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“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.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Katrina spat.
Maura jumped to her feet, looking away as she trembled. “Sorry, Mistress.”
Mistress. The moment she said it, he knew the truth.
“Well?” Carmine asked impatiently, pulling Vincent from his thoughts. “Why was she there?”
“She was the help.”
“The help?” Carmine’s tone was clipped. “Like a maid? Was she a waitress? Because the two of you were fifteen, and that’s not old enough to be employed. Not like you people follow laws or anything . . .”
Vincent sighed. “She wasn’t paid.”
Carmine sprung forward, raising his voice. “It’s true? Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Carmine shoved the front of the desk as he stood, thrusting it into Vincent. He grabbed the laptop before it hit the floor as his son rambled. “How could I have been so fucking stupid? Never would I have imagined she had been . . . you’d have . . . Christ!”
Vincent shifted his desk back into place. “You can say the word.”
“I know,” he snapped, “but can you?”
“Of course. It’s just a word.”
“Then say it. Drop the ‘she was the help’ bullshit and say it.”
“Slave,” Vincent said. “Trafficking victim. Call it what you will, it’s all the same.”
Carmine’s anger flared. “And the Morettis had her? Is that why Corrado says he owes her?”
“You’d have to ask him. That’s not my story to tell.”
