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His beautiful wife—he wanted to take her anxiety away.
“I’m hurt,” he teased, running the back of his large hand along her warm cheek. “My wife doesn’t worry about me? I must be doing something wrong.”
He leaned down for a kiss, hoping her soft lips would help erase the brutal memories of the day, but she pulled away with a dramatic sigh.
“I’m serious, Corrado. I know you can take care of yourself.”
Celia grew quiet, her frown only deepening. Corrado knew there was so much more she wanted to say.
“But?” he asked. “I know you’re not finished.”
“But Carmine’s a different story.”
Corrado exhaled exasperatedly. He should have known. “Not again, Celia. Please.”
“He’s new to all of this,” she said, ignoring his pleas. “I worry about him.”
“He’ll figure it out,” Corrado said. “He has no choice.”
“I know, but he’s hurting,” she continued. “You should’ve seen him tonight.”
Corrado shook his head. “It’s not my problem.”
“Not your problem? You’re his Capo!”
“And I make sure he does what he needs to in the business,” Corrado said. “His personal life is none of my concern.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Corrado said, cutting her off. “I have my own issues to deal with right now. You know that.”
ne drank every night as the heartache lingered, sometimes consuming so much that he blacked out. His days were full of agony, his nights no better as he relived everything in his dreams. The only time he escaped was when he got lost in the blackness. Every night as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed that if he did wake up, he would finally forget everything. He just wanted to fucking forget.
It never worked, though. Every morning he would awaken and feel even worse than the night before, the cycle starting all over again. He was spiraling out of control, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter what happened to him anymore . . . all he wanted was some peace, no matter the cost.
He went out almost every night to Luna Rossa with Remy, the loud music and crowds distracting him from his thoughts long enough for the alcohol to take hold. He met others, some that might have been good friends under other circumstances, but none of them could get past that wall he had built. And seeing Remy with his girlfriend, a thin redhead with blue-green eyes, didn’t help Carmine ward off his grief. It reminded him of what he had lost, what he had left, what he needed, but what he could no longer have.
Carmine kept it together in public, playing that part expected of him, but when he was alone the crack in his façade deepened.
It was early evening when Carmine staggered out of his bedroom, bare chested with his baggy jeans hanging loosely from his hips. He tightened his belt, moving it down another notch, as he made his way downstairs. He stepped over some clothes laying in the hallway as he headed to the kitchen. The air-conditioner wasn’t working, the house stifling and air hazy. It burned his chest to take a deep breath, his head pounding as he poured sweat.
His stomach growled loudly, pangs of hunger striking his sides. Opening the fridge door, he pulled out a carton of leftover Chinese food. He eyed it suspiciously, trying to remember when he had ordered it, before shrugging it off and grabbing a fork.
He grabbed a stack of mail from the counter as he ate and sorted through it: bills, notices, junk, shit that wasn’t even addressed to him. He picked up a cream-colored envelope, seeing his name written neatly in cursive on the front. Tearing it open, he pulled out the card, reading the gold inscription on the front.
Dominic DeMarco and Tess Harper request the honor of your presence at their wedding on October 27 . . .
There was a knock on the front door, fierce pounding that echoed through the silent house. Carmine didn’t bother to investigate. Instead, he leaned against the counter as he stared at the invitation, hardly tasting the cold noodles he forced down. A wedding. His brother was getting married.
The pounding continued, harder and louder, before the front door thrust open. Sunlight streamed through the foyer briefly and then the door slammed.
“Carmine?” Celia shouted.
“In here,” he mumbled, his mouth full of food. Footsteps veered in the direction of the kitchen, Celia appearing in the doorway within a matter of seconds.
She paused, staring at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Eating.” He held out the carton. “Want some?”
