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Vincent pressed a few buttons on the computer and the screen changed to a view of the library. He spotted the girl, curled up in the chair by the window with a book on her lap. It was the same place she had been every night while his son paced—sitting in the darkness and staring out into the yard. She withdrew further and further as time went on, but Vincent was too exhausted to mediate.
He was in deep with la famiglia. He lied, cheated, plundered, and slaughtered for them, but one thing he had prided himself on was his loyalty. He may have been a criminal, but at least he could think himself an honorable one. That had fallen to the wayside as of late, and they weren’t ignorant to his behavior. They made that obvious during their recent visit. Every one of them was trained to spot deception . . . and Vincent was weary of being dishonest.
Maura had once told him that while not everyone lived, everyone did die, and with death came release. Death meant freedom—freedom from the things that hold us back. Vincent used to tease her when she said such things, but he understood now. He understood what it was like to wish you could find peace, but you couldn’t because your work wasn’t done. You hadn’t served your purpose, and until you did, you were damned to keep going. Vincent envied those who could rest in peace. What he wouldn’t give to have the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
He switched cameras once more and went back to the hallway. Carmine still paced, his eyes darting between the office and the stairs to the third floor. Vincent glanced at the time: after eleven in the evening. Carmine usually made his decision before now and stomped up the stairs. The girl would scurry out of the library, darting to her bedroom before he made it there.
Tonight things changed, though. When Carmine headed toward the office door, Vincent felt nothing but relief. Judgment Day had come. One step closer to peace.
The knob turned and Carmine stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. Vincent refrained from chastising him for not knocking, thankful he had actually made it inside. “Sit down,” he said, switching the view back to the library.
Carmine flopped down in the chair with a huff. Vincent met his gaze, seeing the curiosity and confusion. Resentment lurked underneath, but Vincent couldn’t blame him.
“You look like you haven’t fucking slept in years,” Carmine said. “And Christ, have you eaten?”
Vincent leaned back in his chair. “You want to discuss my health, Carmine?”
His expression was sober. “Yeah, you look fucked up.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment, but something tells me you haven’t spent the past week loitering outside my office gathering the courage to hold an intervention.”
“How . . . ?” Carmine paused. “You’ve been watching the cameras.”
“Yes,” he said, “and I was beginning to wonder if you ever planned to come in.”
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.
