Sempre: Redemption Page 3

  “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.”

  4

  The 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.

  Carmine grabbed the gun he kept tucked under the seat and stuck it in his waistband before getting out of the car. He headed toward the building and grabbed the door but it wouldn’t budge, so he pressed the square black doorbell underneath the mailbox. A loud buzzer went off and he cringed at the obnoxious noise, hearing commotion inside before the door opened.

  A light-skinned black man stood before him, a tattoo on his neck and his hair halfway braided. Carmine could see the gleam of gold teeth in his mouth, his neck and ears framed with diamonds. He didn’t look to be someone Salvatore would ever do business with. He briefly wondered if he had the wrong address.

  The man stepped to the side before Carmine could consider fleeing, motioning for him to come in.

  The interior was just as raggedy as the outside, everything covered in wretched-smelling filth. Carmine surveyed it with disgust as the guy slammed the door behind them and staggered across the room. He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, sticking one in his mouth and another behind his ear before crumpling the empty pack and tossing it on the floor.

  “DeMarco’s kid, right?” the man asked. “You don’t look like your daddy, though. You sure you’re his? I think your mama might’ve fucked around.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Carmine’s hands violently shook as he reached for his gun.

  The guy caught on and put his hands up defensively. “Damn, you might be his boy, after all. Neither of you can take a joke.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother,” Carmine spat as the man turned his back to him and opened a cabinet.

  “Whatever you say,” he muttered. “Tell me something . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You fucking deaf?” he asked, turning back around. Carmine tensed when
he saw him grab a Glock 22 from the cabinet and point it without hesitating. Carmine aimed his gun quickly, his heart racing wildly in fear as they locked in a showdown. The amusement had faded from the guy’s expression, his eyes sparking with anger. “I asked if you had a girlfriend.”

  “Yes,” Carmine said, trying to keep his composure, but the guy was clearly unstable. The thought that it could be a setup ran through Carmine’s mind but he pushed it back, not wanting to consider that Salvatore would do that to him. Not now. Not like this. He hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve any punishment.

  “What’s her name?” the guy asked. “And don’t lie to me. I can find out on my own, but I don’t think you want me to.”

  “Haven,” he said. “Her name’s Haven.”

  “Good.” The guy lowered his gun and grabbed a duffel bag from the cabinet. Carmine took it from him hesitantly, keeping his gun aimed just in case. “You have twelve hours to bring me my money. If it isn’t here by seven tonight, at a minute after seven I’m gonna be in my car and on the way to visit Haven to make her pay me for it. Understand?”

  “If you ever fucking touch—”

  “I said do you understand?” he snapped, raising his gun again.

  Carmine took a step back on instinct. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now get out of my fucking shop before I shoot you for the hell of it.”

  Shoving open the door, Carmine bolted outside in haste, the duffel bag feeling like it weighed more than him. He tucked the gun back away as he sprinted to his car, fumbling with his keys and cursing as he got the door unlocked.

  He heaved the duffel bag over to the passenger seat and sped off, wanting to get away from there. A few miles away, he glanced in the bag curiously and saw it was full of guns and ammunition. Slamming the breaks, stunned, he whipped the car into the parking lot of a nearby restaurant. He stared at the bag, wondering what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t sure if Salvatore had told him, considering he hadn’t paid attention, and he suddenly worried he was missing something.

  Carmine grabbed his phone and scanned through the list of contacts, stopping at his father’s name. He hit the call button and waited as it rang.

  “Carmine?” Vincent answered, sounding concerned. “Where are you? I saw your car was gone this morning.”

  “I, uh . . . I think I need some help.”

  “With what?”

  “I’m in Charlotte,” he said. “I got a call this morning to pick up something from some guy. He gave me this bag and said he wanted his money by tonight, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about any of it. What money?”

  “You must’ve met Jay,” Vincent said, sighing. “Just pull some cash out of your account and pay him for it. We have a set arrangement, fifty grand each visit.”

  “And what about the damn bag?”

  “There’s a storage unit here in town, at the place beside the grocery store. I’ll leave the key for it at the desk. Unit nineteen-B.”

  * * *

  Carmine stood in front of the storage unit, the duffel bag the only thing inside. He stared at it for a moment, shaking his head, before slamming the metal door and putting the lock back on it.

  He pocketed the key and strolled next door to the grocery store for something to drink, the place empty except for the lone cashier. She barely looked at him, her nose stuck in a cheap gossip magazine as he tossed her some cash for a bottle of Cherry Coke and a Toblerone.

  On the way back out, Carmine’s footsteps faltered when his eyes fell upon the crinkled paper taped to the glass near the exit. He snatched it off, studying it as he strolled through the parking lot in the dark. The word MISSING was written along the top, ominously black and bold, while a familiar picture of Nicholas Barlow covered most of the page. He was wearing his favorite camouflage cargo pants in the shot, his baseball cap pulled down low.

  Carmine could remember the day the photo had been taken. Straining his eyes, he could even faintly make himself out in the background. They had been out at Aurora Lake a mere few days before their friendship had fallen apart . . . before their lives took a dramatic turn. They had both ended up in the emergency room later that day after roughhousing—Nicholas with a sprained ankle and Carmine with a gash in his eyebrow. It was the day Carmine had dared his best friend to sleep with the nurse at the hospital, Jen.

  The only dare the boys had made that they never saw through, since Nicholas was dead now, and the nurse was, too.

  The subtle glow from the streetlight illuminated Carmine’s car in the back of the lot. Sunset had come and gone, the entire day fading away. He had missed Christmas Eve with his family.

  Climbing into his car, Carmine turned on the interior light to get a better look at the flyer. Guilt nagged him when he saw they were offering a reward, Haven’s earlier words running through his mind. How much more is going to happen because of me? she had asked, but Carmine wondered exactly how much more hurt he would cause. How many more families would he ruin, how many more lives would he fuck up? He felt like a curse, devastating anyone who dared to get close to him.

  He had gotten his best friend killed. Who would be next?

  Sighing, he tossed the paper onto the passenger seat and grabbed Haven’s notebook, hoping to put those thoughts out of his mind. After the day he had had, he just wanted to forget for a while. He glanced through the scribble, looking for a distraction, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew as he took in Haven’s frenzied words. She wrote a lot about the pain she had been through, the writing growing more frantic the further he got. There were dozens of sketches accompanying her words, some so vague he couldn’t tell what they were, while others were so in depth it was like seeing it with his own eyes.

  Turning to a page about halfway through, Carmine’s name jumped out at him, and his eyes cautiously scanned the surrounding paragraph. Haven mused about what kind of future they would have together, disheartened by their situation. He read it all with anxious eyes, tensing when he came upon the very last sentence: What do you do when the thing you want most suddenly feels like it’s beyond your fingertips?

  As much as Carmine didn’t want to let that get to him, her question stung. After giving her freedom, he had yanked it back away. He hadn’t meant to, but she was right . . . as long as she was with him, she would never be in control of her life.

  He flipped through a few more pages, barely able to pay attention to them, and was about to toss it aside when a drawing caught his eye. It was startlingly in depth, the man’s features perfectly detailed. One side of his face was pristine, while the other half was severely disfigured. His skin appeared to be made of melting candle wax, drooping and dripping from his grotesque face. The word monster was scribbled along the page, the handwriting frantic and barely legible.

  It may not have been as horrifying had Carmine not recognized the man.

  * * *

  The house was silent when Carmine made it home, the notebook tucked in the crook of his arm. He headed upstairs, mentally exhausted from the day, and hesitated on the second floor when he saw the door to his father’s office open. Carmine strolled over to it, curiously pausing in the doorway.

  Vincent sat at his desk with his phone to his ear, unaware he was no longer alone. He impatiently drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, periodically huffing as he listened to whomever was on the line.

  “That’s not acceptable,” he said, his expression severe. “I understand your situation, but you need to understand mine. I have a family to consider, and you may not care about them, but I do. This is my life we’re talking about so don’t patronize me! I don’t need you to make this out to be something it isn’t, and I don’t appreciate being lied to. Find another way.”

  Another brief pause ensued, followed by a sharp, angry laugh from Vincent. “Then count me out.”

  Carmine shifted position, caught off guard by
the serious conversation. The movement drew his father’s attention. Panic sparked in Vincent’s eyes. He hung up without giving the person a chance to respond and eyed Carmine carefully, but he offered no explanation.

  “Who was that?” Carmine asked.

  “Lawyer.”

  Carmine narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing, bribing your way out of trouble?”

  “More like settling things before they tie the knot on my noose.”

  “That bad?” They may not have been close over the years, but Carmine didn’t like the thought of losing his father.

  “Yes, it’s that bad, son,” Vincent said. “We used to be able to talk our way out of anything, but our power has even less influence than our money these days.”

  Curious about his father’s bitterness, Carmine took a seat without waiting to be invited. “Can I ask you something?”

  Vincent leaned back in his chair. “Sure.”

  “Do you regret getting involved?”

  “Yes . . . and no. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and those I do regret, but taking the oath for your mother . . . I can’t regret that. I wish I wouldn’t have had to, but I did. And I’d do it again.” Vincent paused. “You know, I was furious when I found out what you’d done, and as much as I still hate it, I get it, son. It’s genetic, I guess—ingrained in your DNA. You would’ve sacrificed for her eventually, someway, somehow. You are your mother’s child, after all.”

  “I’m apparently yours, too.”

  Vincent smiled sympathetically. “Is there a reason you asked? Are you regretting—?”

  “No way,” Carmine said. “It’s just, Christ . . . I know it was necessary, but I feel like I fucked everything up by doing it.”

  “I felt that way, too,” Vincent said. “I initiated to free your mother, and all I did was take her from one dangerous world to another. It was dressed up pretty and called another name, but it wasn’t much different. Your mother never got a chance to live a life where no one knew her . . . where no one knew what she’d been. She never got to invent herself.”