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It was Haven. She was the reason his life had been shattered.
He tossed things around, trying to release some pressure, his thoughts convoluted as he shifted blame, trying to find logic where none could be found. Everything was supposed to be easy for him, so why did it feel so fucking complicated?
He snatched the picture frame from his desk and stared at the photograph of his mom, a streak of Haven’s blood smeared on the broken glass. Tears of resentment stung his eyes. Nothing had changed, but everything seemed different.
He threw the frame down and stepped into the bathroom, his gaze falling on his muddled reflection in the mirror. His bloodshot, sorrowful eyes reminded him of her, and the last thread of control he’d been holding on to snapped.
His fist connected with the mirror. It cracked, shards of glass flying as he pounded on it in a rage, not slowing down until it was obliterated, his reflection gone from sight. Emotion swirled through him again as he slid down to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest. His anger gave way to despair as the tears started to fall. He surrendered to it, not having the willpower to fight anymore.
The anguish took over as he put his head down. He let himself slip under and wallow in the misery of what he’d lost.
* * *
Darkness cloaked the bathroom when Carmine resurfaced. He walked to the sink, glass crunching under his shoes. The cuts on his hand stung as he washed away the blood.
Grabbing a bottle of vodka from his stash, he went down the stairs, seeing the light on in his father’s office. He didn’t bother to knock before stepping inside, kicking the door closed behind him. Plopping down in the leather chair, Carmine took a drink of the liquor.
“I never wanted to tell you,” Vincent said. “I thought it would be cruel. Your mother asked me to save her, but Frankie Antonelli wouldn’t let the girl go. So I told her to drop it, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. I realized what she was doing too late. I was too late.”
It all hit Carmine hard, and he blinked rapidly to ward off the tears. “Did she figure out the secret? Is that why they killed her?”
“She was on the right track, had even hired a private investigator, but I don’t think she had enough time to put the pieces together. She would have, though. It was only a matter of time.”
“And you blame Haven for it.”
“It’s not her fault,” Vincent said. “She was just a child.”
Carmine laughed bitterly. “You think I don’t fucking know that? Of course it’s not her fault. Doesn’t mean you don’t blame her anyway.”
Vincent sighed. “Sometimes we suffer a loss and try to blame a single cause. Disproportionate responsibility is what they call it. Makes it easier to cope when you can channel your grief somewhere tangible so—”
“Cut the medical bullshit. It’s a scapegoat.”
“Scapegoat,” Vincent repeated. “You’re right. I’ve come to grips with it for the most part, which is why I felt it was safe to bring her here. But yes, I do still have moments where I slip back into that mind-set and wish she didn’t exist.”
Carmine could hear the disgust in his voice. “Was it Frankie who had her killed?”
Vincent nodded. “A few years ago, Sal told me Frankie panicked about your mother asking questions, said it was because the Antonellis’ son fathered the girl. He didn’t want his family’s dirty little secret to come out. It’s kill or be killed in our world, son.”
Carmine could feel the vodka burning through his veins. He ran his hand through his hair, cringing at the pain. His father frowned. “You must’ve been pounding on something hard.”
“Just had a small mishap with a mirror.”
“You should go to the hospital for an X-ray.”
Carmine held up his bottle of vodka. “I have all the medicine I need right here.”
He took another swig of it as his father muttered. “I pity your liver, heading straight for cirrhosis at seventeen. It’ll kill you if you keep it up.”
“We all gotta die at some point, Dad,” he said. “May as well go out for something I love.”
He brought the bottle to his lips for a drink, and as the liquid flowed, it struck him what he’d said. That was exactly what his mom had done.
31
The sound of the bell rang through the brightly lit room. There was a collective shuffling as the students gathered their things. Carmine closed his science book awkwardly with his left hand, his right wrist in a bandage, sprained from the incident with the mirror in his bathroom.
“Don’t forget to study, folks!” the biology teacher, Mr. Landon, called out. “Quiz tomorrow!”
