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Celia let out a frustrated groan as she reached for the switch on the wall. The bright light was harsh and Carmine squinted, trying to shield his eyes. “Christ, is that necessary?”
“Necessary?” Celia’s voice was laced with bitterness and disbelief. “It’s called electricity, Carmine. It’s a part of civilization. Of course it’s necessary! But honestly, I’m surprised the lights work around here. The telephone certainly doesn’t seem to.”
Carmine sighed but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t in the mood to argue.
“Look at this place,” she said, crinkling her nose. “It’s disgusting! It reeks!”
Again, Carmine said nothing. He watched as his aunt started tearing apart the kitchen, throwing away trash and gathering dirty dishes. His feet stayed planted in one spot as she cleaned, muttering under her breath in frustration.
After the kitchen was decent, she turned to him with a glare. “I can’t believe you have nothing to say. When did you stop caring?”
“Is that what I did?” he asked quietly. “Stopped caring?”
“That’s how it seems.”
He stared back at her. The ache in his chest, dull when he had woken up, grew stronger as they stood there. “I wish that were true.”
She scoffed, but the sound of a cell phone going off in another part of the house silenced her. Carmine pushed past her and strolled to the living room, snatching it off the couch cushion where it lay.
“So the phone does work,” Celia said. “I’m shocked.”
“Not now.” Carmine shook his head. “Just . . . not now.”
“Is the whole house destroyed?” she continued, ignoring him. “If the downstairs in this bad, I’d hate to see upstairs. Do you at least have clean clothes? Are you doing laundry? Are you bathing?”
“Of course I am,” he snapped, unable to take her questioning on top of everything else. “Why don’t you go nag someone else? I’ve had more than enough of you interrogating me.”
“I’m not interrogating you,” she replied. “It’s just that this place is a disaster! It feels like an oven in here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to pick up after yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Too busy to open a window?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him, not satisfied with his answers. “What’s really going on, Carmine? What’s happening with you?”
He laughed dryly. “I have things to do, Celia. I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine,” she conceded. “This conversation isn’t over, though.”
After Celia left, Carmine threw on a shirt and shoes before heading back into the kitchen. He glanced in the freezer, frowning when he saw it was empty—no food, not even any ice, and more importantly, no vodka. He entertained the thought of stopping by the store to grab a bottle when his phone beeped, reminding him he had an unread message.
Hit Sycamore Circle tonight.
Carmine stared at it with dread. Sycamore Circle was in the north side of the city, an area he knew vaguely but only by name because it was well-known Irish territory. La Cosa Nostra respected the boundaries in Chicago, imaginary or not.
Carmine grabbed his gun before heading out of the house. He hopped in his car and started on the road to the north side of the city when his phone rang, Remy calling and telling him to pick him up along the way. Carmine detoured a few blocks to Remy’s house, honking the horn as he pulled into the driveway of the modest sky-blue house with the large porch and flimsy chain-link fence. A pit bull puppy ran in circles in the grass, yapping frantically at the intruding car.
Remy came out right away, flying off the porch and leaping over the fence before stealthily sliding into the passenger seat. The smell of marijuana lingered on his skin and clothes, the man’s eyes completely bloodshot.
“Man, this is crazy,” Remy said, relaxing into the seat as Carmine pulled away from the house. “Irish ‘hood? Shit’s about to get real.”
Carmine sighed. “Let’s hope not.”
