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Images flashed in his mind at those words, and he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his side. He got lost in the memory until a rumbling sound brought him back to reality. He looked at Haven, realizing it was her stomach. “Do you ever eat?”
She nodded. “Every night.”
“Really? You never eat with us.”
She hesitated. “Master Michael said someone like me shouldn’t sleep in the same house as someone like you, much less sit at the same dinner table.”
“Christ, they did a job on you. Were you always with Michael?”
“He was always around, but he didn’t become my master until his parents died.”
“Were his parents just as bad?”
“Frankie scared me, but he didn’t hit much, and Miss Monica sometimes played with me when I was young. Michael ignored me at first, but it got worse when my mistress realized that he, uh . . .”
“He what?”
“He made me.”
Carmine’s eyes widened. “Michael’s your father?”
She picked at her fingernails, ashamed. “He didn’t mean to be.”
8
For the first time since coming to Durante, there hadn’t been any music last night.
Right away, Haven could feel something wasn’t right, that she was intruding on a moment and seeing something she wasn’t supposed to see. Something sacred. Something intimate.
But she couldn’t look away.
Restless and exhausted, she had been too anxious to sleep. She rose from her bed and found Carmine in a trance in the family room. A faint glow of moonlight from the window illuminated the silent room as he sat at the piano, slumped forward and staring down at the keys.
Carmine laced his fingers through his hair as he dropped his head down, a strangled cry echoing through the room. Holding her breath, her chest constricting, Haven took a step back and treaded lightly upstairs, relieved when she reached her room undetected.
Confusion nagged at her. She didn’t know what she felt for Carmine, but seeing him in pain upset her. Her alarm grew at that realization, her heart hammering in her chest. Vulnerability would do nothing but get her hurt.
Only when Haven heard Carmine come upstairs did she gather the courage to venture back down. She made breakfast as a distraction, finishing the food when Carmine appeared. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the jug of orange juice, brushing past her to get a glass.
“Smells good,” he said quietly, no spark to his words, none of that passion Haven was used to hearing. Haven fought the urge to try to smooth away the heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes.
As the boys ate, Haven figured out how to make coffee, knowing Dr. DeMarco drank it every morning. It was brewing when he walked in, his footsteps faltering a foot away. He stared at the pot before turning to her, his tone accusatory. “You made my coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“I’ll be home today,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency.”
He stalked out without pouring any coffee.
* * *
Besides a load of Dr. DeMarco’s laundry, there wasn’t much work to be done that day. By noon, Haven had finished and lugged his clothes upstairs. Dr. DeMarco left his door open the days he wanted her to clean since he hadn’t given her the codes to open any doors.
She pulled the hamper inside the room and opened a dresser drawer, her movements halting when she saw his shiny silver gun lying on top, across the clothes. She grabbed it by the handle, using both hands, to move it out of her way as her stomach churned. It was heavier than she expected.
The sound of a door latching captured her attention, and her head snapped in the direction of the noise. Dr. DeMarco stood just inside the room, having shut them in together. Intense fear ripped through her at his expression. His face was his usual mask of serene, but his eyes glowed with rage.
She dropped the gun as a reflex, and it landed on top of the dresser with a thump. The fire in Dr. DeMarco’s eyes sparked more at the sound. He reached behind him, so careful and deliberate it was almost slow motion when he grabbed the deadbolt and turned it smoothly.
