“Today,” he said. “Today makes five years.”
June first, the anniversary of the day Vincent hit rock bottom. Most would assume bottom was when his wife died, or the year after when he’d been unable to face his children, but rock bottom came years later . . .
Closing his eyes, he could still feel the hot air blowing in his face as he sped down the desolate highway. His hands shook, his body desperate for rest, but there was no way he could have stopped. He’d gone too far to give in.
His cell phone chimed loudly from the passenger seat, the harsh green light illuminating the darkness. His heart pounded vigorously at the sound, adrenaline surging through him. He ignored it like he had the last dozen times it rang.
For twenty-six hours he’d been driving, blatantly disregarding the code, but he wasn’t thinking of the future. He wanted vengeance. He had walked inside that house in Lincoln Park the day before and stood in front of the man who controlled his life, hearing the four words that pushed him forward. “Frankie Antonelli did it.”
Frankie Antonelli did it.
The closer Vincent got to the secluded ranch, the more frenzied he grew. A few miles from the turnoff to the property, the headlights of a car flashed his way. Vincent slowed down, watching as the familiar car whizzed by. Rage consumed him.
Frankie Antonelli did it.
Vincent made a U-turn and accelerated rapidly to catch up. Red lights flared in front of him as they hit the brakes, noticing Vincent’s approach. Frankie could have outrun him, but by the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. Vincent rammed into him, turning the wheel and clipping the back corner of the car. His chest slammed into the steering wheel on impact, his vision blurring as he painfully gasped for air.
Tires squealed, followed by a loud crash as Frankie’s car flew into some large boulders jutting out of the desert. Vincent swerved before coming to a stop in the opposite direction on the highway, the car still intact and on all four wheels. Smoke and dust lingered from the collision, making Vincent’s eyes water. He rubbed his face, his vision blurring, and he took a deep breath as he grabbed his pistol from the floorboard. Stepping out, his weak legs shook as he put weight on them.
Frankie Antonelli did it.
Frankie’s car was totaled, the front end demolished from the impact. As Vincent approached, he heard wheezing from the driver’s side. The window was shattered, glass crunching under his feet. Frankie’s legs were crushed under the front of the car, while his wife, Monica, slumped over in the passenger seat. Blood poured from her ears. Glancing back at Frankie, Vincent could see tears streaming down his face. “Frankie Antonelli did it,” he said, his voice oddly calm.
Frankie tried to shield himself as Vincent brought up the gun, slamming it in the man’s face as he blacked out in rage. By the time he resurfaced, the body in the driver’s seat was unrecognizable and Vincent’s hands were coated in blood.
He took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he stepped back from the wreckage. Gas pooled underneath the car, the odor of it strong. Vincent scoured through his pockets and pulled out the beat-up pack of Marlboros. There was one cigarette left. He lit it, feeling the burn as the smoke scorched his lungs. The nicotine soothed his nerves.
After a few drags of the cigarette, he flicked it toward the car, igniting the puddle of gas.
Vincent climbed in his car and drove to the Antonellis’ ranch, pulling down the driveway. The place appeared uninhabited, but that wasn’t true. People were there, and he knew where to find them.
Without thinking it through, Vincent stepped inside the stables. He’d take the girl. He’d do it for Maura. He’d make it all better. He’d rescue her from filth.
He paused when he saw her asleep on a tattered old mattress in the corner stall, the stench of manure thick and stifling. He took a few steps toward her to get a better look and saw her clutching a book in her arms. So small and frail, she looked helpless, but Vincent wasn’t fooled.
The bloodlust rose back up, desperation hitting him. He raised the gun and pointed it at her head, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger. Confusion hit him when nothing happened—no loud bang, no piercing scream, no blood.
His Smith & Wesson had never failed him before.
The sound of Corrado’s voice pulled him from the vicious memory. “Is that the last time you killed?”
Vincent sighed. “Yes.”
“As long as you realize you’ll have to kill again, we shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said as Corrado stood to walk out.
“Don’t thank me. You still might die.”
34
Carmine spotted his uncle the moment they stepped through the front door. Corrado surveyed them, assessing like he always did, and Haven’s head went down, her gaze focusing on the wood floor. Carmine reached for her instinctively, pulling her to him.
“Corrado,” Carmine said, nodding at him.
He returned the greeting. “Carmine.”
Carmine could feel Haven trembling, every exhale coming out as a shudder. Sighing, he leaned toward her and frantically searched for the right words to say. What could destroy the fear built up from being tortured for so many years and having the man in front of them refuse to help?
“He’s a decent guy,” Carmine said. “Minus the whole murdering thing.”
Yeah, that wasn’t it.
Haven gripped Carmine’s arm that was around her, her nails digging into his skin.
“This is my girlfriend, Haven,” Carmine said. “I don’t know if you’ve actually met her before.”
Everyone stared at him, but Carmine felt Haven relax in his arms. Her grip on him loosened as Corrado turned to her. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Haven remained silent for a moment before she spoke, her voice restrained. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
She held out her hand to Corrado. Carmine stared at it, stunned, as she extended her hand to the man she knew had never considered extending his to her.
Corrado looked just as surprised as he shook it lightly. “As it is you. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle in.”
He headed upstairs, and Carmine smirked as Haven turned to look at him. There was curiosity in her eyes. “Your girlfriend? It’s not like he doesn’t know what I am.”
He shook his head. “What you are, Haven, is my girlfriend.”
“But—”
“No buts. Quit thinking about yourself that way. They’re just technicalities.” She cracked a smile as he used the word. “They’re titles other people give us. They don’t make us who we are. If you’re a slave, than I’m nothing more than Principe. Is that all I am? A Mafia prince?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Just because some people see us that way doesn’t mean it’s what we are. We’ll overcome our labels together. They don’t matter; they don’t make us who we are. We make us who we are. Fuck those motherfuckers.”
She laughed. “When did you get so smart?”
“Baby, I’ve always been smart,” he said playfully. “I’m just lazy as hell and rarely show it.”
The atmosphere was awkward at the dinner table that night. Haven didn’t appear comfortable, so Carmine placed his hand in her lap and soothingly rubbed her thigh.
Everyone disbursed after dinner, and Haven headed into the kitchen to clean up. Celia followed her, and Carmine lingered in the doorway for a bit, trying to stay out of the way. He was leaning against the doorframe while she loaded the dishwasher when a voice cleared behind him in the foyer.
“I need to see you in my office,” Vincent said.
Carmine scanned his head to make sure he hadn’t done anything his father clearly had said “don’t fucking do,” but he came up blank for once. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
After making sure Haven was fine, he went upstairs and stepped into the office the second he reached it. He hesitated in the doorway, noticing his uncle standing off to the side.
“Does he ever knock?” Corrado asked.
“He’s getting better at it,” Vincent said.
Carmine groaned as he sat down. “Did you call me here for a lesson on manners?”
“No, but they’re important to have,” Corrado said. “Reminds me of how my mother used to ask if we were raised in a barn when we forgot our place.”
“Yeah, well, your mom’s a bitch.” The words flew out before Carmine even registered them. “Shit, I mean, some people are raised in barns, so that’s not nice manners in itself, you know?”
Corrado stared at him, his gaze so severe Carmine started sweating. Vincent simply smirked, amused about the situation. Carmine wanted to tell him there was nothing funny about this, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. It was clear he was capable of saying things he shouldn’t say.
“I believe that’s the point I was trying to make before you interrupted with commentary on my mother,” Corrado said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your girlfriend’s one of those people, and she has a lot better manners than you do.”
“You learn to fake respect for people when they threaten your life, whether you want to be polite or not,” Carmine said. “I’d venture to guess half the time Haven says, ‘yes, sir,’ she’s really screaming inside, ‘fuck you, asshole.’”
“Do you want to initiate someday, Carmine?” Corrado asked.
The sudden shift in topic caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Stalling is unnecessary. You react impulsively, so just answer. Do you want to be initiated?”
“I don’t think—”
Corrado cut him off, his voice sharp. “That’s right, you don’t think. And you’re in for a rude awakening if you intend to join the life, because all that you said about respecting those you’d rather not because of the hold they have on your life? That applies to all of us. If we forget our place, we get a bullet. So if the answer to my question is yes, I advise you to take a few pointers from that girl who was raised in the barn and learn to at least act respectfully toward those you may not respect.”
“No,” Carmine said. Corrado’s eyes narrowed at his response, and he realized it sounded like he was trying to be difficult. “I mean the answer is no.”
Corrado motioned toward Vincent. “Continue then.”
Vincent took a deep breath. “We need to talk about what you saw in my safe.”
Carmine wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the truth spoken out loud, but he motioned for his father to continue. For the next twenty minutes, Vincent rattled on about underground wars and all of the lives that had been destroyed, the devastation evident once the smoke cleared. Although Carmine wasn’t surprised, the words still managed to make his hair stand on end. “She’s Mafia royalty?”
Vincent nodded.
“Do you understand the seriousness of the situation?” Corrado asked. “Although your father means well, he’s doing the same thing Frankie did—he’s knowingly holding Mafiosi blood in his possession. I’m going to do everything I can to contain this, but there’s a chance it’ll be exposed. And when that happens, we’re all going to be in danger . . . especially you and her.”