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“Fair enough,” he responded as he pulled back into the parking lot of the club. “You need to learn to control your temper.”
“I’m working on it,” he said, eyeing his uncle suspiciously. He seemed distracted, his eyes darting toward the clock on the dashboard. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere I’m needed,” he said, evading. “Where doesn’t matter. But I have to leave right now to be back in time for the wedding, so you need to get out.”
“Wedding,” Carmine muttered, the word striking him. Sunday was his brother’s wedding.
“Yes, wedding.” Corrado reached over, opening the passenger door and waving his hand dismissively. “Out.”
Carmine got out of the car and slammed the door. He watched as Corrado hit the gas and sped off, tires squealing. His words played through Carmine’s mind, an odd feeling coursing through him. Where doesn’t matter . . .
His head started to pound again, the ache in his chest intensifying, and a sinking feeling hit his stomach as Corrado’s car disappeared from sight.
“Haven.”
* * *
It hadn’t taken Carmine long to make up his mind after Corrado’s car pulled away. The moment his uncle turned onto the road, he reacted on impulse. Sprinting to his car, he unlocked the driver’s side door and slipped inside. Tires squealed as he hit the gas, flying out of the packed parking lot and into traffic within seconds.
The roads weren’t congested at that hour, but Carmine didn’t see his uncle anywhere, so he drove in the direction of their neighborhood hoping he went home first. The moment he pulled onto the street, he saw the Mercedes idling in the driveway.
Carmine parked a few houses down and turned off his headlights to wait. Corrado came outside a minute later with a black duffel bag and glanced around cautiously before getting back into his car. He pulled out of the driveway and sped down the street, and Carmine waited a few seconds before starting on the road. He slipped in behind another car, weaving through traffic in the direction of the airport.
He stayed back as far as possible, making sure there were cars between them so not to raise suspicion. He lost Corrado’s car twice but each time caught back up, having a general idea of where he was going, until he unexpectedly pulled down a side street a few miles into the trip.
Carmine slowed, unsure of what he was doing, but followed his uncle. They drove along a few vacant roads before cutting down an alley, and Carmine slammed the brakes when he turned and nearly rear-ended Corrado’s car.
His heart pounded forcefully when he realized it was a dead-end. Corrado’s driver’s side door hung open, no sign of him anywhere. Before Carmine could shift the car into reverse, his door opened and someone grabbed him. It happened fast, the movement startling him, and the car stalled from his haste. He had enough time to pull the emergency brake, not wanting it to roll, before he was yanked out into the alley and thrown against the side of the car.
“What are you doing?” Corrado asked, pressing the muzzle of his gun underneath Carmine’s chin.
He shook, stunned. “I, uh . . . fuck! I don’t know. I just thought . . .”
“You aren’t paid to think,” Corrado said. “You’re paid to follow orders and I don’t recall telling you to follow me.”
“You didn’t tell me not to, either.”
“What did you say?” The sound of Corrado’s finger releasing the safety of his gun sent a cold chill down Carmine’s spine. “I’m tired of your disrespect.”
“I didn’t mean it! I just . . . had to know. I had to see, Uncle Corrado.”
Corrado froze briefly, not moving or making a sound.
“You think I won’t kill you because you’re Vincent’s child?” he asked, his voice menacingly quiet. “Do you honestly believe I’m that soft?”
ne blanched as Corrado motioned toward the door. He had his coat on, a small flash of silver gleaming from his belt when he moved. Gun.
“What?”
“Just come on.”
Carmine hesitated but followed his uncle out of the club, slipping into the passenger seat of his car as Corrado climbed behind the wheel. He started it up without hesitation, throwing it in gear and speeding from the lot.
“Where are we going?” Carmine asked. Had he done something wrong?
“A few Irish have been hanging out on Clark Street, harassing the owner of the pawn shop on the corner.”
Carmine eyed him peculiarly. “And?”
