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Father Alberto made the sign of the cross before he spoke, his Sicilian accent still present even though he had lived in America for decades. “What sins have you committed, my child?”
Since his last confession, Vincent had lied, stolen, and been an accessory to murder in the name of la famiglia, but one sin weighed heavily on his mind. “I hurt someone . . . a girl.”
“Did you intend to cause the girl harm?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you remorseful?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Have you told her of your regret?”
He ran his hands down his face in frustration. “No.”
Father Alberto was quiet for a moment. “Was it her?”
Vincent needn’t answer. They both knew it was . . . and they both knew it wasn’t the first time.
“I was angry,” Vincent said. “The pain that morning was the worst it’s been in years. I wanted someone else to hurt for once. I wanted someone else to feel what I felt. I had to get it out of me before I exploded. I needed to feel better.”
“And did you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m still angry—so angry, Father—but on top of it, now I’m ashamed. I want to stop feeling this way, but I don’t know how to make it go away.”
“Ah, but I think you do,” Father Alberto said. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Release, and ye shall be released.”
“Luke 6:37.” Vincent recognized the Scripture. “But what if I can’t stop? What if I can’t let go? What if I can’t forgive?”
“But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
“Matthew 6:15.”
Father Alberto smiled. “Your hate is poison, Vincenzo. It eats you from the inside out. You must find it in your heart to let go. Then, and only then, will you be forgiven.”
11
Haven stared at the alarm clock as the numbers rolled past midnight. Her broken hours of slumber had been interrupted by nightmares for days, and the thought of closing her eyes terrified her. She desperately wanted some peace, but she’d only been offered deafening silence.
miled when she realized it was a joke.
“Ah, a smile!” he said, playfully squeezing her arm.
Haven’s smile fell when he touched her, but he didn’t seem to notice.
* * *
Murderous rage shook Carmine. He’d been looking for Haven, seeking her out in the crowd, but his vision narrowed in on Nicholas Barlow instead. Carmine’s feet moved on their own as he dropped his helmet on the field, running as fast as his fatigued legs would carry him. Shouts rang out as someone chased behind, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.
He leaped over the chain-link fence and landed on his feet as Nicholas and Haven heard the commotion. Confusion played in Haven’s expression, while Nicholas narrowed his eyes.
For as much as Carmine didn’t like the boy—and Carmine fucking despised him—Nicholas hated Carmine, too.
Nicholas backed up a few steps, but it was too late. Carmine rammed into him, tackling him to the ground. His knee landed in Nicholas’s crotch and he drew back his fist to punch him, but someone snatched the back of his jersey before he could, yanking Carmine to his feet.
Vincent jumped between them, shoving his son farther away.
Nicholas looked shell-shocked as he got to his feet, hesitating for a fraction of a second before running off. Carmine would have laughed at his cowardice if it weren’t for the look on his father’s face. “Do you know what I went through to get you out of trouble last year?” Vincent asked, fuming. “I’m not going to do it again!”
