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The atmosphere was awkward at the dinner table that night. Haven didn’t appear comfortable, so Carmine placed his hand in her lap and soothingly rubbed her thigh.
Everyone disbursed after dinner, and Haven headed into the kitchen to clean up. Celia followed her, and Carmine lingered in the doorway for a bit, trying to stay out of the way. He was leaning against the doorframe while she loaded the dishwasher when a voice cleared behind him in the foyer.
“I need to see you in my office,” Vincent said.
Carmine scanned his head to make sure he hadn’t done anything his father clearly had said “don’t fucking do,” but he came up blank for once. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
After making sure Haven was fine, he went upstairs and stepped into the office the second he reached it. He hesitated in the doorway, noticing his uncle standing off to the side.
“Does he ever knock?” Corrado asked.
“He’s getting better at it,” Vincent said.
Carmine groaned as he sat down. “Did you call me here for a lesson on manners?”
“No, but they’re important to have,” Corrado said. “Reminds me of how my mother used to ask if we were raised in a barn when we forgot our place.”
“Yeah, well, your mom’s a bitch.” The words flew out before Carmine even registered them. “Shit, I mean, some people are raised in barns, so that’s not nice manners in itself, you know?”
Corrado stared at him, his gaze so severe Carmine started sweating. Vincent simply smirked, amused about the situation. Carmine wanted to tell him there was nothing funny about this, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. It was clear he was capable of saying things he shouldn’t say.
“I believe that’s the point I was trying to make before you interrupted with commentary on my mother,” Corrado said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your girlfriend’s one of those people, and she has a lot better manners than you do.”
“You learn to fake respect for people when they threaten your life, whether you want to be polite or not,” Carmine said. “I’d venture to guess half the time Haven says, ‘yes, sir,’ she’s really screaming inside, ‘fuck you, asshole.’”
“Do you want to initiate someday, Carmine?” Corrado asked.
The sudden shift in topic caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Stalling is unnecessary. You react impulsively, so just answer. Do you want to be initiated?”
“I don’t think—”
Corrado cut him off, his voice sharp. “That’s right, you don’t think. And you’re in for a rude awakening if you intend to join the life, because all that you said about respecting those you’d rather not because of the hold they have on your life? That applies to all of us. If we forget our place, we get a bullet. So if the answer to my question is yes, I advise you to take a few pointers from that girl who was raised in the barn and learn to at least act respectfully toward those you may not respect.”
“No,” Carmine said. Corrado’s eyes narrowed at his response, and he realized it sounded like he was trying to be difficult. “I mean the answer is no.”
Corrado motioned toward Vincent. “Continue then.”
Vincent took a deep breath. “We need to talk about what you saw in my safe.”
Carmine wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the truth spoken out loud, but he motioned for his father to continue. For the next twenty minutes, Vincent rattled on about underground wars and all of the lives that had been destroyed, the devastation evident once the smoke cleared. Although Carmine wasn’t surprised, the words still managed to make his hair stand on end. “She’s Mafia royalty?”
Vincent nodded.
“Do you understand the seriousness of the situation?” Corrado asked. “Although your father means well, he’s doing the same thing Frankie did—he’s knowingly holding Mafiosi blood in his possession. I’m going to do everything I can to contain this, but there’s a chance it’ll be exposed. And when that happens, we’re all going to be in danger . . . especially you and her.”
o;Today,” he said. “Today makes five years.”
June first, the anniversary of the day Vincent hit rock bottom. Most would assume bottom was when his wife died, or the year after when he’d been unable to face his children, but rock bottom came years later . . .
Closing his eyes, he could still feel the hot air blowing in his face as he sped down the desolate highway. His hands shook, his body desperate for rest, but there was no way he could have stopped. He’d gone too far to give in.
His cell phone chimed loudly from the passenger seat, the harsh green light illuminating the darkness. His heart pounded vigorously at the sound, adrenaline surging through him. He ignored it like he had the last dozen times it rang.
For twenty-six hours he’d been driving, blatantly disregarding the code, but he wasn’t thinking of the future. He wanted vengeance. He had walked inside that house in Lincoln Park the day before and stood in front of the man who controlled his life, hearing the four words that pushed him forward. “Frankie Antonelli did it.”
