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He laughed, but a slamming door interrupted the moment. Haven went rigid as Carmine glanced at the man standing on the porch, his eyes a familiar deep brown shade Carmine knew well.
“If this is Hell,” Carmine said, “does that make him the devil?”
40
Michael Antonelli stood on his front porch, a glass of whiskey in his left hand and a lit cigar in his right. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t blinking. He didn’t even appear to be breathing.
Haven stared at him, stunned by how utterly unchanged he looked. It had nearly been a year, but seeing her old master in his khaki pants and polo shirt, too tight around his bulging gut, made it feel like no time had passed.
The tense silence shattered when the door behind Michael opened, jolting him back alive. Blinking rapidly, he moved out of the way as Corrado stepped onto the porch. “Carmine, Haven . . . nice to see you. Are you enjoying your trip?”
The nonchalance of the question surprised Haven, but Carmine didn’t appear to be put off as he answered. “It’s been fine, except for the fact that I feel like I’m being boiled alive.”
Haven smiled involuntarily at his complaining as Corrado’s gaze turned to Michael. “Are you going to invite the kids in, Antonelli, or do you intend to let my nephew burst into flames? I was under the impression you remembered how to be hospitable.”
“Oh, yeah!” Michael stuck his cigar into his mouth and opened the screen door. “Come inside.”
Carmine took Haven’s hand and led her into the house, the two of them following Corrado down the hallway to a cramped office in the back. Haven hesitated, scanning the cluttered walls. For years she had lived on the property, trapped and forced to work in servitude, but never in that time had she been in that room. Michael said it was private, his sanctuary.
Michael walked in behind them and took a seat in front of a shiny mahogany desk as Corrado stood off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. “We’re waiting for one more.”
Haven looked to Carmine, but he offered no explanation if he had one.
After a few minutes there was a knock on the front door of the ranch. Corrado walked out to answer it, returning with another man carrying a briefcase. Michael tensed as he eyed him, blinking rapidly. “What are we—? Why’s the lawyer here?”
“Let’s get this done,” Corrado said, ignoring the question. Haven sat down, slinking into a chair in the corner so not to make a scene. Michael glared at her from across the room, uncomfortable silence enveloping the space between them, an invisible wall of pressure separating their chairs.
The lawyer talked about naturalization and citizenship, but none of it made sense to her. He filled out paperwork as he spoke but hesitated on a document, glancing at Haven. “Miss, what’s your birthday?”
Her heart thumped wildly. “I’m not sure. Mama said it was in the fall.”
The man’s forehead creased as his eyes shifted to Michael. “Mr. Antonelli? Her date of birth?”
Michael grumbled but said nothing coherent as Corrado sighed exaggeratedly. “September tenth, 1988.”
The lawyer wrote it down, while Haven stared at Corrado. She wondered how he knew, the date running through her mind. September 10 . . . it was two weeks away.
When finished, the lawyer handed the paperwork to Corrado, who set it on the desk in front of Michael. “Sign it,” he demanded.
Michael begrudgingly signed before shifting the stack of papers in Haven’s direction. She could feel his eyes on her as he held out the pen. She took it without looking at him. Glancing through the papers, she spotted the blank lines beside where he’d signed. Her hand trembled as she scribbled her name beside his.
She wondered if he was surprised she could write. Take that, buddy.
“That’s it,” Corrado said. “It’s done.”
What was done? Haven wasn’t sure, but Michael didn’t appear happy about it.
* * *
Haven stepped onto the porch of the house, taking a deep breath of the scalding desert air. Her stomach felt queasy, her nerves running amuck. She needed space. She needed to be away from those people. She needed Carmine.
She called for him, but a loud commotion stopped her before she could step back inside. Startled by the disruption, Haven turned, her breath hitching when she saw her mama standing at the corner of the house, a bunch of metal tools laying in a pile at her feet.
Unlike Michael, she looked different. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and wrinkles lined her weary face. A dirty shirt swallowed her skeletal frame, a pair of shorts exposing startlingly thin legs. Her mama had always been skinny, but now she was a shell of her former self.
“Haven?”
The sound of her voice was like blistering iron striking Haven’s chest. Her feet frantically carried her to her mama, their bodies colliding as they both fell to the ground. Her mama’s embrace was strong despite her frail body, her hands traveling Haven’s back and hair as she clung to her. “My baby girl! You’re here!”
