used her key and disappeared inside without waiting for Carmine. He took his time and she was nowhere to be found when he finally made his way into the house. He went straight for the refrigerator, opening the freezer and grabbing the chilled bottle of Grey Goose. He pulled the top off, tipping the bottle back and taking a long swig.

He leaned against the counter and sipped on the vodka. His chest still ached, the alcohol doing nothing to ease his guilt, as he listened to the shower turn on and back off again on the second floor.

He heard her footsteps in the hallway eventually and replaced the top on the bottle, slipping it back in the freezer as Haven made her way downstairs. The moment he saw her, his heart skipped a beat. Her damp hair was slightly wavy, the dark locks nearly identical in color to her plain black dress. Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor, exposing strikingly red painted toenails, but her skin, while scarred, remained untainted by makeup.

Simple, but beautiful. That was her.

Haven eyed Carmine peculiarly when she saw him lingering in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes drifting to the freezer before settling back on him. He didn’t blame her for her suspicions. She knew him well.

“Nothing.” It was true. Sort of. He wasn’t doing a thing but standing there.

“What were you doing?” she clarified.

“Nothing,” he said again. Not so true that time.

“Uh, okay,” she mumbled, still watching Carmine as she walked to the sink. “Are you going to change before we go?”

He glanced at his clothes. He had on a tie, at least—seemed good enough to him. “Do I need to?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think Corrado would be happy about the shoes.”

His gaze shifted to his Nike’s. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, pushing away from the counter. He started to walk away but Haven grabbed his arm to stop him. He turned around, looking at her curiously, and she yanked Carmine toward her as she stood up on her tiptoes.

He froze, dumbfounded, as she smashed her lips to his. When he finally got his wits about him, he parted his lips to kiss her back, but she abruptly pulled away, letting go completely. She took a step back. “You were drinking.”

There was no anger, not an ounce of hate in her voice. She wasn’t accusing Carmine—it was a simple statement. He had been drinking.

“A little,” he replied. She nodded and turned away to look out of the window. He stood there for a moment, but she didn’t speak again. The subject was closed, nothing else to say.

He headed upstairs to the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, surveying his reflection after splashing water on his face. He hardly recognized himself some days. Dark, heavy bags aligned his bloodshot eyes, his skin dry from the fickle Chicago weather. He had slicked his hair back that morning with pomade so it appeared a shade darker, making him seem paler than usual.

He went into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of black shoes from the closet, sitting down on the edge of the bed to put them on. Haven walked in while he was tying them and scrunched up her nose. “Your shoes are scuffed.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like the military where I need to shine the sons of bitches.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied as he glanced at his watch. It was already fast approaching eight o’clock, when Corrado had told Carmine to be there. “Are you ready?”

Carmine waited as she slipped on a pair of black heels, and they both grabbed their coats before heading out again. Haven was quiet as she got in the car, not speaking as he pulled away from the house. He fiddled with the radio anxiously, needing a distraction, and Haven just stared at him with a frown.

“What now?” Carmine asked, annoyed.

“Nothing.” She stressed the word, her answer speaking volumes. She was sending a message with that motherfucker. It was a You asshole, who do you take me for? I can’t believe you thought you could fucking fool me kind of nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

He looked at her, knowing what she wanted to hear. She wanted him to apologize for drinking, but he couldn’t do it. “I’m sorry for disappointing you,” he said. “I hate that shit.”

“I know,” she replied, reaching over and stroking his cheek before running her fingers through the hair near his neckline. She hit a snag and he grimaced. “What I hate is when you do your hair like this.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror at himself. Corrado preferred them to look clean-cut, but he hated it, too. “I kinda look like my fath—”

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, unable to even get the entire thing out. It had been four months . . . about sixteen weeks . . . one hundred and twenty-something days . . . and the wound was just as raw as it had been that fateful night. He still saw it sometimes when he closed his eyes, reliving the moment his father had taken his last breath.

Sometimes it was so hard he could barely breathe, in so much pain he felt like he was the one with the bullets lodged in his chest.

Haven massaged Carmine’s neck as he focused on the road, trying to get himself back under control.

“So since someone’s getting married, does that mean I can have whatever I want?” she asked offhandedly, distracting him from his thoughts.

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Isn’t it true when someone gets married, you can ask a Mafia boss for something and he can’t refuse?”

It took a moment for what she had said to register. He laughed. “Have you been watching The Godfather?”

She blushed. “No.”

“Well, it’s not true, anyway,” he said, shaking his head. “They say the day of the Boss’s daughter’s wedding he won’t refuse anyone a favor, but it’s bullshit.”

“Oh,” she mumbled.

“What would you want, though?” he asked curiously. “If you could have one wish granted, what would you ask for?”

“I don’t know. What about you?”

“I’m happy,” he replied. “There isn’t really anything anyone could give me.”

She looked at Carmine incredulously. “There is something someone could give you. Actually, it’s what I’d ask for.”

“What’s that?”

“Your freedom.”

Carmine wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, too bad it doesn’t work that way.”

“Yeah, too bad.”

They arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes. He led Haven inside and saw his uncle right away, sitting at a table in the back with Celia. A slew of men gathered around them like a massive human shield of protection, but Celia managed to spot them through the crowd. She waved, the movement catching Corrado’s attention. He looked over as they approached, his expression blank, but Carmine could see the annoyance in his eyes.

“Up,” he barked at the two guys sitting across from them. They didn’t hesitate before pushing their chairs back, vacating them, and Corrado motioned toward the now empty seats. “Sit.”

Haven immediately took a seat in the first chair, looking at Carmine apprehensively. He gave her a smile, trying to be reassuring, but the truth was he was just as nervous.

“You’re late,” Corrado said, glaring at Carmine from across the table.

He glanced at his watch: five minutes after eight. “I guess I am.”

“You guess you are?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I tried to be on time, but I—”

“But nothing.” His voice was sharp and Carmine shut up right away, a few people quieting down as they looked in their direction. “There’s no excuse for tardiness.”

“I know, I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, Carmine,” he interrupted again. “And I’m saying there’s no excuse.”

“Yes, and I—”

“He’s sorry,” Haven blurted out.

Corrado looked at her peculiarly, his expression unreadable. “Is he?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, at least there’s that.”

Things were tense as Corrado continued to stare them down, Haven still fidgeting and making Carmine even more anxious. After a moment Celia sighed and shook her head, turning to her husband. “If you’re done throwing your weight around, I’d like to eat.”

Corrado finally broke eye contact with Carmine to look at her. “I’m not throwing my weight around.”

“Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re just a big bully. You act like he blatantly ignored what time to be here. It was just a few minutes, no harm done.”

“This time,” Corrado retorted. “It might not mean anything right now, but five minutes can be a matter of life and death in other situations.”

“Yes, other situations. Meaning not this one, so give the boy a break.”

“He’s not a boy, Celia,” Corrado said, his expression darkening a bit.

“He is,” she argued. “He’s my nephew.”

“He’s my soldato.”

“He was my nephew first.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s mine forever.”

Carmine froze when Corrado spoke those words, a sickness brewing in the pit of his stomach. He had witnessed a lot of ridiculous conversations in his life but having them argue over him was surreal.

Celia pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to the ladies room.”

Corrado shook his head when she stormed away and the underboss, sitting to his left, clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, chi non ha moglie non ha padrone.”

Carmine smirked at his words and Corrado smiled, but it was forced. He was furious that Celia had challenged him in front of his men. He reached for his glass on the table in front of him, taking a drink as Haven leaned toward Carmine.

“What did that guy say?” she whispered, trying to be quiet, but Corrado overheard her.

He set his glass back down and answered before Carmine had a chance. “He said a man without a wife is a man without a master.”

She tensed. “Oh.”

“I forgot you don’t speak Italian,” he said. “Have you ever thought to learn?”

The color drained from her face at being put on the spot, the eyes of everyone nearby going straight to her. Most people within the organization knew by now she was a Principessa by birth, even though few of them ever had any actual contact with her. They were intrigued, naturally. Carmine understood their curiosity, but that didn’t mean it annoyed him any less.

“Uh, yes,” she said. “I’ve learned a little bit.”

“From Carmine?”

She glanced at Carmine and he immediately felt bad, seeing the panic in her eyes. She was trying her best to stay cool on the surface, but he could tell she was a mess inside. “He’s taught me some, yes.”

“So I assume you know the bad words, then,” Corrado said.

She nodded. “I know other things, too, though.”

“Like?”

She looked at Carmine again, like she expected him to rescue her, but he couldn’t. Even if he tried, Corrado would stop him.

She realized after a second that he wasn’t going to say anything. She turned back to Corrado, picking at her fingernails under the table. “Like ti amo and sempre.”

“And?”

“And ciao. Buongiorno. Grazie. Prego.” Her pronunciation was spot on. It was simple, but it was better than nothing. “And uh, Vaffanculo?”

They all just stared at her, the silence managing to grow even more awkward.

After what felt like an hour, Corrado’s expression softened and a smile tugged at his lips. He let out a laugh—a genuine fucking laugh. “That was a curse.”

“Oh.” She turned bright red. “Carmine uses it a lot.”

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

There was quiet chatter as everyone relaxed, the Boss’s demeanor influencing the others. The tension receded from the room and Haven loosened up, her posture no longer stiff. Celia returned, she and Corrado both relaxing as they whispered to each other. Carmine watched them, their natural chemistry obvious. Despite everything, the fighting and violence and outright bullshit their lives could sometimes be, they were happy together. They loved each other and it was the love that got them through everything else. As long as they had that, nothing would tear them apart.

Carmine glanced at Haven, reaching under the table and taking her hand. He squeezed it and she smiled softly, gazing back at him. He saw that same type of love in her eyes, the kind of love that was damn near unbreakable.

There was food and drinks, conversation and laughter. Time passed swiftly and Carmine found he actually enjoyed himself. A smile continuously graced Haven’s lips as she talked to people, not seeming at all nervous to be around his kind.

His kind. He hated saying it, but it was true. La Cosa Nostra was his family. And like a real dysfunctional family, he fucking hated them most of the time.

He looked around the restaurant, seeing all types of people having dinner. There were couples and families, friends and business associates. All seemed content and relaxed, completely oblivious to the danger in the room with them. It was strange to Carmine how people didn’t even flinch from their presence, like they were desensitized to violence and pain. They seemed ignorant to the fact that lifelong criminals surrounded them, their children and wives breathing the same air as cold, calculating murderers.

Well, most seemed oblivious. His gaze fell upon a man in the corner by himself, his attention focused on the tables surrounding them. His eyes locked with Carmine’s after a moment, and even across the room he could see the coldness. The man certainly wasn’t what he would call a friendly face.

Carmine stared him down for a while before the man stood, tossing some money on the table and walking out.

The night continued on, as did the food and drinks. The crowd thinned, thoughts of that man going right out along with the others.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” a waitress asked eventually, stepping over to their table. It was nearing ten in the evening. Corrado and Celia were a few feet away, talking to the soon-to-be bride and groom.

Haven shook her head, stabbing at the tiramisu on her plate with a fork. “No, thank you.”

The waitress glanced at Carmine and he nodded, picking up his glass and holding it out to her. She walked away without a word, returning with another vodka and Coke. He thanked her, taking a drink as she moved on to the next table.

Haven set her fork down and looked at Carmine, her eyes wandering past him. “Do you know how they met?” she asked, motioning toward the couple.

“It was arranged,” he replied.

“An arranged marriage? They do that?”

He shrugged and nodded at the same time, a half-assed answer since he wasn’t sure how to explain it. “They’ve known each other since they were kids. They were just . . . put together, I guess. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how most of them do it. They just pair off with other people in the life. It’s easier that way.”

She looked downright perplexed for a moment before understanding crept into her features. “Like Michael and Katrina.”

He nodded. “And their parents before them. Pretty much everyone in here did it. They don’t like outsiders coming in, so they stay in the inner circle. My father broke protocol.”

“So did you,” she said.

“I don’t know, tesoro. You’re one of us.”

“But you didn’t know that, and I definitely wasn’t in your inner circle.”

“True.”

“Would you have, though?” she asked. “Would you have come back here and eventually found someone like everyone else?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there’s no one else for me,” he replied. “These people care about bloodlines and rank and power and shit, but none of that matters to me. I’d never pursue a woman because of who her father is. Chances are I’d just hate her. In case you haven’t noticed, most of the women in the life are spoiled, uptight bitches who feel like people owe them. And I refuse to accept the fact that I owe anyone a thing . . . except you, maybe. So, no thanks.”

Haven shook her head. “So you’d just be alone?”

“If I’m gonna be miserable either way, I’d rather be miserable alone,” he said. “Why are you asking, anyway?”

“I just wondered about it all,” she said, still watching the couple. “Do you think those two love each other, at least?”

“It’s possible,” he replied. “Sometimes what they feel is real. I know Celia wouldn’t stay with Corrado if she didn’t love him, so it’s possible those two will get married and be happy, too.”

“And you don’t think you would have ever tried?”

Her questions made his head spin. “I don’t know.”

“But don’t you think it’s important to have someone around who understands?”

Before he had a chance to even think about how to respond to that, Corrado and Celia started back in their direction. Celia took her seat while Corrado paused beside Carmine, eyeing him warily. “How many drinks have you had?”

He hesitated, looking at his half-empty glass. “Uh . . .”

“The fact that you have to think about it is answer enough,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

Carmine’s heart pounded hard as he took in his uncle’s stern expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Mazda. Corrado snatched them from him.

“Here,” he said, tossing the keys to Haven. “Make sure he gets home safe.”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.

“There you go throwing your weight around again,” Celia commented.

Corrado let out a slightly bitter laugh. “Well, he doesn’t have a wife yet, so I’m the only master he’s got for the time being.”

Carmine fought the urge to roll his eyes as he picked up his glass when Corrado was called away from the table again. He turned to Haven after downing the rest of his drink. “You ready to go, tesoro? I’ve had my fill of family for the time being.” He peeked at his aunt Celia. “No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Celia said. “Go, have fun.”

Haven stood and smiled as they walked away. They almost slipped out undetected, but Corrado spotted them as they neared the door and called Carmine’s name. “Be available in case I need you, and next time wear cleaner shoes. How hard is it to shine them? It takes all of five minutes.”

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Haven looked smug about it, but her expression shifted quickly when Corrado spoke once more. “Haven?”

She went rigid. “Yes, sir?”

“You did well tonight,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Her eyes lit up. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you invited me.”

Carmine grabbed Haven’s hand and tugged on it, wanting to get out the door before Corrado decided he had something else to say.

“Were you telling the truth?” Carmine asked as they strolled through the packed parking lot. “Are you glad he invited you?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “They were all actually really . . . nice.”

“Sure. The nicest motherfuckers I know, tesoro—like rainbows and sunshine.”

She laughed, bumping against Carmine playfully. “You know what I mean. They weren’t cold to me like I thought they’d be, since I am . . . or I mean, I was . . .”

“They aren’t stupid,” he interrupted, squeezing her hand. “Corrado would kill them if they disrespected you.”

She seemed taken aback and stopped beside the car. “He’d really do that?”

“Of course he would,” he replied. “Corrado doesn’t have kids, and you’re the closest thing he’s got to a daughter.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“He vouched for you. In their minds, he gave you life. I mean, come on, Haven. He demanded your presence tonight, knowing you wouldn’t want to be here. He only tortures his real family that way. You’re in, whether you like it or not.”

“I think I do,” she said quietly. “Like it, I mean.”

“Good. Now let’s get out of here.” He held out his hand. “Keys?”

She laughed dryly, pushing it away. “I don’t think so. I’m driving.”

She gave Carmine a playful wink as she walked around to the driver’s side. He rolled his eyes and grumbled, feigning annoyance, although he didn’t mind if she drove. He trusted her. Always had and always would.

She started the car as he put on his seat belt, knowing she wouldn’t leave the parking lot until he did. She adjusted the mirrors and fiddled with the seat so she could reach the pedals and he held his tongue, refusing to get upset over something so petty. Years ago he would have snapped, but losing her once gave Carmine a new outlook. The seat’s position could be fixed, as could the mirrors. The entire car could be replaced, for that matter, but she was one of a kind.

Carmine glanced around as she situated herself, spotting a form trudging through the parking lot. His eyes narrowed as something clicked in his mind, recognition dawning. It was the man from the corner in the restaurant, the one that had left at least an hour before. He kept his head ducked as he weaved through the cars, but there was no doubt in Carmine’s mind that it was the same man.

The guy slipped into a dark Chevy Camaro. He drove past them as Carmine quickly studied the car, getting a brief glimpse at the Illinois license plate. All he could make out were the first two letters, JK.

“Do you know that guy?” Haven asked, noticing he had been watching him.

Carmine shrugged it off. “No. He has a nice car, though.”

The drive home from the restaurant was a hell of a lot different than the drive to it. Haven drove the speed limit—if that—while he lounged in the passenger seat, alcohol buzzing through his veins. Haven excused herself when they arrived home as Carmine locked up, making a point to enable the alarm for the doors and windows.

He strolled into the kitchen and took out his gun, sticking it in a top cabinet. Grabbing the bottle of Grey Goose from the freezer, he leaned against the counter and took a swig, closing his eyes and savoring the burn as it coated his throat. It was only a minute later that he heard Haven approach and he opened his eyes, seeing her in the doorway. “Whatcha wanna do, tesoro?”

She said nothing as she slowly strolled in his direction, having discarded her heels somewhere between the door and Carmine. He took a second drink as she paused in front of him, and she grabbed the bottle when he finished, gently taking it from his hands. Hesitating, deliberating, she brought it to her lips and tipped the bottle back. She grimaced as the liquor filled her mouth, the swallow bitterly painful by the look on her face.

Reaching behind Carmine, she tipped the bottle and slowly dumped the rest of it down the sink drain, her eyes remaining on him the entire time.

Carmine had a brief moment of panic. His insides seized up and he felt sick to his stomach, watching the liquor disappear. He pushed the feeling back, refusing to let it control him. He could stop if he wanted to . . . if he needed to. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were more important things in life, and he didn’t need the vodka to make it through his days.

He chanted that in his head, willing himself to believe it.

Haven grabbed his tie then, the knot loosening as she tugged on it. He offered no resistance, putting up no fight as she pulled him away from the kitchen counter and led him toward the stairs. She let go eventually but he didn’t falter, blindly and wordlessly following her upstairs. His feet were heavy like concrete slabs, his body weary and mind just as tired, but obedience ran through his veins.

He closed the bedroom door when they made it there, the single click of the lock echoing loudly through the still silence. He glanced at Haven, watching in the light from the glow of the moon as she unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. The pressure in his chest, the burn and craving of the addict, lessened a bit when she turned to face him.

“Do you remember the first time we made love?” she asked quietly.

“Of course I do.”

“You worshiped me that day,” she said. “Actually, thinking about it, you worshiped me every time. You were so attentive and always made me feel your love, but I never really had the chance to do the same. I tell you I love you all the time, and I do . . . I love you so much, Carmine . . . but I don’t show you enough.”

“But you—”

She held her hand up to silence him before he could object. “Just shut up, okay? Why do you always have to talk?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, a surprised chuckle escaping his lips as he waved for her to proceed. Sassy.

“I don’t show you enough,” she repeated. “You do so much, you go through so much in life, and you need to be shown love, too. You deserve to be worshiped.”

Carmine remained right in front of the door, not daring to move. He held his breath, watching intently as Haven removed the rest of her clothes and stood in front of him completely naked. He slowly scanned her, drinking in every drop of her petite frame, his eyes tracing her soft curves. The silvery scars that coated her skin glowed under the moonlight, intricate patterns that told countless stories—some of which only he would ever know. They were secrets she had told him, secrets he would take with him to the grave, whether that be tomorrow or a century away.

She stepped forward, grabbing his tie again, but this time she undid the knot and tossed it aside. Slowly, carefully, she unbuttoned his shirt as he remained still, fighting the urge to reach out and caress her skin. She removed his shirt, her hands tracing his abs before reaching for his belt buckle, staring into his eyes as she unfastened it.

He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry as the nerves inside of him bubbled up. His heart hammered as his pants dropped to the floor, her hands shoving his boxers down to his ankles. A cool chill ripped up his spine and he shivered as the air hit his erection, making it jump as it throbbed harder than he could ever remember it being before.

“Christ,” he muttered, falling back against the bedroom door as Haven dropped to her knees. She took him in her mouth, warmth enveloping him, goosebumps immediately springing to every centimeter of exposed skin. “Oh, fuck.”

He knew he wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t. Within a matter of minutes, as she sucked and licked and stroked, he could feel the pressure building in his gut. He wanted to warn her, but he couldn’t find the words. All he could do was curse and sputter, gripping the back of her head as he spilled down her throat.

She climbed to her feet when he finished, her hand still wrapped around him, gently stroking as he grew hard in her palm again. She kissed his chest, making her way to his neck, before he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

The rest of his clothes were discarded on the floor before she pulled him over to the bed, making him lie down. She didn’t hesitate, no wavering as she climbed on top of him, sinking down into his lap. He filled her completely, deeply, her body tight and formed to his like leather against damp skin, clinging, suffocating, taking his strained breath away.

He lay with his eyes open, watching her move, savoring her passion. He could feel her devotion, her desperation, her craving; he could feel her need, her want, her love. He could feel it all each time she shifted her hips, their bodies slapping together as he filled her to the hilt. And he could hear it in her voice, her throaty groans and raspy words when she cried out his name again and again as orgasm shook her to the core.

She drove him madder with every moan, every thrust pushing him further to the brink. He wanted to flip her over and pound into her, take her hard, ravish every inch of her and claim her flushed body as his own, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. There would be plenty of time for that later. Now it was her time, her rules, her game.

And it was a game he was elated to play. The sensations building inside of him stirred up something, a vaguely familiar euphoria, the high of all highs . . . it infiltrated his cells, blanketing his entire body until he felt like he was floating on air.

And it didn’t take a bitter bitch named Molly to do it this time.