Sempre (Forever) (24 page)

“What sorta animals?”

“They had a few dogs, but it was mainly horses,” she said. “I stayed in the stables with them.”

Caught off guard, his finger hit the wrong string. They both cringed from the sharp note. “You slept with the fucking
horses
?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t so bad.”

His jaw clenched as he held back his temper. Getting upset would do nothing but make her clam up. She could say it wasn’t bad if she wanted, but Carmine couldn’t think of a more inhumane scenario.

He continued to strum his guitar, playing around with sounds as she quietly read. Her eyes would occasionally drift over the top of the book, settling on him. “Can I ask you something, Carmine?”

“Of course you can.”

“Why did you shoot at Nicholas last year?”

Another sharp note rang out as he glanced at her. Of all the things she could ask him, she wanted to talk about Nicholas? “Why do you want to know?”

“I just wondered what someone could do to upset you so much.”

He sighed. “We had a big falling out after I messed around with his sister. He got mad and ran his mouth, said something about my mom, and I just snapped.”

“Your mom?”

“Yes, my mom.”

“And she’s in Chicago?”

He sighed. “Hillside.”

“What’s she doing there?”

He hesitated. “Nothing. She’s… gone.”

“You mean like dead?”

Carmine cringed at the word and nodded.

He started playing again as Haven went back to her book without a word. He felt no judgment, no disappointment, no pressure. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how much his life had been lacking, how much he craved that feeling of acceptance. She’d changed him. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he felt different. He felt like Maura’s son again, and not so much Vincent DeMarco’s heir.

*  *  *  *

“Look at the Suburban.”

Corrado's voice was nonchalant, but Vincent knew better than to believe he wasn't on alert. He waited a few seconds before turning his head, seeing the black Chevy Suburban parked along the curb half a block from where they stood.

The darkly tinted windows obstructed the view of inside, but Vincent could manage a guess or two of who it was. “FBI, you think? Doesn't seem like locals.”

“Anything’s possible,” Corrado said. “FBI, DOJ, CIA... all the same. They all spell trouble.”

Vincent shook his head. “Who'd you take out to have the CIA working on a Saturday night?”

“You never know,” Corrado said. “Maybe they’re looking to recruit me for a secret mission.”

Vincent laughed, although he wouldn't put it past them to consider it. Wouldn't be the first time the government came to one of them, wanting to exchange services.

“They were parked near the club this morning when we stopped by,” Corrado said. “Then at the restaurant tonight after dinner.”

“And you're just now pointing them out to me?”

“You should've spotted them yourself. They’re not being very inconspicuous.”

“You don't think it's someone like the Irish, do you? Russians?”

“No, it's law enforcement—a rookie on his first stake-out or else they're intentionally letting themselves be seen. Either way, I'm offended. What kind of man do they take me for? An idiot who wouldn’t notice or a coward who would be intimidated by them?”

“Maybe they aren't looking for you,” Vincent said. “Maybe they're watching me.”

Corrado shrugged. “It’s possible. It would make more sense.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you're the idiot who wouldn't notice.”

If Vincent wasn't a mature man, and if he knew his brother-in-law wouldn't punch him for it, he would've certainly rolled his eyes then.

“I’ll tell Sal about it,” Corrado said. “If they’re lurking, we’ll want to take precautions and start moving things.”

Corrado headed inside his house with a nod, and Vincent stood in place for a moment before strolling down the block. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket as he stepped onto the porch of the white two-story house, using the worn copper key to unlock the front door. The smell of mothballs was strong, dust tickling his nose when he stepped into the corridor. Heat wafted around him, the place muggy from being closed up for so long.

Vincent walked through the empty downstairs, the sound of his feet on the wood echoing off the barren walls. An ache in his chest made it hard to breathe, and although Vincent blamed it on the thick air, he knew it was emotional torment eating him up instead.

In the front room, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He could see it then, the sunlight streaming through the open windows, cool air blowing in and stirring the blue curtains. The house was cluttered with furniture and knick-knacks, family photos covering every inch of space.

And he could hear it, footsteps running in the hall upstairs, the squeal of excited children as they played hide-n-seek. Music streamed from a small radio, the sounds of Mozart and Beethoven filling the air. And Vincent could feel it then, the warmth and love, the happiness he craved. It was pure chaos, but it was his peace. It was his home. There was nothing else like it.

And there she was, like always, fluttering around the house in her flowing summer dress, bare feet on hard wood, toenails painted a soft pink. She smiled at him, green eyes twinkling, and the ache in his chest grew as he reached for her. So beautiful and kind, so understanding of his burdens.

But when Vincent opened his eyes again, it all faded away. He was left with nothing but darkness, silent except for his strangled breaths in the vacant room. He still slept there sometimes when he visited, even though there was no electricity or furniture. He’d lie on the bare floor and stare at the white ceiling, time fading away as he wallowed in memories. Not tonight, though. He couldn’t stay.

The black Chevy Suburban was gone when he went back outside, the spot where it had been parked now deserted.

*  *  *  *

Haven lay awake that night, unable to sleep. It wasn’t nightmares that kept her circling consciousness this time—it was reality.

Or what she thought was reality, a part of her believing it couldn’t be real. She wondered if all the years she spent repressing her hopes for the future had taken its toll, or if she was merely dreaming.

She’d spent her life belonging to other people, but for the first time, she felt different. It wasn’t about being a possession—it was about being a part of something. People never cared what she thought or felt before, but Carmine did. He asked, and for the first time in her life, she wanted to tell.

His kisses were thirst-quenching, like cold ice water on a hot desert day. They sustained her, filled her up and kept her going. He took her breath away, yet left her satisfied.

But it didn’t matter, she thought, because it couldn’t be real.

She gave up trying to sleep around dawn and headed downstairs, surprised to hear noises in the family room. Dominic lay on the couch in his pajamas, the lights off but television playing. He sat up when he spotted her, patting the cushion beside him. “Join me.”

She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m surprised you’re awake so early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Why are you up?”

“Same,” she said. “I thought I’d come downstairs and make sure the house was clean for when your father came home.”

 “You don’t have to be in a rush,” he said. “It’s only Saturday… or I guess Sunday now. It’ll probably be a few days before he shows his face around here again.”

She eyed Dominic curiously. “He’s gone a lot.”

“Yeah, he’s been that way for as long as I can remember,” he said. “There’s always something for him to do somewhere that isn’t here.”

“What does he do when he’s gone?”

He laughed wryly. “Don’t know, and don’t want to know. Dad moved us here years ago so we wouldn’t be a part of any of that. Said he wanted us to have a normal life, so we could live like normal kids, but there’s nothing normal about having to raise yourself, you know? Nothing normal about the situation with you. We’ve all suffered because of the things he’s done, and I hate to think how much more we’d suffer if we knew the shit we don’t know.”

She stared at him, confused, and he smiled at her expression.

“In other words, twinkle toes, ignorance is bliss.”

*  *  *  *

Vincent slipped a hundred dollar bill into the collection plate as it passed him, shaking his head as his mother waved it on. She hadn't donated to the church in three years, her paranoia seeming to spike around that time. She was convinced the altar boys were stealing the money for drugs and prostitutes, even though most of them were still in grammar school.

Celia and Corrado put in their share, and the four of them sat silently as the collection plates made their way through the crowd. Corrado was statuesque as usual, his posture intimidating, while Vincent’s sister was her typical poised, smiling self. Celia was a tall, slender woman, her face with a soft, round look to it. She had sleek black hair, the color of night, and dark eyes to match.

The pews were packed today. Vincent scanned the congregation, recognizing a few faces. Most of the higher ranking members of
la famiglia
were present, dressed in their best suits in the front of the church. It was a big production to them, the one day out of the week where they could flaunt their money and pretend to do good for the neighborhood. It made the honest men, the
galantuomini
, feel protected. It was important to
Cosa Nostra
to have the support of the community. Men who respected them—who trusted them—were less likely to rat them out.

After the donations were all collected, people made their way out into the aisle. A long line formed for communion, but Vincent stayed in his seat. Corrado eyed him peculiarly, but didn’t say a word as he got in line.

The rest of service went by quickly, everyone standing as the final prayer was spoken. Father Alberto made the sign of the cross when he finished. “Mass is over. May you go in peace.”

They made their way toward the exit when Father Alberto called Vincent's name. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he turned back around. “Yes, Father?”

“You did not take communion,” Father Alberto said, his face etched with genuine concern. “You have not taken it in weeks.”

It had really been months, but Vincent didn’t correct the priest. “I keep forgetting to fast before service.”

Father Alberto knew he was lying. “The church never closes. You don’t need an appointment with God. He’s always there for you.”

“I know, Father. Thank you.”

Vincent walked away before Father Alberto could press the matter, and he joined his family on the front steps of the cathedral. Corrado and Celia stood along the side together as Gia infused herself into the crowd.
Mafiosi
surrounded her, listening to her wild stories as she rambled away about the past. They smiled and laughed, urging her on, even though they all knew she was batshit crazy.

Not a single person was rude or mocked her, though. She was a former Don’s widow, the mother of a
consigliere
, and an in-law to another high-ranking made man. They respected her.

And living in Sunny Oaks, ‘respected’ was something Gia didn’t feel anymore.

Vincent waited as his mother finished telling her story. She was talking about Antonio again, one of their many adventures back when Vincent and Celia were young. He found himself even smiling, too, as he thought about those days. It was before tragedy had struck. Before Maura and the kids came into his life. Before the Antonelli's and the girl. Before Salvatore's family had been murdered. Before their worlds had imploded.

Gia turned to him when she was finished, the crowd disbursing and saying their goodbyes.

“Ma, are you ready to—?”

“You didn't take communion.”

He sighed. Not her, too. He’d planned to ask if she was ready to head back to Sunny Oaks, but he knew it was senseless to say it now. She wouldn’t go until she’d gotten out everything she wanted to say. “I couldn't.”

Gia smiled. “I'm proud of you.”

 He stood frozen as those words sunk through his thickened skin. Never in his life had he heard them coming from her.
She must be demented
. “You're proud of me?”

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?”