Sempre: Redemption (3 page)

“I kicked his ass,” Carmine chimed in, wanting to spare her from having to recount it. “That’s not really out of the ordinary, though. We fought all the time.”

“Huh. Well, what happened after the fight?”

“He ran off,” Carmine said, “just like every other time we fought.”

The officer eyed Carmine suspiciously. “Was that the last time you saw him?”

“No, I saw him a week after that,” Carmine admitted. “I was taking the SAT at the high school when he showed up.”

“Why?”

“For shits and giggles. Why does anyone take the SATs?”

“I’m not asking you why you took the test,” Detective Baranski said impatiently. “I’m asking why
he
was there.”

Carmine shrugged, knowing what he meant the first time but not wanting to answer that question.

“Did anything happen then?”

“Exactly what happened every other time the two of us got together.”

“Another fight.” The officer nodded as if it were no surprise. “And the last time you saw him, Haven, was at the football game?”

“Yes.” She hesitated before shaking her head. “Well, no. I saw him later that night at Aurora Lake. We talked and then I went home.”

“And
that
was the last time you saw him?”

Her eyes quickly scanned the room as Vincent nodded, the movement so slight Carmine barely caught it. “Yes,” she whispered.
Lying
.

“Do you have any idea what might’ve happened to him?”

She didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

Tensing, Carmine looked at her incredulously.
What the fuck?

“The night at the lake, he said there was nothing left here for him,” she said. “He talked about leaving, just disappearing, to start over somewhere where nobody knew him. I thought he was venting, but I wonder if that’s what he did.”

“It’s possible.” The officer closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket.

“I can’t help but think it’s my fault,” she continued. “Maybe I could’ve stopped him, or helped him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be . . . gone.”

Carmine’s chest tightened with guilt at her words.

“You can’t blame yourself for decisions other people make, miss,” Officer Baranski said, standing to leave. “I appreciate your time. If you think of anything else that might help us find Nicholas, give me a call.”

He pulled out a business card and Haven gingerly took it from him. Vincent showed the officer out and Haven sat still for a moment before crumpling the officer’s card up in a tight fist.

The tension in the room mounted. Carmine couldn’t stand the silence and turned to her as soon as the front door closed. “You really think this is your fault?”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “If I hadn’t—”

“That’s ridiculous,” he interrupted, not giving her a chance to explain. “You didn’t cause any of this.”

“But I did,” she said. “Don’t you see? All of it was
me
, Carmine, all because I’m some
Princi
—whatever! A stinking princess! Your mother and Nicholas died, Corrado got hurt, and you gave your life away like it didn’t even matter! What’s next? How much more is going to happen because of me?”

Carmine knew it then, seeing the tears flooding her sorrowful eyes, tears she had been holding back for weeks. The button had been pushed. The nuclear bomb had been ignited. Their fragile bubble of contentment was about to fucking explode.

“I won’t let you take that burden,” he said. “And don’t you dare feel guilty for what I did. If you wanna blame anyone for it, blame
me
. I did it because I wanted to, not because I
had
to. I did it because I love you, Haven, and you didn’t force me to fucking love you. I did that shit all on my own. And I don’t regret any of it.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I? You’re finally safe. You’re finally free.”

“Am I?” Haven shook her head with frustration. “Am I safe? Am I
free
?”

“Of course you are.” His brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“We’ve talked about this,” he said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “It means you can do anything you want—go where you wanna go, be what you wanna be, do what you wanna do. Fuck, be who you wanna be.”

“Can
you
?”

The question caught Carmine off guard. “Uh . . .”

Her voice cracked from distress. “Don’t you see, Carmine? How can I ever be free if you aren’t? How can I do those things if you can’t?”

“I think . . .” A ringing cell phone in Carmine’s pocket shattered his train of thought. He trailed off, pulling it out, and didn’t have to look at the screen to know it was Salvatore. Haven stood up without a word and started out of the room, but he called after her. “Wait, Haven. We need to talk about this so just . . . wait, okay? This will only take a minute.”

She stopped near the foyer and turned to him, tears still falling from her eyes. She said nothing.

His phone continued to ring in his hand and he groaned, knowing he needed to answer it. Taking a few steps over to the couch, Carmine sat down, his back to her. “Yes, sir?”

“I wondered if you were going to take my call,” Salvatore said.

“Of course I was,” he muttered, dropping his head and running his hand through his hair. He spotted the cop’s business card in a ball on the floor and snatched it up, frowning. “It’s just hectic here. I didn’t hear my phone.”

“Ah, well, I’m just calling to see how your holiday’s going. I assume Corrado has arrived, but I can’t get him to answer a phone, either.”

Carmine’s brow furrowed.
A social call?
“Yeah, he’s here. I think he’s asleep.”

“Makes sense,” Sal said. “He’s still recuperating, so I’m sure he needs his rest. It hasn’t been the same without him. It’ll be wonderful to have both of you on the job after Christmas.”

The color drained from Carmine’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Corrado didn’t tell you yet?” Sal asked. “I’ve requested he bring you back with him. I’ve been more than accommodating with your, uh,
situation,
but it’s time you build your life here. Chicago’s your home now. It was always supposed to be.”

“But it’s only been—”

“It’s been a month,” he said pointedly. “There’s nothing left there for you.”

Carmine knew there was no arguing with Salvatore. He had made his decision and nothing would change his mind. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

“I’m glad that’s settled,” Sal said. “I look forward to having you close by,
Principe
. Tell Corrado to call me when he wakes up.
Buon Natale
.”

Carmine hung up and glanced out of the room, wondering how much Haven had heard, and frowned when he saw the deserted foyer.

She hadn’t waited for him, after all.

“Is he okay?”

Vincent looked up from the papers on his desk, peering through his reading glasses at his son. Carmine strolled into the office, throwing himself down in the leather chair across from him. He slouched, his body language one of nonchalance, but Vincent could see the genuine concern in his eyes. “Your uncle?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s, uh . . . he’s still recovering,” Vincent said. “He’s only been conscious for a few weeks. He shouldn’t even be traveling yet.”

“But will he be okay?”

“You heard your aunt Celia. She said he’d—”

Carmine cut him off. “I know what she said, but I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.”

Vincent set the files down and leaned back in his chair. He removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes while his son quietly awaited a response. Carmine rolled a small ball of paper in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand.

“Look, Corrado was clinically dead. The human body is resilient, but the brain is vulnerable. It’s rare for someone to make a full recovery if they’re down for more than three minutes.”

“How long was Corrado down?”

“Four.”

Carmine seemed speechless, his mouth open but no words coming out.

“I’m not saying he won’t be fine,” Vincent continued, not wanting to alarm his son, but he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t sugarcoat it. “I’m just saying it’s too soon to tell. There’s no way to say what type of long-term effects Corrado will endure.”

“You mean like brain damage?”

“Yes, but not just that.” Vincent absentmindedly fumbled with the case file on his desk again. “Death has a way of changing people, son. When faced with our own mortality, we tend to start seeing the world differently. What once mattered may not be a priority anymore, and that’s not always easy for others to accept. We rejoice when people are saved, when lives are spared, but sometimes you have to stop and think,
At what cost?
Are we just prolonging the inevitable? Are we intervening when we have no right? Are we tampering with fate? We want them to live, but we have to consider that maybe they’re better off . . . not.”

It wasn’t until Vincent looked over at his son that he realized he had said too much. Carmine’s eyes were wide yet guarded, his mouth once again agape.

“I’m just rambling,” Vincent said, backtracking. “I’m exhausted and stressed and don’t know what I’m saying. Your uncle is going to be perfectly fine, Carmine. He defied medicine by even waking up, so there’s no reason to believe he won’t continue to do so. After all, according to the media, the man’s made of Kevlar.”

“I’ve heard,” Carmine said. “Mom tried to keep us from it all, but Dom and I used to see the newspaper headlines in Chicago. Corrado Moretti, the Kevlar Killer . . . arrested dozens of times but never convicted for any of his crimes.”

“Alleged crimes,” Vincent said. “I lost count on how many times he’s walked away from things that should’ve taken him down.”

“That’s a good thing,” Carmine said. “Since he has a record of beating charges, the two of you will probably get off of this RICO shit. Problem solved.”

“It’s a nice thought, but there’s a problem with that theory,” Vincent said. “The prosecution filed to have our cases tried separately, so I think I’m on my own.”

Carmine started to respond, but a voice stopped him before he could even get two words out. Vincent stiffened as he glanced past his son, seeing Corrado in the doorway to the office.

“You’ll be perfectly fine,” Corrado said, his voice flat.

“You think so?” Vincent asked.

Corrado nodded slightly. “We both will be.”

Vincent would have said more had he not been alarmed by his brother-in-law’s sudden presence. He had showered, his slightly curly hair still damp, his face smooth from a fresh shave.

“I’m going to bed,” Carmine muttered, standing up and bolting out of the room before Vincent could wish him a good night. Corrado stood in place for a moment before strolling into the office, sitting down in the chair Carmine had just vacated. He said nothing, but his eyes stared into Vincent intently.

“How much did you hear?” Vincent asked.

“Enough.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re right about people changing,” Corrado replied, “but I don’t think you were talking about me.”

T
he shrill sound of a familiar ringing phone shattered Carmine’s light slumber. He forced his eyes open, slapping beside the bed to find the offending object. He cursed as he accidentally knocked it off the stand, sending it crashing to the bedroom floor.

“Turn it off,” Haven mumbled, not even opening her eyes.

“Fuck, I’m trying,” he said, snatching his phone off the floor. He groaned as he answered it.
Salvatore
.
Again
. “Yes?”

“You don’t like to answer promptly, do you?” Salvatore asked with a hard edge to his voice. Definitely not a social call this time.

He glanced at the clock, seeing it was a few minutes past four in the morning. Haven had been asleep when he made it upstairs . . . or pretending to be asleep, more likely. He could still feel the tension between them, the conversation she was obviously avoiding having with him.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, covering his burning eyes with his forearm as he lay back down. “It’s just kind of fucking early.”

“You’re full of excuses, aren’t you?” Sal asked. “And you didn’t have Corrado call me like I asked.”

“He was asleep, and I, well . . .” He had forgotten. “I fell asleep, too.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re awake now, because you need to pick up a package in Charlotte.”

“Now?” Carmine asked incredulously. Charlotte was two hours away, and it was Christmas Eve. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Haven alone all day.

He laughed bitterly and Carmine clenched his free hand into a fist. The sound grated on his nerves. “Yes,
now
.”

Salvatore rattled off an address. Carmine jumped out of bed and rooted through his desk for something to write with, grabbing a cheap BIC pen with a chewed-up cap. He spotted one of Haven’s notebooks and grabbed it, flipping it open to the back and scribbling down the address as Sal hung up.

“Just great,” he muttered, staggering over to the closet. “Just what I need.”

“Where are you going?” Haven asked.

He glanced at her, seeing her eyes were open now. She watched him with confusion, and he spouted off the first thing that came to his mind. “I need to finish Christmas shopping.”

“Now?” she asked with disbelief. “Is anything even open?”

“They will be by the time I get there,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t press him about it. He dressed and kissed her quickly, running his hand across her cheek as he brushed some wayward hair out of her face. “I’ll be back later,
tesoro
.”

Haven mumbled incoherently, her eyes closing once again.

Carmine grabbed his things and the notebook, heading out of the house as quietly as he could, and climbed into the Mazda to start the trip to Charlotte. He had a hard time focusing on driving, his vision hazy from exhaustion, and ran off the road a few times. He cursed, agitated, and turned up the music while rolling down the windows, hoping the noise and cold air would keep him awake.

He arrived in Charlotte shortly after dawn and drove around for twenty minutes to find the address. It turned out to be a dingy hole-in-the-wall barbershop, the bricks crumbling and the barber pole barely hanging on to the ancient building.