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“I bet Carmine’s relieved.”
“He doesn’t know,” Vincent said. “He was at Sal’s.”
Celia cringed. “How did you explain that to her?”
“I didn’t. It’s time for Carmine to handle things on his own. Time for him to be a man.”
“You sound like Dad,” Celia said.
It was Vincent’s turn to cringe, but he kept his opinion to himself. “It’s after seven. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I already slept.”
Stubborn woman. “Dozing in a chair doesn’t count. If you keep it up, you’ll end up in a bed on the floor below, committed for exhaustion.”
Celia climbed to her feet and pressed a kiss on Corrado’s forehead. “I’ll go home when he can.”
Vincent’s chest constricted as he watched his sister care for her husband, lovingly smoothing his hair and fixing his hospital gown. “What if that doesn’t happen?”
Celia’s shoulders stiffened. “Don’t say that.”
“You have to consider the possibility.”
Anger flared in her dark eyes. “He’ll wake up.”
“Yes, but . . . what if he doesn’t? Corrado wouldn’t want to be lying in a bed like this.”
“He’d want to live, and he will. He’s getting stronger every day.”
His sister sounded certain, but Vincent knew too much to succumb to her hopeful words. “The longer he’s unconscious, the less likely it is he’ll—”
“I know,” Celia said, cutting him off. “I’ve heard the doctors, but they don’t know Corrado like I do. He’ll come out of this.”
“What makes you sure?”
“Because he told me he would. When he left the house, he said he’d come back to me. Corrado has never broken his word.”
* * *
Haven awoke again to a bright room, squinting from the harsh light filtering in the window. She groaned as she turned away from the sunlight, her hand coming into contact with a body in bed beside her. Carmine was asleep, his chest rising and falling at a steady pace, his right arm wrapped from his fingers up past his elbow with an elastic bandage.
do dropped his gun to the floor. “I did. Death is a lot more humane than what would’ve happened had he still been breathing when Salvatore arrived.”
* * *
All Haven could see were fireworks.
Flashes of light broke through in the darkness, loud bangs ringing out in the distance. She didn’t know what was real anymore, where she was or what was happening, but one thing she was sure about was the fireworks. It reminded her of the day Carmine had taken her to the party. She could still feel him, and a million butterflies invaded her system, leaving her weakened and dizzy.
“Just fireworks, tesoro. Nothing to be afraid of,” he had said. “They won’t hurt you.”
She believed that as she lay there, just as she had the day he first spoke those words. She felt no fear and believed they couldn’t harm her. Nothing would. Carmine would come for her, and he would save her, because that was what they did for each other. Although she was drowning, slipping further away, she knew she would be fine as long as she didn’t give in.
They couldn’t have her spirit. She wouldn’t let them win.
So as she lay in the darkness, listening to the fireworks, she fought to hold on with what little strength she had left.
The fireworks faded, the moment lost, but his faint voice continued to register with her ears. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up as her skin tingled, the sensation so real she could smell his cologne. It drew her closer to the surface as it swirled all around. She wondered if it was a mirage, like a thirsty man in the midst of a hot, dry desert who saw a lake that wasn’t there. Was she so desperate for him to come that her senses tricked her into believing he had?
