“Oh, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s fine. The one on my arm is a cross draped with the Italian flag, and ‘fiducia nessuno’ is on my wrist. It’s usually covered.” He pulled off his watch and turned his arm over so she could see the words scrawled across the veins in small script. She lightly traced the ink with her fingertips. Tingling shot up his arm from her touch, and he closed his eyes briefly at the sensation.
“What does it mean?”
He pulled his arm away and put the watch back on. “Trust no one.”
“Did they hurt?”
He shrugged. “I’ve felt worse pain.”
Images flashed in his mind at those words, and he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his side. He got lost in the memory until a rumbling sound brought him back to reality. He looked at Haven, realizing it was her stomach. “Do you ever eat?”
She nodded. “Every night.”
“Really? You never eat with us.”
She hesitated. “Master Michael said someone like me shouldn’t sleep in the same house as someone like you, much less sit at the same dinner table.”
“Christ, they did a job on you. Were you always with Michael?”
“He was always around, but he didn’t become my master until his parents died.”
“Were his parents just as bad?”
“Frankie scared me, but he didn’t hit much, and Miss Monica sometimes played with me when I was young. Michael ignored me at first, but it got worse when my mistress realized that he, uh . . .”
“He what?”
“He made me.”
Carmine’s eyes widened. “Michael’s your father?”
She picked at her fingernails, ashamed. “He didn’t mean to be.”
8
For the first time since coming to Durante, there hadn’t been any music last night.
Right away, Haven could feel something wasn’t right, that she was intruding on a moment and seeing something she wasn’t supposed to see. Something sacred. Something intimate.
But she couldn’t look away.
Restless and exhausted, she had been too anxious to sleep. She rose from her bed and found Carmine in a trance in the family room. A faint glow of moonlight from the window illuminated the silent room as he sat at the piano, slumped forward and staring down at the keys.
Carmine laced his fingers through his hair as he dropped his head down, a strangled cry echoing through the room. Holding her breath, her chest constricting, Haven took a step back and treaded lightly upstairs, relieved when she reached her room undetected.
Confusion nagged at her. She didn’t know what she felt for Carmine, but seeing him in pain upset her. Her alarm grew at that realization, her heart hammering in her chest. Vulnerability would do nothing but get her hurt.
Only when Haven heard Carmine come upstairs did she gather the courage to venture back down. She made breakfast as a distraction, finishing the food when Carmine appeared. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the jug of orange juice, brushing past her to get a glass.
“Smells good,” he said quietly, no spark to his words, none of that passion Haven was used to hearing. Haven fought the urge to try to smooth away the heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes.
As the boys ate, Haven figured out how to make coffee, knowing Dr. DeMarco drank it every morning. It was brewing when he walked in, his footsteps faltering a foot away. He stared at the pot before turning to her, his tone accusatory. “You made my coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“I’ll be home today,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency.”
He stalked out without pouring any coffee.
Besides a load of Dr. DeMarco’s laundry, there wasn’t much work to be done that day. By noon, Haven had finished and lugged his clothes upstairs. Dr. DeMarco left his door open the days he wanted her to clean since he hadn’t given her the codes to open any doors.
She pulled the hamper inside the room and opened a dresser drawer, her movements halting when she saw his shiny silver gun lying on top, across the clothes. She grabbed it by the handle, using both hands, to move it out of her way as her stomach churned. It was heavier than she expected.
The sound of a door latching captured her attention, and her head snapped in the direction of the noise. Dr. DeMarco stood just inside the room, having shut them in together. Intense fear ripped through her at his expression. His face was his usual mask of serene, but his eyes glowed with rage.
She dropped the gun as a reflex, and it landed on top of the dresser with a thump. The fire in Dr. DeMarco’s eyes sparked more at the sound. He reached behind him, so careful and deliberate it was almost slow motion when he grabbed the deadbolt and turned it smoothly.
Haven’s heart raced with the click of the lock. She knew it then. She had made a grave mistake. She had never seen him look like this, his eyes darkening like a tornado in the distance, tumultuous and clouded. A spark of unpredictable evil lurked beneath. Staring at him, Haven finally saw a glimpse of Vincent DeMarco. The monster.
He took a step forward. Instinctively, Haven stepped back. She backed up against the wall as Dr. DeMarco stopped in front of the dresser and carefully picked up the discarded gun.
“Such beautiful things.” He reached into the dresser drawer and pulled out a gold bullet, holding it up. “It’s fascinating how much devastation something so small can cause. Do you know anything about guns?”
The detachment in his voice frightened Haven more, her body violently trembling. She tried to sound strong, but her voice shook as much as the rest of her. “No, sir.”
He returned the bullet and shut the drawer, staring at the weapon. “This is a Smith & Wesson 627 Revolver, .357 magnum, eight rounds, hollow-point bullets. I have plenty of guns, but this has always been my favorite. It has never let me down.” He paused. “Except once.”
He pointed the gun at Haven as he closed the distance between them, thrusting the muzzle against her throat. She gasped as the force cut off her airflow. “A flick of my finger on the trigger will blow a hole through your neck. You’d die without a doubt. If you’re lucky, it might even be quick, but there are no guarantees. Most likely, you’d be unable to speak or breathe but capable of feeling everything until you suffocate to death.”
He pulled back, letting her take a deep breath, before pressing the gun to her throat again. Her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke again. “Shall we see what happens when I pull the trigger? I think we will.”
She tried to cry out as she braced herself for the pain. It was the end. She was going to die. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the explosion, and jumped at the loud click. The pressure against her neck disappeared and she collapsed to the ground in sobs, unable to stand on her feet.
“Look at me,” he demanded, reaching down and roughly grasping her chin. “You’re lucky it wasn’t loaded or you’d be dead now. Understand?”
She nodded frantically, hyperventilating.
“Good. Now go to your room for your punishment. It’s time you learn what happens when people forget their place.”
Dr. DeMarco unlocked the door and stormed out with the gun. His words bounced around her frightened mind as images hit her, flashes of dead eyes gnawing at her aching chest. That’s what happens when people forget their place.
Death happened. Number 33 happened. Frankie had told her to remember, and she was sure she would never forget. How could she?
She pulled herself up on shaky legs and made her way to the third floor, fear overriding all logic. Bolting straight for Carmine’s room, Haven tore open the window and climbed through. Running along the balcony, she held her breath and forced herself not to look down as she scampered into the tree and shimmied down to the yard.
The moment her feet hit the ground, she ran. Trees and brush scratched her limbs as she navigated the dense forest, her heart thumping wildly. She moved as fast as her legs would carry her, having no sense of direction as she once again ran for her life.
Eventually, the forest thinned. Haven saw the clearing beyond the trees and turned in that direction, shoving branches out of her way as she broke through to the road. The squeal of tires made her stop in her tracks, and she gasped when she saw the familiar black car.
No, no, no . . . She backed away, shaking her head, but it was too late.
Dr. DeMarco grabbed her and dragged her toward the idling car. Haven begged him when she saw the open trunk, but he picked her up without much effort and threw her in with no regard. She stared at him, horrified, and his furious eyes bore into her before he slammed the trunk.
Haven flinched as she was encased in darkness.
He accelerated, the force flinging her around the trunk, her head slamming against the side of it. Sobbing, she frantically felt around for some way out. A small light came on whenever he hit the brakes, illuminating the space enough for her to see. She found a small lever and pulled it, stunned when the trunk popped open. She jolted again as Dr. DeMarco slammed the brakes, but she managed to climb out quickly. Her feet carried her a short way down the road before she was seized from behind, an arm circling her throat as a hand roughly pressed against her head. She flailed around, but his hold was too strong.
In a matter of seconds, her vision faded.
When Haven regained consciousness, she was on the floor in her bedroom, bound to the post of the bed. Dr. DeMarco stood a few feet away, watching, waiting. She let out a sob as reality slammed into her, but Dr. DeMarco raised his hand to silence her cries. “Did you really think you could get away? Didn’t you learn your lesson last time you tried to run? I’ve told you before—you can’t outsmart me.”
“I didn’t . . . I, uh . . .” Her cries muffled her words. “I don’t want to die.”
Dr. DeMarco grew rigid before snatching a roll of duct tape from the nightstand. She shook her head frantically as he tore off a piece, but it didn’t deter him from covering her mouth. “I want you to think about how good you have it here. Think about how lucky you are to still be alive.”
He walked out, leaving her alone.
Nine years.
Nearly a decade had passed since the fateful day that changed Carmine’s life—the day none of them talked about—and it still affected him like it was just yesterday. Nobody knew, though. Nobody knew he cried, or that he still couldn’t sleep at night, but for the first time in nine years, Carmine wished someone did.
The moment he walked in the door from school that afternoon, he knew something had happened. It was a feeling in the air, a stifling silence, a sense of danger that made his adrenaline pump overtime, charring his nerves as it ran through his veins.
Carmine headed upstairs, looking around, and found his bedroom door open when he reached the third floor. A cool breeze swept through his room, the window wide-open and curtains rustling. His heart rate spiked. This was bad. Real fucking bad.
The voice behind him was icy, detached. “How did she know?”
Carmine turned around, seeing his father near the stairs, nonchalantly leaned against the wall with his silver revolver tucked into his pants.