by JM Darhower
She nodded. “You see it now, don't you? After all these years, you understand. That's why you've avoided communion.”
“What do I see?”
“That you were living in sin. Your marriage wasn’t recognized by the church.”
Vincent's smile fell. Not demented, just evil. “It was recognized.”
“You were so young, Vincenzo. And she was Irish! She wasn’t even like us! How could you believe the church would accept it?”
Vincent started to respond, but Celia approached and interrupted before he could. “Maura was Catholic, Mom. It was sanctified. Father Alberto was the one to marry them.”
Gia glared at her daughter for a short time before waving her hand dismissively. “How was I supposed to know? I didn't even get invited.”
She had been invited, of course, but she’d shunned the service. Antonio had shown up out of respect for his son and even seemed to have warmed up to Maura, but Gia refused to entertain the thought. In her mind, if she wasn’t there to see the wedding, then she could go on acting as if the marriage didn’t exist.
“You were invited,” Vincent said. “You chose not to come.”
“That's ridiculous,” Gia said. “I didn't know anything about it until after it was over.”
“If that’s true, Ma, how did Dad know to come?”
“What does that have to do with anything? Your father always snuck around on me, never told me anything. What makes this any different?”
Vincent tried to keep his anger at bay. “Because I personally handed you the invitation. You took one look at it and tossed it into the trash.”
Gia scoffed. “And the quacks say I have memory problems. You might need your head checked. That never happened.”
Corrado strolled over, his hands in his pants pockets as he eyed them all. “What are we arguing about now?”
“Vincent marrying Maura,” Celia said. “Again.”
“Ah,” Corrado said. “I regret I wasn’t there to see it.”
Gia laughed. “They didn't invite you, either?”
“Oh, I was invited. I didn't think it was appropriate for me to attend.”
“See!” Gia looked at Vincent. “I told you it wasn’t a real marriage. Corrado agrees!”
Corrado started to correct her, but Vincent shook his head to tell him not to bother. Although it stung that his brother-in-law had skipped the wedding, Vincent understood why he chose not to attend. Unlike Gia, Corrado meant well.
“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,” Vincent said. “I know it was real.”
* * * *
Carmine started toward his class early on Monday morning, not bothering to wait on the bell, and hesitated on the plaza when he saw Ryan sitting at a picnic table. His eye was bruised and a few stitches lined the side of his chin.
Carmine walked over to him, and Ryan glanced up when he approached. Carmine plopped down across from him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I probably shouldn’t have fucked you up so bad. If I would’ve known you helped her, I wouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t know, so I did.”
That was as close to an apology as Ryan would get from Carmine, and they both knew it. “Yeah.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Carmine said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He opened it, figuring he’d give him some money toward the hospital bills he’d likely incurred, but he just stared at it when he realized it was empty. “Never mind. How about I just owe you one?”
Ryan stood up to leave, but Carmine grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down into the seat. “But don’t take this to mean I’ve gone soft, because I haven’t.”
* * * *
Haven spent most of the morning cleaning and was finishing near three o’clock when she heard cars outside. The alarm beeped and the front door opened as she stepped into the doorway to the kitchen, a few voices carrying through the house. Dr. DeMarco stepped into the foyer, four men walking in behind him. The hair on the back of Haven’s neck stood up at the sight of them.
She took a step back, wanting to get away, when Dr. DeMarco’s eyes met hers. His serious expression had a hard edge. She realized these men were probably like Master Michael—uncaring and cold, with no regard for people like her. They were like that part of Dr. DeMarco she’d seen in his bedroom. They were dangerous. More monsters.
The others seemed oblivious of her presence as they chatted, but Dr. DeMarco continued to eye her. Taking a deep breath, she took a step forward to gauge his reaction. The corner of his lips turned up when he caught sight of her movement, and she took his reaction to mean she should follow. Her legs trembled as she stepped into the foyer. She paused when she reached the family room where they gathered, not wanting to interrupt, but the guys took notice of her right away. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of their gazes, she silently prayed she’d be dismissed.
“Bring us a bottle of scotch and some glasses,” Dr. DeMarco said with a wave of his hand. Haven scuttled out of the room and hesitated in the kitchen, having no idea what scotch even was. She searched the cabinets until she located the alcohol, and she scoured through the bottles, finding a brown one in the back with Glenfiddich single malt scotch whiskey written on it. The unopened bottle was dusty, so she wiped it off before juggling five glasses on her way back to the family room. She delivered them to the men, too nervous to make eye contact with any of them.
“So this is her.”
Haven chanced a peek at the man in the gray suit when he spoke, his voice gratingly high-pitched. An air of authority surrounded him as he sat in the center, everyone else encircling him. He smiled when she made eye contact, but she looked back away.
“Yes,” Dr. DeMarco said. “It’s her.”
“It’s nice to finally see her after all this time,” the man said. “I’m curious, Vincent. Do you think she was worth it?”
Dr. DeMarco’s bitter laughter sent chills down Haven’s spine, putting her even more on edge. “Are you asking me personally or as business?”
“Personally.”
“Of course she wasn’t worth it.”
She nearly lost her breath then. His words hurt. Had she been that much of a disappointment?
“But speaking as a businessman,” Dr. DeMarco said, “she’s a hard worker. I have clean clothes, a decent house, and food to eat.”
“So she was not a bad investment?” someone else asked, the words jumbled in a thick accent. Haven looked at him. Investment?
“You could say that.” Dr. DeMarco shifted position and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you start dinner, child? My guests will be joining us tonight.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Haven’s heart raced as she fled into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter to take a few deep breaths. Dominic got home while she stood there, and he greeted the men in the family room before joining her in the kitchen.
“You look worried,” he said, grabbing a soda from the refrigerator.
“Just nervous,” she admitted.
Dominic sighed, opening his drink and leaning against the counter beside her. “Does it help to know they make me uncomfortable, too?”
“Do they?”
He nodded. “They always have. My mom wasn’t fond of them either, always tried to keep us away from it all, but Carmine seemed to have embraced the whole lifestyle over the years.”
Haven tried to imagine Carmine with those guys, but that wasn’t the person she knew. “Do you know why they’re here?”
“Business, I guess, but I don’t know beyond that. Like I said, I don’t get involved in my dad’s situations.” He took a drink, shaking his head. “The man in the gray suit, Salvatore, is the one in charge. The Italian guy with the accent is Giovanni.”
“And the other two?” she asked. “Do you know them?”
“I know one of them. Nunzio. He’s the guy with the buzzed head. We used to hang out when we were kids, but those days are long gone. He’s no friend of mine now.”
Dominic gave her a
smile before walking out.
* * * *
Footsteps approached about an hour later as Haven cooked dinner, her skin crawling at the sound. She glanced behind her and spotted the one named Nunzio in the doorway. His eyes lingered down her body, and she turned back to the food, hoping he’d go away after he saw what he came to see.
She was stirring pasta when the footsteps started again, strolling right toward her. The tension in her body made her muscles ache, her hands trembling more with each calculated step. He stopped nearby and shivers of disgust ripped through her when she felt his breath on her skin.
“You’re much prettier than I expected you to be,” he said, running the back of his fingers lightly down her arm. “I think we could have some fun.”
His hand came to rest on her hip. Haven squeezed her eyes shut, wanting him to move it. At that moment, she was knocked to the side. The shove threw her into the stove, and her hand slammed a pot of boiling water. Scorching pain made her eyes snap back open, and she grabbed her throbbing palm. Dr. DeMarco was pinning Nunzio against the counter beside her, the serrated edge of a kitchen knife pressed into his neck.
His voice was hard. “Don't touch my property, Squint.”
Nunzio stared at him, unaffected. “I hear you.”
The blade of the knife was close to piercing the skin. Haven could see his neck pulsating as his heart pounded. Dr. DeMarco took a step back after a moment, and Nunzio shot her a look before leaving the room. Tossing the knife onto the counter, Dr. DeMarco took a few steps in her direction.
She recoiled from him. “I’m sorry.”
Ignoring the fact that she flinched, he grabbed her hand to assess her burn. “You did nothing wrong.”
He filled the sink with cold water and submerged her hand, telling her to keep it there for twenty minutes. Haven watched the clock when Dr. DeMarco left, counting down the time. Once it had elapsed, she let the water out of the sink and started to make a new batch of pasta.
* * * *
Carmine pulled in the driveway after football practice, seeing the black rental sedans lined up out front. The sight of them put him on edge. His father hadn’t come back from Chicago alone.
Heading inside, Carmine heard Salvatore’s voice the moment he hit the foyer. Carmine gave Haven a quick glance in the kitchen before making his way to the family room.
Salvatore smiled as he entered. “Ah, Principe! There’s my godson!”
Carmine kissed the back of Salvatore’s hand when he held it out. If ever there was a custom that made his stomach turn, it was that one. “Great to see you, Sal.”
“You too, dear boy. We were just talking about you.”
“Good things?” Carmine asked.
“Your father was telling me what you’ve been up to.”
He chuckled. “So not good things then.”
Vincent stood up, shaking his head as the others laughed. “If you’ll excuse us, friends, I need to speak with my son for a moment.”
Sal waved them away, and the color drained from Carmine’s face at his father’s expression. He followed him, already panicking as Vincent paused in the foyer. “Go up to my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Chapter 16
Carmine slumped down in the black leather chair in his father's office, trying to look nonchalant when inside of him was complete anarchy. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair until the door behind him opened a few minutes later.
Vincent took a seat at his desk and opened his laptop. He didn’t speak, not even acknowledging Carmine sitting there.
His anxiety grew. Silence with his father was often worse than yelling.
“Do you like the number thirteen, Carmine?”
Carmine’s brow furrowed at the question. “Sure. I mean, it’s just a number.”
“I never understood the fascination with it,” Vincent said, typing away at his laptop without even bothering to look up. “There’s even a psychological disorder over the fear of the number, Triskaidekaphobia. In the southern part of Italy, tredici—the number thirteen—is used in slang meaning someone’s luck has turned bad.”
He stopped speaking, and the room grew silent. Carmine started drumming his fingers again. “You know, I appreciate the random trivia, and I’m sure if I ever go on Jeopardy it might come in handy, but I don’t understand what the fuck it has to do with me.”
Vincent’s tying stopped, and Carmine groaned. He’d played right into his hand. “Lasciare in tredici.”
“Are you telling me my luck just ran out?”
“Not just yours,” Vincent said, turning back to his laptop. “And just to warn you, I’ll be watching the cameras, so no snorting powder in my house.”
“I don’t do coke,” he said, pausing before adding, “anymore.”
“Good, because I’d hate to have to pay a plastic surgeon to fix that pretty face of yours when you disfigure it. I saw a woman once who destroyed her nose and ended up with something resembling a pig’s snout. I’ll have to show you the pictures.”
“I don’t need an intervention. I’m done with it. I've changed.”
Vincent looked at him. “Changed? Speaking of the number thirteen, Carmine, are you aware you’ve given Ryan Thompson thirteen stitches?”
Carmine rolled his eyes. “Look, if this is about Halloween, I—”
Vincent’s hand shot up to silence him, and Carmine stopped trying to explain. He knew if his father didn’t want to hear it, he wouldn’t listen to anything he said. “When I was told about Halloween, my first reaction was to send you away, but I can’t. I’m going to need you around here. That doesn’t mean you get out of being punished for it, though. You need to learn to control your temper.”
“So what’s my punishment?”
Vincent continued to type for a moment before leaning back in his chair, gazing across the desk at him. “I need another favor.”
“Of course you do.”
“I need someone to keep an eye on the girl.”
Carmine looked at him incredulously. “You want me to spy on her?”
“No, not exactly,” he said. “I need someone to make sure she stays safe. I caught Squint touching her in the kitchen earlier.”
Carmine’s rage boiled over. He stood up so quickly his chair flew back. ”What do you mean he touched her?”
“He didn’t harm her, although she did burn her hand,” Vincent said casually, ignoring Carmine’s outburst. “I figured his advances were unwanted, so I handled it.”
“You handled it? Why is he still here?”
Carmine clenched his hands into fists as he fought back the urge to hit something.
“Yes, I handled it,” Vincent said again. “What's gotten into you?”
Carmine glared at his father as he flopped back down in the chair. “You know I don’t like that shit.”
“I know, but didn’t I just tell you to control your temper?” he asked. “I don’t trust Squint, and I’d get rid of him if I could, but Salvatore’s blinded by the fact that he’s technically family. You know Salvatore has no blood relatives left, since his brother and sister and their families were all murdered. That’s why he's always been so fixated on you. You were the closest thing to a son he had—his godson. Getting him to believe Squint is untrustworthy won’t be easy.”
“Do you think he could be that much of a danger? He’s always seemed like a punk to me.”
Vincent sighed. “There’s a lot of trouble brewing right now. With the new distraction of the Feds, there’s little focus on things going on within the walls of the fortress, so-to-speak. I think Squint’s more than happy to take advantage of that.”
“Why’s he interested in Haven, though?”
“Probably because he knows it’s wrong for him to be.”
Carmine’s heartbeat thrashed in his ears at those words. Wrong? “You mean it’s wrong for someone like her to be with one of you?”
“I was referring to the fact that he had no right to touch what isn’t hi
s,” Vincent said. “Although, that is a good point.”
“So you do think that’s wrong?”
“Of course it is,” Vincent said. “Rape is always wrong.”
“I mean consensual.”
Vincent shook his head. “Do you really think a girl in her position has the right frame of mind to consent to something like that? She’d say yes simply because she’s trained to never say no. Besides, it would take a strong woman to be able to look at someone as a man and not a master, to see him for who he is and not what he is. But just because it could happen, doesn’t even mean it should. It’s just asking for heartache for everyone involved.”
Carmine sat quietly, his father’s response hitting him hard. He’d never given any of that much thought before. To him, she was just a girl.
“Regardless, Squint’s advances were unwanted,” Vincent said. “I should’ve figured this would happen, but there wasn’t anything I could've done about it.”
“You could’ve hid her upstairs. He wouldn’t have even known she was here then.”
“Since when are we cowards?” Vincent asked. “But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have kept her hidden. Sal would’ve asked about her because of who she is, so it was better for her to come to them than for them to seek her out.”
Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Who is she?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said he would’ve asked about her because of who she is. Is her father important or something? Michael Antonelli?”
Vincent gaped at him. “How did you know he’s her father? I don’t recall telling you that.”
He shrugged. “Haven may have mentioned it.”
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Michael didn’t claim her as his daughter, so not many people know that little piece of information.”
“So I guess he is important, if whether or not he fathered a kid matters to anyone.”
“Michael’s father, Frankie, was a wise guy, but he's dead now. Has been for a few years. Michael's just an associate—he’s never been brought into the fold and never will be. But none of that matters. It's irrelevant who the girl is right now. Squint has his eyes set on her, so she needs to be guarded for that reason alone.”