Sempre: Redemption (27 page)

Christmas had arrived, twelve months passing since the day Carmine walked out the door in Durante. It had been a year marked with violence, with uncertainty, where doubt constantly lingered over his head like a stubborn storm cloud.

And the time showed on his face—his expression harder, his skin thicker, and his eyes bleaker, unfriendly and guarded. But in Carmine’s mind, he had difficulty reconciling that he had been away from his former life for so long. To him, it seemed like just yesterday he had seen Haven, just a moment ago he had heard her voice or listened to her laugh, that he had kissed her lips or made love to her. The time that passed had been a mere hazy blip for him, the blink of an eye, a single steady heartbeat, but the weariness in his bones carried the truth.

He had managed to survive a year without her . . . the first, he thought, of a lifetime to come.

Although he was a man now, seeing things a person ought not see, doing things men should never do, deep inside of him the boy still loitered. He dodged his family, sidestepping accountability in lieu of living in a delusional world of his own—a world where he somehow convinced himself he could beat time, that he wasn’t living his life dictated by the steady ticking of a clock, this one moving backward and not forward, counting down how many hours he had left on earth.

Because living the life he did, it was only a matter of time before death came knocking at the door, prepared to take him away.

And it only sped up with each chime of his cell phone.

Sycamore Circle.

Carmine glanced at the message as he strolled barefoot through the downstairs of his messy house, sipping straight from a half-empty bottle of vodka. Sighing, he set his drink on the counter in the kitchen before calling Remy, tapping his foot impatiently as it rang and rang. No answer.

He tried calling twice more as he threw on a coat and some shoes, wanting to know if he needed a ride to the site, but each time he only reached voicemail.

The sky was completely black, void of stars that night, with a light dusting of white on the frozen ground. It had been a peculiarly gentle winter so far, only a few days of ice and snow—one of the few blessings Carmine counted in his life at the moment—but he could feel a storm brewing. The tips of his fingers tingled and his nose grew numb the moment he stepped out into the frigid night air. Shuddering, he slipped on a pair of black gloves and put the hood up on his coat before climbing behind the wheel of his car, blasting the heat as he drove to Remy’s.

There was no sign of him at the house, no lights on inside and no cars in the driveway. Another call went unanswered so Carmine headed to the meet-up spot, assuming he would see him there. Two other cars hid in the shadows of the abandoned lot, just down from the spot where the trucks were parked, but neither were Remy’s old Impala.

One final call to his phone went unanswered.

The men staked out the location for a bit, watching and waiting, but there was no movement, just as last time. The trucks stood alone, ripe for the picking.

Or so it seemed.

They moved in, cracking locks and shoving through the gate, the group of guys approaching the trucks. It was methodical and routine, quiet and easy, until suddenly it wasn’t anymore.

Carmine shoved the back of a truck open, expecting to find it packed full of weapons, but instead he saw nothing. Nothing at all. His heart dropped into his stomach, his vision blurring from dizziness. Something was wrong. Something was terribly fucking wrong.

A single loud gunshot cut through the night, confirming his worst fears. He turned quickly, blood rushing furiously through his body, and watched as one of the guys from the crew dropped to the ground. A horrifying scream ruptured from the guy’s chest, so loud and poignant it vibrated through the air around them.

“Man down!” somebody shouted. “Fuck! Man down!”

Before Carmine could even think to react, the shadows shifted and people appeared out of nowhere. Ten, or twenty, or maybe even thirty men descended upon them, gunshots ricocheting through the lot.

Men scattered as others dropped, bullets flying left and right around Carmine. He grabbed his gun and shot back, but he couldn’t see to aim in the darkness. A bullet zipped by his head, searing pain ripping through his face as it grazed his cheek. He cursed and sprinted away, firing shots behind him into the lot. Skidding on a patch of icy snow, he lost his balance and fell, but managed to get to his feet again before another bullet struck near him.

He jumped in his car and sped away from the scene, his hands shaking and stomach churning. They hadn’t caught them off guard that time. They had been ready, laying in wait in the shadows, on the offense instead of defense.

As he drove through town, weaving frantically through traffic, all he could think was that they had walked straight into a trap. Someone had tipped them off.

The wound on Carmine’s face burned like fire, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. He pushed his hood off his head as he ran his trembling hand through his chaotic hair. Terror coursed through his body, overtaking the dullness he had managed to shroud himself with. He had gotten so used to feeling nothing unless it was manufactured, the craved effects of the intoxicants he repeatedly forced down his throat and up his nose, that the inherent emotion that hit him seemed to be triple fold. It was raw and real, his heart racing violently.

Had it been Sal? Did he want him dead?

Disoriented, he sped through the streets, going straight to the club to look for Corrado. He bypassed the security guard at the front door and headed straight for the back, making his way down the narrow hallway. It struck him as he reached the office door that the music was loud, hip-hop thumping from the speakers, the first sign that his uncle was gone. He pushed that aside, though, and feverishly pounded on the door anyway.

“Hey,” a guard said, having followed him from the front. “You looking for Moretti?”

“Yeah.”

“He ran out for a bit,” he said. “He shouldn’t be much longer. You can have a drink and wait.”

Frustrated, Carmine stepped back into the club, grabbing a towel from the bar to hold against the wound on his face. Glancing around, he tensed when he spotted Remy sitting at a table along the side, surrounded by girls. Confusion and rage simmered deep inside Carmine’s gut.

“Where the fuck were you?” Carmine spat, hastily approaching the table.

Remy looked up at him, his bloodshot eyes widening. “Shit, man, what happened to you?”

“What happened?” Carmine laughed bitterly, pulling the towel away. Blood seeped into the white material, the sight of it making Carmine even dizzier. “What happened is we had a fucking job tonight and you were nowhere to be found!”

Remy sat up abruptly, reaching for his phone. “Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted, scrolling through his missed calls and messages. “I didn’t hear my phone, man. I swear.”

Carmine grabbed the closest chair and shook it, nearly knocking the girl sitting in it to the floor. She jumped up and Carmine took her seat, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, it was a fucking ambush anyway.”

“No way!” Remy shook his head with disbelief. “The docks?”

“Sycamore Circle.”

“Fuck.”

Fuck
. Carmine shook his head.
Fuck
was right.

“Look, man, have a drink or something,” Remy said, standing up. “Let me check on the others.”

“Give me what you’ve got,” Carmine said, grabbing his arm before he could walk away. “I need . . . fuck, I need
something
.”

Reaching into his pocket, Remy pulled out a small packet of powder. “You might want to take it easy on it. It’s not what you’re used to.”

Carmine ignored him as he walked away. He dished some of the powder out onto the table and inhaled a bunch of it, breathing in line after line, carelessly, recklessly. He needed the excitement . . . needed the fear erased.

Relaxing back in the seat, he waited for it to hit. Two or three minutes passed before the euphoria washed over him, intense and blinding. He reveled in the sensation, letting out a shuddering breath of relief, and waited for it to level out, but it didn’t. It grew and grew, mounting deep within him and overtaking every cell in his weary body until there was nowhere else for it to go. It seized his frantically pounding heart, slowing it so intensely that it nearly stalled the beats.

His breath left him in a whoosh as his entire body was swarmed in a sense of peace—no more fear, no more anxiety, no more
nothing
.

It overwhelmed him, too much, too fast, too intense. The burning in his cheek was replaced with pins and needles, his eyelids drooping so fast he nearly lost consciousness right away.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his hands down his face in an attempt to stay awake, smearing the blood from his wounded cheek.

The music suddenly stopped, the atmosphere shifting as the darkness in the club grew. It took over everything, consuming him, but a familiar voice cut through it and called his name. “Carmine!”

Carmine looked in the direction of the sound, blinking a few times, and saw Corrado’s rapid approach. It seemed in slow motion, shuddering movements like a spastic strobe light. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t get any words to form.

“Stay awake, kid,” Corrado said, his voice calm and collected. Carmine started at him briefly, trying to obey, but the drug was stronger. Despite a crack across his face that sent stinging exploding under his skin, Carmine’s heavy eyelids closed.

The club erupted in chaos, but Carmine was only vaguely aware before he slipped completely into the drug-induced blackness.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

What the fuck?

Carmine pried his eyes open, squinting from the harsh fluorescent lights. The beeping echoed through the small, secluded room, coming from a cardiac monitor to his left. The monitor spiked with each beep, coinciding with each heartbeat in his chest. It was strong, steady. He stared at it, following the wires straight to his body, surveying the IVs and tubes connected to his skin. He lay in an uncomfortable hospital bed, draped in a flimsy gown and covered with a white sheet.

Something moved on the other side of the room. Carmine turned his head, his attention suddenly shifting away from his own predicament. Corrado stood in front of the window, peering out at a large parking lot. He didn’t turn or speak, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants.

Before Carmine could make sense of any of it, the door to the room opened and a nurse walked in, followed by a doctor. The doctor, white haired and clad in a lab coat, carried a thick chart in his hands. He looked at Corrado with hesitation before turning his gaze to Carmine in the bed. “Mr. DeMarco, it’s nice to see you awake.”

“Uh, yeah.” Carmine’s throat was scratchy. He cleared it before speaking again. “What am I doing here?”

“You don’t remember?” the doctor asked, glancing down at the chart. Carmine remembered going on the faulty job and then making his way to the club to wait for Corrado, but the rest was a black haze. “Well, you were brought in a few hours ago, unresponsive from an overdose.”

“Overdose?”

“Your labs indicate a few drugs in your system, but you overdosed on heroin.”

Carmine blanched.
Heroin?

He absorbed nothing else as the doctor talked about Narcan and counteragents, drug rehab, and long-term side effects. Dread once more bubbled up inside of him, brewing in his bloodstream. His muscles were locked up, everything strained and painful. He felt like a fucking Mack truck had hit him.

“We’ll run a few tests and have you out of here by tomorrow,” the doctor said. “Until then, try to get some rest.”

The man’s eyes darted to Corrado again before he excused himself, the nurse leaving with him. The tension in the room quadrupled upon their exit. Carmine lay there, trying to find the words to address the situation, but Corrado beat him to it.

“The rules are simple,” he said, still staring out the window. “We don’t have many, but the ones we do, we expect to be followed. Stay away from drugs and stay out of the limelight. Which part of that didn’t you understand?”

“I, uh . . . look, I didn’t mean for it to go that far, I . . .”

“I don’t want to hear your meaningless excuses, Carmine. How long have you been doing it?”

“A few weeks,” Carmine admitted. “Two months at most, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, I haven’t kept a fucking calendar or anything.”

“You
will
talk to me with respect.” The tone of Corrado’s voice sent a chill down Carmine’s spine. He wasn’t speaking as family—he was addressing Carmine as his superior. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And what in the world possessed you to do a job out at Sycamore Circle? Everybody knows that’s Irish territory!”

“I, uh . . . I got a text.” Carmine looked around for his phone, spotting his clothes laying in a heap on the floor. “I thought you ordered it.”

“Must’ve been Sal,” Corrado muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Three men were hospitalized, you know. One nearly died. And you just fled the scene . . . fled to go get high.”

“I went to find you,” Carmine said defensively. “It was an ambush. They were waiting for us.”

“Of course they were. They warned us weeks ago.”

Carmine said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know the history between the Italian and Irish in Chicago?” Corrado asked, glancing at him and raising his eyebrows.

He nodded hesitantly, clearing his throat. “They hate each other.”

“It’s deeper than that,” Corrado said. “We’ve clashed since before Prohibition, when John Torrio was building our empire. He was diplomatic, believed just because we were criminals didn’t mean we had to be savages. Bugs Moran, the underboss of the Irish Mob at the time, tried to kill Torrio. He was severely injured in an assassination attempt, which forced him to hand over control to Al Capone. Capone continued what Torrio started, but he wasn’t above equal justice.”

“An eye for an eye,” Carmine muttered.