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“Of course I was,” he muttered, dropping his head and running his hand through his hair. He spotted the cop’s business card in a ball on the floor and snatched it up, frowning. “It’s just hectic here. I didn’t hear my phone.”
“Ah, well, I’m just calling to see how your holiday’s going. I assume Corrado has arrived, but I can’t get him to answer a phone, either.”
Carmine’s brow furrowed. A social call? “Yeah, he’s here. I think he’s asleep.”
“Makes sense,” Sal said. “He’s still recuperating, so I’m sure he needs his rest. It hasn’t been the same without him. It’ll be wonderful to have both of you on the job after Christmas.”
The color drained from Carmine’s face. “Excuse me?”
“Corrado didn’t tell you yet?” Sal asked. “I’ve requested he bring you back with him. I’ve been more than accommodating with your, uh, situation, but it’s time you build your life here. Chicago’s your home now. It was always supposed to be.”
“But it’s only been—”
“It’s been a month,” he said pointedly. “There’s nothing left there for you.”
Carmine knew there was no arguing with Salvatore. He had made his decision and nothing would change his mind. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Sal said. “I look forward to having you close by, Principe. Tell Corrado to call me when he wakes up. Buon Natale.”
Carmine hung up and glanced out of the room, wondering how much Haven had heard, and frowned when he saw the deserted foyer.
She hadn’t waited for him, after all.
* * *
“Is he okay?”
Vincent looked up from the papers on his desk, peering through his reading glasses at his son. Carmine strolled into the office, throwing himself down in the leather chair across from him. He slouched, his body language one of nonchalance, but Vincent could see the genuine concern in his eyes. “Your uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s, uh . . . he’s still recovering,” Vincent said. “He’s only been conscious for a few weeks. He shouldn’t even be traveling yet.”
“But will he be okay?”
“You heard your aunt Celia. She said he’d—”
Carmine cut him off. “I know what she said, but I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.”
Vincent set the files down and leaned back in his chair. He removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes while his son quietly awaited a response. Carmine rolled a small ball of paper in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand.
oud bang of a gunshot ringing out in the distance. A piercing scream cutting through the air. Nicholas dropping to his knees and clutching his chest as he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. There was nothing but strangled silence. He was gone within a matter of seconds.
Dead.
Fucking dead.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” the detective said when Carmine didn’t respond. “May I come in?”
Carmine shook his head, barely able to get out the words. “Go away.”
Before he could slam the door in the man’s face, Vincent’s voice rang out behind him. “Let him in, son.”
Carmine turned to see his father standing on the stairs. He had to have heard wrong. Vincent DeMarco would never willingly invite law enforcement into his home. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Vincent descended the last few steps into the foyer. “Let him ask his questions.”
“No way,” Carmine spat. He was about to ask his father if he had lost his mind when his brother interrupted.
