Sempre (Forever) (79 page)

“Me? But I’m just… I’m no one.”

He laughed. “Oh, you are definitely someone. You have the power to cripple them, starting from the very top. I have been holding this card for years, wondering the best way to play it. When Nunzy told me the DeMarco boy was in love with you, I saw the perfect opportunity. I was not positive how far they would go for you, but I do know Vincent would die for his son. If the boy loves you as he claims, he is going to do anything it takes to rescue you.”

She stared at him as what he said sank in. “You’re hoping Carmine comes after me.”

“I am counting on it,
Principessa
. You are my golden ticket. If I kidnapped the DeMarco boy, the Italians would come with guns blazing for revenge. But you are trickier. Salvatore will be very happy to have you gone, the complication removed, but the others will not give up. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing them fight amongst themselves. And when the DeMarco boy demands action, someone will spill the truth over who you are, thinking it will rally them. Thinking it will make Salvatore want to help.”

Ivan laughed long and hard, as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Who am I?” She immediately regretted the question, but it was too late to take it back.

“I have been trying to tell you. You are the buried treasure, the one Salvatore thought would never be found, but I have dug you up.” He reached out, his calloused finger drawing an ‘X’ on her forehead. “When the dust settles and they have all killed each other, everything will be mine for the taking… including you.”

He stood up and turned to the blond haired woman. “Get her some water and something to eat, Natalia. Let her rest. You and your brother are on watch tonight.”

Haven sat as still as possible, her eyes vigilantly darting around the room as people filtered out to leave her and Nunzio alone. He strolled over to her and knelt down, placing his hand on her knee.

She fought back a shudder as his hand roamed up her leg and came to rest on her thigh. He squeezed tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she cringed as he pulled himself up. Leaning over, he paused with his mouth next to her ear. “Miss me?”

A chill shot down her spine when his tongue swirled around her earlobe. Panicking, she shoved him. He stumbled a few steps, and before he could react, she pulled her leg up and slammed it into his crotch. He hunched over as she jumped up, her vision blurring from the sudden movement. She sprinted for the metal door across the room, but barely made it halfway there when she was grabbed from behind.

“I like it when you fight,” Nunzio said breathlessly. She cried for help as he dragged her across the room, grabbing a roll of duct tape from the card table.

She shook her head at the sight of it. “No.”

He smirked. “Yes.”

She tried to move past him, shoving him again, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. Pain ripped up her shoulder with such intensity that everything went black. He threw her on the mattress and straddled her.

Her brittle fingernails caught on his skin as she grasped at his face, pulling his bandage off and ripping the stitches underneath. Blood gushed from the wound, running down her arm.

Raising his fist, Nunzio slammed it into her face. Stars danced before her eyes. He tore off a piece of duct tape to cover her mouth. After muffling her cries, he jerked her onto her stomach. Pain radiated through her body as he forced her arms behind her, binding her hands and ankles together before throwing the roll of tape in anger. He wiped his cheek, bringing his hand up to eye the blood, before storming outside.

She knew better than to think he’d left, though.

Natalia returned with a bag of food and sat down on the mattress beside her. She unbound her and gently pulled the duct tape from Haven’s mouth, feeding her for a bit until Haven turned away. Sickness churned in her stomach as Natalia patted her head.

Eventually, Haven passed out from exhaustion, only to awaken sometime later to Ivan kneeling in front of her. “I thought you were going to cooperate,
Principessa
.”

“I, uh, he was going to—”

“I do not need excuses,” he said. “I need cooperation.”

Before she could speak again, he jabbed her with a needle. “It will be easier this way.”

*  *  *  *

The holding cells at Cook County Jail are massive bullpens of chain-linked fence. They’re overcrowded, the sour, putrid smell inside of them strong enough to singe nose hair. Carmine sat in the corner with his head down, surrounded by dozens of murderers, druggies, and thieves. The atmosphere was tense as people bickered, scuffles breaking out between rival detainees. On edge, he was trying to maintain his strength, but he was dangerously close to cracking.

Hours passed. Carmine’s name was occasionally called, and he was transferred from one place to another, each cell identical to the one before it.

It was after nightfall when they booked him into the system. He was taken to a small room where he sat across from a lady who asked him a lot of questions he had no desire to answer. He humored her with the basics, like his name and date of birth, but when she asked him how he felt or if he were suicidal, he remained silent.

The love of his life was missing, his help was gone, and the biggest hope in finding her was confiscated by the government. Instead of being out there, searching, he was trapped in a room with the nosy bitch asking him if he felt angry. Of course he was angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be?

They gave up and ordered him out, writing an identification number on his arm in permanent marker before fingerprinting him and taking mug shots. He stared at the number the whole time, feeling sick at the sight of it. They were stripping him of his name. He was now number 2006-0903201.

An intake officer photographed Carmine’s tattoos as he continued to glare at the number. “Are you affiliated with any gangs?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? LCN counts as a gang.”

“LCN?”

“Yeah, you know, the Mafia.”

Carmine cut his eyes at him. “There is no Mafia.”

The officer shook his head, writing something down on his file before sending Carmine to be strip searched. He was given a medical screening, the entire process invasive. By the time he put on that orange jumpsuit for protective custody, he felt like he’d been thoroughly fucked.

They took him to division nine, placing him in a small cell on the top tier. It was closed in and suffocating, no bars or windows to the outside. The green paint on the thick metal door was flaking, words scratched into it under the tiny dingy window. He had nothing but a light and a threadbare blanket, the mattress no thicker than a piece of egg crate foam.

More hours slipped by while Carmine lay there alone, staring at the ceiling. He could hear inmates all around him yelling, sirens going off as guards ran by the door.

He barely slept, tossing and turning in agony all night. The next morning they came by with a breakfast tray, but he refused to eat their food, demanding they get him a lawyer.

The same thing happened with lunch—he ignored their food, and they ignored his questions. He was infuriated by the time dinner rolled around, utterly exhausted and frantically pacing the cell. He heard someone walking up and expected another tray to be shoved inside, but he was surprised when two correctional officers unlocked his door.

“You have a visitor,” one of them said. After he was handcuffed and shackled, they led him to a small room with a table in the middle of it. There was a hefty balding man inside, a briefcase open in front of him on the table. He looked up when Carmine entered and motioned for him to sit down. The corrections officer secured Carmine to the table before leaving them alone.

“My name’s Rocco Borza, Attorney at Law,” the man said. “Celia DeMarco-Moretti contacted me about you. I've been retained a few times by the family, so I'm aware of the situation.”

He pulled out some paperwork, sliding it across the table to Carmine along with a pen. “I need you to sign these, agreeing to let me handle your case, and anything you say is confidential.”

He scanned the papers and awkwardly signed the lines the best he could with his restraints, before sliding them back across.

“First of all, I need to know if you've spoken to anyone,” he said, slipping the papers back into his briefcase. “Have they attempted to interrogate you?”

“No,” he said. “They haven't even explained why I'm here.”

“They charged you with possessing a fraudulent government document,” he said. “It’s a Class 4 Felony but can easily be knocked down to a misdemeanor. You should've been given a probable cause hearing within a few hours of your arrival and been released on bail, but it seems they've forgotten their own protocol.”

“Then why am I sitting in that damn cell?”

“Because the law states they can detain you for a reasonable amount of time,” he said. “They claim to be holding you for obstruction of justice, but the reality is you're sitting in that cell because you're the son of Vincenzo Roman DeMarco, the nephew of Corrado Alphonse Moretti, and the godson of Salvatore Gerardo Capozzi. You don’t get much more notorious than that.”

“That's fucked up,” Carmine said. “I have nothing to do with their business.”

“Guilty by association,” he said. “Having you released is my number one priority right now. It shouldn't be more than a few days.”

“Days? I'm supposed to stay in this place for days?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I'll request a hearing to have your release ordered, but it may take some time to get in front of a judge. They typically don't detain for more than forty-eight hours, but Illinois law gives them a bit of leeway on the matter. So just hang tight, and I'll be in touch.”

Mr. Borza stood up and reached into his pocket. He hesitated before pulling out a little slip of paper and holding it out to Carmine. “I’m not supposed to do this, but your father seemed desperate. He asked me to give you this.”

Carmine took the paper and looked at it, seeing it was just a bunch of numbers. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Borza said. “He said you’d figure it out.”

Mr. Borza left after Carmine concealed the paper in his sock. The corrections officer patted Carmine down before escorting him back to his cell, where a tray of food awaited him. He conceded in hunger, grabbing the container of pudding and sitting down on the lumpy bed.

The second day of incarceration passed similar to the first for Carmine. Sometime in the evening, an officer came by to tell him he had a visitor again. Relief washed through him, figuring Mr. Borza had news, but the familiar man waiting was clearly not his lawyer.

“Carmine DeMarco,” Special Agent Cerone said. “Have a seat.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“But you don't even know why I'm here.”

He laughed dryly. “It doesn't matter why you're here. I have nothing to say about anything.”

“Fair enough. You know your rights and can go back to your cell.” Carmine turned to leave when the agent sighed exaggeratedly. “I just wanted to talk about a girl named Haven.”

Carmine’s heart pounded rapidly at the mention of her, the ache in his chest intensifying. “Why?”

“Her name has come up a few times during the investigation,” he said. “I tried locating her, but it seems she's a mystery to everyone. There's barely any evidence that she even exists. It's almost as if she's a
ghost
.”

Carmine balked at the word. “Why are you asking me? I have nothing to do with my father's business.”

“That may be true, but I figure if you help me, I can help you.”

“I don't need your help,” he said. “There's nothing I can tell you.”

“You can't even tell me who she is?”

“No.” He desperately fucking wished he could.

“Strange. We made a trip to your hometown yesterday, and it seems the people there are under the impression that she’s your girlfriend. I even came across this while I was there.” He reached into his briefcase for a piece of paper, and Carmine’s knees went weak when he saw it was the picture Haven had drawn for him. Her name was neatly written in the corner. “Did that jog your memory?”

“Fuck you.”

“Where is she?” he asked. “She's not in Durante, and she wasn't with you in Chicago. One of the only other people this girl seems to talk to is a boy named Nicholas Barlow, who coincidentally also seems to be missing.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Agent Cerone was undeterred. “Did something happen to your girlfriend? You can tell me. I'm here to help—”

“You aren't here to help. You don't give a shit about me.”

“Did she run off with Nicholas?” he asked, undeterred. “Did she choose him over you?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is she dead?”

He recoiled from his statement. “No.”

“Is Nicholas dead?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

He shook his head. “As I said, I just want to help.”

“There's nothing you can do for me.”

“If she’s missing or has been hurt—”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Fine.”Agent Cerone stuck the drawing back into his briefcase. “You know, the truth always prevails. At the end of the day, the truth is what sets you free.”

Chapter 48

Time drifted by in a haze, like curls of smoky air obstructing Haven’s surroundings. The dense fog muted everything, sights and sounds disorienting.

She’d come to the surface to find food waiting, and she’d eat what she could stomach before slipping back under. Jen appeared a few times with Nunzio by her side, and she’d check her vitals but never spoke a word.

In fact, people were always in-and-out of the building, but no one acknowledged her anymore except for Natalia. She’d bring her fresh clothes and offer words of encouragement, helping her up whenever she needed to use the bathroom.

Each day grew progressively worse. Haven’s strength diminished as her body began to reject everything. She’d vomit profusely whenever she tried to eat, her skin clammy and pale as she started having tremors. A pounding in her head made it hard to focus, everything becoming a blur of nothingness.