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Carmine sighed. “I didn’t know what to say. No sense barging in just to look at you, since you look like shit and all.”
“Considering you’re here now, does that mean you’ve figured it out?”
“No, I just got tired of standing in the hall.”
“Ah, I’m better to look at than the white walls, at least?”
Carmine cracked a smile. “No, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one around here who remembers how to joke.”
“Tale il padre, tale il figlio,” Vincent said, regretting his choice of words the moment they escaped his lips. Carmine’s smile fell, and Vincent knew exactly what he wanted to know. He’d been dreading this day for years.
“When we were in Blackburn, Katrina said something,” Carmine started. “She said just because we were doing the same thing didn’t mean we were the same . . . that Haven wasn’t her. And it’s not only that—there’s other shit, too. So I’m wondering, you know . . .”
“You want to know how I met your mother.”
“The truth.”
The truth. Vincent couldn’t avoid it anymore.
It had been a scorching afternoon as he stood in the yard of the Moretti mansion in Las Vegas. He brought his hand up to block out the blinding sun as he walked around the side of the house, searching for shade. As soon as he turned the corner, he crashed into someone there. Dropping his hand, he blinked rapidly at the girl in front of him. Pale skin glowed in the sunshine, a stark contrast from her fiery red hair. Deep green eyes watched him cautiously as he stared into them in a trance. Her mouth moved, but the words were lost on him. His stomach twisted, his heart unexpectedly gripped in a vice.
Colpo di fulmine. He was done for.
“Is there a problem?” she asked when he pulled her into the shade.
“The only problem is I don’t know your name.”
She smiled. “I’m Maura.”
Maura. Her hair flowed past her shoulders and freckles dotted her nose. She wasn’t Italian—not even close. No Italian he had ever met had eyes that color.
Those eyes . . . Vincent could never get enough of them. And as he looked across the desk at his youngest child, he saw the same eyes watching him suspiciously.
“We met at Celia’s engagement party,” he said, looking away. Sometimes it was still hard for Vincent to take.
“And what was an Irish girl doing at a party for two Italians?”
Vincent wondered the same thing that day.
He and Maura had sat against the side of the house, his legs spread out in front of him as he fanned his sweaty skin. Maura’s knees were pulled up to her chest as she plucked the dry grass around them.
“You’re not hot?” he asked. They had been sitting there for at least an hour.
“No, but you can go inside. The cool air will make you feel better.”
“Will you go with me?”
“No way,” she said. “That wouldn’t be good at all.”
He laughed. “Then I’m not going, either. They haven’t noticed I’m gone, and until they do, I’m staying right where I am.”
“Will they notice you’re gone?”
“No, I doubt they remember I’m alive,” he said. “What about you?”
Before she could answer, her eyes darted past him. Vincent turned around and groaned when he saw Katrina at the corner of the house, watching them.
“Go away, loon,” Vincent said. “I’m not in the mood for you.”
