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Carmine sat alone in a booth in the back of the club, shot glasses scattered along the table in front of him. He could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, diluting his blood stream and hindering the thoughts from flooding his brain. They still came, a slow trickle of memories washing through him, but he found it easier to tolerate in smaller doses like this.
It still hurt, though. It was still a constant reminder of what could have been but wasn’t, and as far as he was concerned, never would be. There were reminders everywhere: in the deep brown of the wooden table that resembled the color of her eyes, in the twinkling of the club lights that made him think of catching fireflies, in the melody of the song playing that sounded vaguely like the one she used to hum.
She was everywhere, yet nowhere, and every second that passed felt like walking away from her all over again. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t forget. The memory of Haven haunted him.
He downed the last shot on the table, closing his eyes as he savored the burn, hoping it would finally be the one to kill the pain.
If someone years before had asked Carmine what life in Chicago would be like, he would have given them some cliché answer about money, power, and respect, but he knew better now. La Cosa Nostra wasn’t about any of that.
As Sal sat comfortably, pointing fingers and calling shots from his twelve-million-dollar mansion while drinking the best scotch money could buy, the men carrying out the jobs were barely scraping by. They were risking their lives for people who just stood by while they struggled, not caring what happened to them as long as they handed over a cut of their take.
It was all about paying tribute. If a group of guys hijacked a shipment, right off the top more than half went into the pockets of the administration. After giving the associates their cut and paying off everyone who looked the other way, each man was left with barely enough to pay their rent.
A taste, they called it. Everyone always wanted a taste. They claimed, as a family, that they all worked as one. They said it was a matter of respect. They said it was the honorable thing to do.
As far as Carmine was concerned, it was utter bullshit.
Where was the respect in being summoned out of bed at three in the morning to watch a man get his head bashed in because he borrowed money he couldn’t pay back? Where was the respect in burning some man’s house down, taking away everything he had worked for his entire life, because he gave the Boss a look he didn’t appreciate? Where was the respect in intimidating a seventeen-year-old girl and threatening to kill everyone she loved because she witnessed something she shouldn’t have seen?
Assault, extortion, hijacking, kidnapping, robbery, bribery, gambling, chop shops, prostitution, corruption, arson, coercion, fraud, bootlegging, human trafficking, and murder . . . where was the respect in any of it?
He sure didn’t fucking see it.
“Bad night, man?”
Carmine glanced over as Remy slid into the booth across from him. “You could say that.”
Remy motioned for the waitress and asked her for a rum and Coke, taking it upon himself to order Carmine another shot of vodka.
“I figured,” Remy said. “You got that look about you tonight, that ‘I’ve seen shit that can’t be unseen’ look.”
Carmine pushed the empty glass aside with the others. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try to forget.”
“True, but you’re doing it the wrong way. Alcohol is a downer. As if this all isn’t depressing enough, hitting the bottle just drags you further down. You go from being a moody bitch to a miserable cunt, and nobody likes a miserable cunt, DeMarco. Not even me, and I love everybody.”
Carmine managed a small laugh at that. “It numbs me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it probably numbs you enough that you won’t feel the concrete shattering your bones when your depressed ass leaps off the top of Sears Tower,” he said. “But you should never jump unless you know you can fly, or at least float. Nobody wants to fall. That’s how you end up hurt.”
Carmine stared at Remy as he tried to make sense of his words. He wasn’t sure if he was just too damn drunk or if the man intentionally talked in code. “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or if you’re just a fucking rambling idiot.”
“Why can’t I be both?”
Carmine shrugged. Maybe he was.
“Anyway, you wanna know how you really unsee?” Remy asked. “How you really forget?”
“How?”
“Instead of dragging yourself down more, lift yourself up. You don’t wanna be numb, man. You wanna be happy.”
Carmine shook his head. Happy. He remembered a time he felt that way. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong.” A sly smile turned Remy’s lips. He leaned across the table, closer to Carmine, and whispered conspiratorially, “I think it’s time I introduced you to Miss Molly.”
“Molly?”
Remy nodded. “She’s beautiful. Just one night with her will change your life.”
