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Tax evasion—Vincent admired how Salvatore made manipulation an art.
A throat cleared behind him. He remained still, staring out at the water as Sal approached. “Motion sickness?”
Vincent wished that were his problem. “No, just enjoying the view.”
“It’s nice out here, isn’t it? Peaceful.”
He nodded. Peace wasn’t something he experienced often, and now that he’d been interrupted, he’d lost it again.
Sal clasped him on the shoulder. “Come inside. I’d like to get this over and get back to land.”
Vincent begrudgingly followed Sal, seeing two men sitting on a black leather couch as soon as he stepped into the yacht. One he was well acquainted with—his brother-in-law, Corrado. Corrado was a man of few words, his silence often speaking volumes. Mezza parola, they called it. Half word. He could hold an entire conversation with nothing more than a nod of his head.
A few years older than Vincent, Corrado’s thick, dark hair showed no sign of gray, a slight curl to it that gave him a boyish look. He was sturdy, lightly tanned, and statuesque. Women tended to find him attractive, but he’d never shown interest in any except Celia. Corrado’s mind was always on business.
Family or not, Corrado’s presence put Vincent on edge. It meant something had gone terribly wrong, but the boy beside him hadn’t been around long enough to learn that.
The boy fidgeted, jittery. The doctor in Vincent surmised he was likely on something. Cocaine, he thought, but meth wouldn’t surprise him. He’d witnessed too much to be shocked by anything anymore.
Salvatore looked at the boy. “You’ve been doing things for us for how long now?”
“A year.” Excitement radiated from his words, pride for the work he’d done. He wasn’t much older than Vincent’s children, which meant he’d gotten involved the moment he turned eighteen. Dumb young Turks.
“A year,” Salvatore repeated. “From what your Capo says, you’ve pulled in quite a bit of money for us . . . more so than a lot of the guys working the streets.”
“Yeah, man. Just doin’ my part, ya know? Gotta make that paper.”
From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw Corrado grimace.
“I heard you’ve been asking about more responsibility,” Salvatore said. “You think you have what it takes?”
“Hell yeah,” the boy said. “I’ve been ready since I was born.”
Salvatore pulled out a bottle of scotch, pouring four glasses. Vincent stood back, swirling his in the glass and listening as the boy bragged about the jobs he’d done. Hijackings and robberies, shakedowns and gambles, but never once did he mention where the bulk of his cash came from.
“Drugs,” Vincent interrupted, tired of the charade. “You forgot about the drugs.”
The boy blanched. Even working at such low ranks, he knew Cosa Nostra’s policy: Don’t get caught with drugs. Ever. “What drugs?”
“The ones you’ve been selling out of your house,” Vincent said. “We have an insider who says the police caught wind of the location.”
“I, uh . . . I haven’t . . .”
He didn’t have time to come up with an excuse. Corrado reached into his suit coat and pulled out his gun, pointing it at the back of the boy’s head. Vincent looked away as Corrado pulled the trigger, the silencer muffling the gunfire as the bullet tore through his skull. The room was void of emotion as Corrado returned his gun to his coat, Sal continuing to drink his scotch like it hadn’t happened. Sickness stirred within Vincent the moment he saw the dead kid’s frozen expression of fear. Bolting from the room, he ran to the deck and threw up over the side of the yacht.
Sal joined him, eyeing him strangely, and Vincent sighed. “Motion sickness got me, after all.”
Corrado dragged the body up on deck, wrapping it in a tarp and chains before tossing it overboard. Vincent watched as the boy sank, disappearing into the blackness of the water.
Make that five people on the bottom of the lake.
7
Haven’s head brutally thumped when she opened her eyes the following Saturday. One, two, three seconds passed before sickness rushed through her like a waterfall. Jumping up, she ran for the bathroom and collapsed in front of the toilet just in time.
An hour passed before she was well enough to get back to her feet. Clothes wrinkled and hair disheveled, she made her way downstairs, coming face-to-face on the second floor with Carmine and a girl with wildly colored hair.
She’d seen Carmine a few times the past week but could never tell what he was thinking, his expression curious as he gazed at her. The attention caused her chest to swell with that unknown sensation, one she was still too afraid to confront or name.
