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He passed out eventually and awoke the next morning, his head pounding viciously. Throwing on his sunglasses, he drove home doing the speed limit, not wanting to get pulled over since alcohol likely still coursed through his veins. He was sure his father would be about as thrilled to post bail in the middle of the afternoon as the cops would be about the loaded Colt .45 pistol concealed under his driver’s seat.
When Carmine walked into the house, he found Haven asleep on the couch in the family room, and something twisted inside of him at the sight of her. She had goose bumps on her arms so he grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully covered her before going upstairs to shower.
He grabbed some crackers from the kitchen to put something in his stomach and headed back toward the family room when Haven called his name. He ran his hand through his damp hair as their eyes met. She looked at him imploringly, and it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse.
He took a seat beside her. “You feeling better today?”
“Yes,” she said, shifting a few inches away from him. “Dr. DeMarco said it was a stomach virus. I might be contagious, though, so you should keep your distance.”
“I’m not worried about it,” Carmine said. “If you give it to me, I’ll get a few days off school.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school now?”
“Yeah, but I’m not really known for doing what I’m supposed to do.”
She smiled. “Rebel.”
It surprised him how relaxed things were between them. He expected tension. Haven was quiet for a bit, her gaze drifting to his bare chest. Carmine realized she was staring at his tattoo. “Time heals all wounds.”
Her eyes shot to his. “What?”
“My tattoo. ‘Il tempo guarisce tutti i mali.’ Time heals all wounds.”
vasion—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.
