Tax evasion—Vincent admired how Salvatore made manipulation an art.
A throat cleared behind him. He remained still, staring out at the water as Sal approached. “Motion sickness?”
Vincent wished that were his problem. “No, just enjoying the view.”
“It’s nice out here, isn’t it? Peaceful.”
He nodded. Peace wasn’t something he experienced often, and now that he’d been interrupted, he’d lost it again.
Sal clasped him on the shoulder. “Come inside. I’d like to get this over and get back to land.”
Vincent begrudgingly followed Sal, seeing two men sitting on a black leather couch as soon as he stepped into the yacht. One he was well acquainted with—his brother-in-law, Corrado. Corrado was a man of few words, his silence often speaking volumes. Mezza parola, they called it. Half word. He could hold an entire conversation with nothing more than a nod of his head.
A few years older than Vincent, Corrado’s thick, dark hair showed no sign of gray, a slight curl to it that gave him a boyish look. He was sturdy, lightly tanned, and statuesque. Women tended to find him attractive, but he’d never shown interest in any except Celia. Corrado’s mind was always on business.
Family or not, Corrado’s presence put Vincent on edge. It meant something had gone terribly wrong, but the boy beside him hadn’t been around long enough to learn that.
The boy fidgeted, jittery. The doctor in Vincent surmised he was likely on something. Cocaine, he thought, but meth wouldn’t surprise him. He’d witnessed too much to be shocked by anything anymore.
Salvatore looked at the boy. “You’ve been doing things for us for how long now?”
“A year.” Excitement radiated from his words, pride for the work he’d done. He wasn’t much older than Vincent’s children, which meant he’d gotten involved the moment he turned eighteen. Dumb young Turks.
“A year,” Salvatore repeated. “From what your Capo says, you’ve pulled in quite a bit of money for us . . . more so than a lot of the guys working the streets.”
“Yeah, man. Just doin’ my part, ya know? Gotta make that paper.”
From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw Corrado grimace.
“I heard you’ve been asking about more responsibility,” Salvatore said. “You think you have what it takes?”
“Hell yeah,” the boy said. “I’ve been ready since I was born.”
Salvatore pulled out a bottle of scotch, pouring four glasses. Vincent stood back, swirling his in the glass and listening as the boy bragged about the jobs he’d done. Hijackings and robberies, shakedowns and gambles, but never once did he mention where the bulk of his cash came from.
“Drugs,” Vincent interrupted, tired of the charade. “You forgot about the drugs.”
The boy blanched. Even working at such low ranks, he knew Cosa Nostra’s policy: Don’t get caught with drugs. Ever. “What drugs?”
“The ones you’ve been selling out of your house,” Vincent said. “We have an insider who says the police caught wind of the location.”
“I, uh . . . I haven’t . . .”
He didn’t have time to come up with an excuse. Corrado reached into his suit coat and pulled out his gun, pointing it at the back of the boy’s head. Vincent looked away as Corrado pulled the trigger, the silencer muffling the gunfire as the bullet tore through his skull. The room was void of emotion as Corrado returned his gun to his coat, Sal continuing to drink his scotch like it hadn’t happened. Sickness stirred within Vincent the moment he saw the dead kid’s frozen expression of fear. Bolting from the room, he ran to the deck and threw up over the side of the yacht.
Sal joined him, eyeing him strangely, and Vincent sighed. “Motion sickness got me, after all.”
Corrado dragged the body up on deck, wrapping it in a tarp and chains before tossing it overboard. Vincent watched as the boy sank, disappearing into the blackness of the water.
Make that five people on the bottom of the lake.
7
Haven’s head brutally thumped when she opened her eyes the following Saturday. One, two, three seconds passed before sickness rushed through her like a waterfall. Jumping up, she ran for the bathroom and collapsed in front of the toilet just in time.
An hour passed before she was well enough to get back to her feet. Clothes wrinkled and hair disheveled, she made her way downstairs, coming face-to-face on the second floor with Carmine and a girl with wildly colored hair.
She’d seen Carmine a few times the past week but could never tell what he was thinking, his expression curious as he gazed at her. The attention caused her chest to swell with that unknown sensation, one she was still too afraid to confront or name.
Escaping from them before they could speak, she almost fell down the steps in haste as she went straight for the kitchen. She tried to calm her racing heart as she washed a few dishes, but an unexpected voice from the doorway only startled her more. “Hey! I’m Dia!”
The glass she was holding slipped from her hand as she turned around, hitting the floor with a clank but thankfully not breaking. “Uh, hello.”
Dia raised her eyebrows. “Are you okay?”
Haven stared at her. Of course she wasn’t okay. She was alone and missing her mama, so confused and emotionally spent that she didn’t know which way was up anymore.
Not to mention she felt like she was going to be sick again.
“I’m okay,” she whispered, looking away. She took a few deep breaths, woozy, and headed for the stairs without another word. Breathing heavily, she had to pause when she reached the top of the staircase. Her vision blurred, her chest burning as she lost her breath. Everything grew hazy as her legs gave out.
She collapsed, her head slamming into the wall as she hit the floor with a thump, the sound of a freight train rushing through her ears.
* * *
“Haven?”
Haven pried her eyes open at the familiar voice, incredibly close, and made out the set of green eyes hovering in front of her. She blinked a few times as Carmine backed away. “Maledicalo! You can’t do that to me!”
Confused, her vision blurred again from unexpected tears. “What?”
“You can’t pass out like that! You looked like you were dead. Christ, I thought you were dead!”
She stared at him. He’d worried she was dead?
“Dom called my father to come check on you. You hit your head pretty hard.” He brushed his hand across her forehead. His fingertips were cool against her feverish skin. He spoke again, his voice so soft she barely heard it. “Bella ragazza, you scared the hell outta me.”
She gazed at him. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean? I said you scared me.”
They sat in silence, Carmine stroking her cheek with the back of his hand as he stared into her eyes. It was uncomfortable, but Haven couldn’t break from his gaze. “I’m sorry this happened,” she said. “Especially with your girlfriend visiting.”
His brow furrowed briefly before he laughed. “I don’t have a girlfriend, but if I did, it definitely wouldn’t be Dia. I have the wrong equipment for her.”
Haven wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Her cheeks reddened from the intensity of his stare, but before she could get her thoughts in order, Dominic’s voice rang out. “Colpo di fulmine.”
They both jumped, glancing toward the doorway. Carmine pulled his hand away. “What?”
“Colpo di fulmine.” A slow grin spread across Dominic’s face. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it hit sooner.”
Carmine’s expression shifted. “No fucking way.”
“Yep,” Dominic said. “Kaboom!”
Carmine stormed from the room as Dominic laughed, taking a seat on the bed where his brother had been. “That boy is full of surprises.”
* * *
Colpo di fulmine. The thunderbolt, as Italians call it. When love strikes someone like lightning, so powerful and intense it can’t be denied. It’s beautiful and messy, cracking a chest open and spilling their soul out for the world to see. It turns a person inside out, and there’s no going back from it. Once the thunderbolt hits, your life is irrevocably changed.
Carmine never believed in it. Colpo di fulmine, love at first sight, soul mates . . . he thought it was all bullshit. Love was just people deluded by lust, pussy blinding men from using common sense.
He still wanted to think that. He wanted to deny it existed. But a twinge of something deep inside of him—past the thick steel-reinforced, Kevlar-coated, barbed-wire fence surrounding his heart—suggested otherwise. And when he saw Haven’s limp body on the floor, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. This peculiar girl had come out of nowhere, and he was afraid she’d leave as quickly as she’d appeared. That she’d vanish from his life before he had a chance to know her. His chest ached at the thought, his insides on fire, and the girl who caused it was oblivious to it all.
In other words, Carmine was royally fucked.
He bolted out of the house and drove to the next town, scrounging up enough change in his car to buy a cheap fifth of vodka with his fake ID. He pulled over alongside the road and drank alone in the darkness until his mind was fuzzy and he felt nothing.
He passed out eventually and awoke the next morning, his head pounding viciously. Throwing on his sunglasses, he drove home doing the speed limit, not wanting to get pulled over since alcohol likely still coursed through his veins. He was sure his father would be about as thrilled to post bail in the middle of the afternoon as the cops would be about the loaded Colt .45 pistol concealed under his driver’s seat.
When Carmine walked into the house, he found Haven asleep on the couch in the family room, and something twisted inside of him at the sight of her. She had goose bumps on her arms so he grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully covered her before going upstairs to shower.
He grabbed some crackers from the kitchen to put something in his stomach and headed back toward the family room when Haven called his name. He ran his hand through his damp hair as their eyes met. She looked at him imploringly, and it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse.
He took a seat beside her. “You feeling better today?”
“Yes,” she said, shifting a few inches away from him. “Dr. DeMarco said it was a stomach virus. I might be contagious, though, so you should keep your distance.”
“I’m not worried about it,” Carmine said. “If you give it to me, I’ll get a few days off school.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school now?”
“Yeah, but I’m not really known for doing what I’m supposed to do.”
She smiled. “Rebel.”
It surprised him how relaxed things were between them. He expected tension. Haven was quiet for a bit, her gaze drifting to his bare chest. Carmine realized she was staring at his tattoo. “Time heals all wounds.”
Her eyes shot to his. “What?”
“My tattoo. ‘Il tempo guarisce tutti i mali.’ Time heals all wounds.”
