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Carmine sat forward. “My enemy knows the truth, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“He’s not your enemy, Carmine. I know what enemies are. I know the threats they pose. Nicholas knows no more than Dia or Tess. I can’t kill him any more than I could kill those girls. Or is that what you’re suggesting—wiping out everyone who might know? That’s not how you get a clean slate with her, son. You can’t run from the truth.”
“But how can he be trusted when he’s betrayed me before?”
“Because if he was going to tell, he would’ve by now,” Vincent said. “I’m not going to murder a seventeen-year-old kid because you think it’ll make you feel better. You’ll deal with the guilt of his death for the rest of your life, and I have enough people to worry about right now.”
Carmine stared at his father. “Like him?”
“Yes. Him.”
“So you haven’t figured out how to deal with him?”
“I’m just delaying the inevitable, hoping when the time comes I do the right thing . . . whatever that may be.”
“You know, I could probably guess who—”
“Don’t even go down that path, Carmine Marcello,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Carmine nodded, but there was no way he could stop thinking about it. “There are only so many people you’d be afraid of, though.”
Vincent lost his cool and stood, shoving his chair back and pointing at the door. “Get out.”
Carmine begrudgingly headed to the third floor and collided with Haven at the top of the stairs. “Whoa! Where are you going?”
“I didn’t know where you went,” she said.
“Where I’ve been doesn’t matter. All that matters is where I am now.” He scanned her. She had on a pair of his flannel pants, rolled up to stay on, and his football shirt—the same thing she’d worn that first day in the kitchen. “You know, you look good in my clothes, but how about we go take them back off?”
She gasped as he pulled her to his room. “Well, good morning.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely about to be a good morning,” he said playfully. “And a good afternoon. And a good evening, if I’m lucky.”
They made love quietly on and off all afternoon, careful not to be overheard. She sprawled out on the bed beside him after a while, sleeping peacefully on her stomach. The blanket barely covered her bottom half, leaving her back exposed. He stared at her skin, wishing she’d never gotten any of those marks. He wished she’d never had to experience pain, and he hated those fucking scars. But on the other hand, they were a part of her, and to him, there was nothing ugly about her.
She deserved more than she had, and Carmine couldn’t wait to give it to her. To give her a real life where she was free. Free of her imaginary chains, free of heartache, free of danger. Just . . . free.
He traced the word with his finger over her scarred back. Free. It was all that mattered to him.
33
“You’re going to die.”
Those four words cracked the silence that had enveloped the room. Vincent fought the urge to balk, instead keeping his calm disposition. It wasn’t like it was something he hadn’t already thought to himself dozens of times, but hearing it verbalized in that cold, emotionless voice made it real.
He looked in the direction the words had come from and met Corrado’s piercing eyes, so dark Vincent couldn’t differentiate between the pupil and the iris. They were the same eyes dozens had looked into during their last moments on earth, eyes that could break the hardest of men. They were the eyes of a murderer, a man who could reach inside his coat, pull out his .22-caliber Ruger Mark II pistol, and put a bullet in Vincent before he knew what was happening. More importantly, they were the eyes of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to do it if necessary.
“I know,” Vincent said, keeping his voice even despite his anxiety.
It was the first of June, and tomorrow Dominic would graduate from high school. Out of everything Vincent had done in life, Dominic felt like his greatest accomplishment. Just the fact that he had survived intact and was setting off on a path that didn’t resemble the one he had walked down at his age made Vincent feel as if he had done something right. Here was something he hadn’t destroyed, someone’s life he hadn’t ruined.
But his pride was overshadowed by another event, one that had forced him to break his silence. In two short days, Carmine would turn eighteen. His youngest son would be emancipated in the eyes of the law and outside forces were threatening to take his life away. The Don wanted the Principe, a puppet he could mold into a brutal, calculating soldier. Sal wasn’t above manipulation, and Vincent was afraid of what he would do to get his hands on Carmine.
Corrado and Celia had flown in for Dominic’s graduation and to celebrate Carmine’s birthday. The kids had gotten up before dawn to head to Asheville for the afternoon, and Celia was upstairs, purposely giving the two men some space.
“She doesn’t look like a Principessa,” Corrado said.
“I had the same thought.”
