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A bark of laughter sounded through the room, and it took Vincent a second to realize it had come from him. “Uh, my mother . . .” He laughed again. “Let’s just say she has her beliefs. A slave was bad enough. An Irish slave was worthy of disownment.”
“So she was Irish? That part’s true?”
“Yes. Her father fell into some trouble with the Irish mob. They snatched Maura as collateral when she was six.”
“She was kidnapped? Didn’t people look for her?”
“Of course they looked for her, but more than two thousand kids go missing in this country every day. Your mother disappeared before the Internet or any agencies for missing children existed, and certainly before there were things like Amber Alerts. All they had was word of mouth, and once everyone stopped talking about her, it was like she’d never existed.”
“But what about her parents?”
“They were killed,” he said. “Maura was sold a few times and ended up with Erika Moretti.”
“Who freed Mom? Who vouched for her?”
“I suppose you could say I did. Your grandfather said if I wanted something in life, it was my responsibility to earn it. So I initiated, and I’m still paying for it today.” He paused. “Is that all you want to know? Because I’m exhausted and don’t have the energy for this conversation anymore.”
Carmine nodded, although Vincent could tell he wanted to know much more.
“I’ll talk to your brother, but whether or not you tell the girl is up to you.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “She has enough on her mind.”
“I imagine she does,” Vincent said, glancing at the computer to see she still hadn’t moved. “Her mother’s life ended as hers began. Speaking of which . . .” Opening the right bottom desk drawer, he grabbed some files and held them out to Carmine. “Here’s the girl’s paperwork. It’ll take a while before the estate is settled, but no one will contest her inheritance. Technically it all goes to Corrado, anyway, but he’ll hand it over to her once it comes through . . . along with her freedom, of course.”
“That’s the best gift anyone could give her.”
“It’s not a gift, Carmine. It’s what she’s been entitled to all along.”
* * *
Rain splattered the window as it fell from the clouds hovering above. There was no sign of the moon or any stars tonight, nothing but blackness. Ominous, but fitting . . . it was how Haven felt on the inside.
Empty.
She might have been taking oxygen into her lungs as her heart pushed blood through her body, but a part of her had stopped existing. It had been a slow, torturous death, agonizingly painful as she withered away from the knowledge it had been her fault.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Haven strained her eyes to make out the numbers. There was enough light for her to see the little hand past midnight, another day having begun.
September 10.
She watched the rain for a while longer before a shadow moved. Carmine stood a few feet away, watching her. “I think we should go to bed.”
Grabbing the book in her lap, she set it on the table and hurried to the room before he could say anything else. Carmine followed her and shut the door, pulling her body close to his when he climbed into bed.
“Buon compleanno, mia bella ragazza,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
43
Haven gazed across the room with blurry, tired eyes, seeing Carmine near the doorway, holding a small plate with a cinnamon bun on it. A single blue candle stuck out from the top. Haven could smell the fresh pastry, the subtle scent of something burned told her who had made them.
“You baked?” she asked, stunned.
Carmine looked sheepish. “I wasn’t gonna attempt a cake. These damn things were hard enough. It took me forever to figure out how to open the canister. I had to call Dia and ask.”
Haven smiled as he approached, her chest swelling with love to the point it was painful. Despite everything, he was still her world, her one and only. Part of her may have felt dead, but there was still another part of her that lived for Carmine.
“That’s sweet,” she said, taking the plate. “You didn’t have to. I told you—”
