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Celia stood beside Vincent. “Carmine was playing the piano this morning.”
“Moonlight Sonata?”
“No.” Vincent could hear the smile in her voice. “Jingle Bells.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting is right,” she said. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
He knew what she was referring to by the look on her face. “What did you want me to say? That my son is an idiot?”
Celia jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t call him that. He cares about her.”
“She’s a novelty,” Vincent said. “The newness will wear off, and he’ll move on.”
“Oh, give me a break. Even you don’t believe that.”
“One can always hope.”
She shook her head. “They make each other happy.”
“They’re both idiots.”
“Vincent!” Celia pushed him. He stumbled a few steps and snickered as Celia grabbed his arm again. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth; he had no idea how to handle the situation. “I considered sending her to Chicago.”
“We would’ve taken her.” He looked at Celia skeptically, and she smiled. “I would’ve convinced Corrado somehow.”
Vincent doubted even Celia could have talked him into getting involved. He’d been refusing to intervene for years, and Vincent couldn’t blame him. It was a disaster.
“It doesn’t matter now. I missed my window of opportunity.”
“Vincent, you’re a fool if you believe you ever had a window of opportunity.”
He didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. His sister was right, but he didn’t want to admit it.
He’d known for a while what was happening. He’d feared the worst that first morning until he heard what his son said when he let go of Haven’s wrist. It was such a simple word, a word most people used needlessly, but a powerful word to people like them. It was something Carmine hadn’t said since he was an innocent eight-year-old child, ignorant of the world’s troubles, but he’d uttered it that morning so casually, so nonchalantly, that Vincent wondered if he knew what he was saying.
The word was sorry.
It was a word even Vincent couldn’t bring himself to say. His sister would say he was a good man, a decent man with a heart full of compassion, and Maura would have said the same thing. She never saw the evil inside him. Neither of them did.
When his wife was stolen from him, the blackness took over. He became possessed by it, consumed by anger and guilt. No matter how many people he killed in his quest for vengeance, his thirst for blood never went away. That timid brown-haired girl, the one his youngest had grown fond of, almost became a casualty in his need for retaliation.
Vincent pulled away from Celia and sat down, rubbing his face in frustration. Celia sat across from him and laughed. “It’s cute how slick they think they are. Reminds me of how you and—”
“Stop!” he said. Celia cut off midsentence and playfully pretended to zip her lips. “There’s nothing cute about any of this.”
“Oh, come on. It is cute! And why can’t you let them be?”
“You know why,” he said. “You can’t honestly think it’s smart for them to be together.”
Celia glared at him. “Shouldn’t that be their decision?”
“They don’t know any better.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should explain. Tell him the truth.”
