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Dominic got up to go after his wife and Carmine sat there for a moment, finishing his drink alone as reality crept back in, ruining his brief moment of contentment. He left the wedding hall, not bothering to say good-bye to anyone, and took the long way home. He strolled down the street to his house, slowing as he spotted his father sitting on the bottom step. His brow furrowed as he drew near, seeing the lit cigarette between his fingers. “When the fuck did you start smoking?”
Vincent shrugged, flicking his ashes on the concrete. “When did you?” he countered, pointing at some old cigarette butts littering the yard.
“They’re not mine,” he replied. “Most of them, anyway. Remy smokes.”
“Ah.” Vincent pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed one to Carmine along with a lighter.
He lit it, taking a drag as he stared at his father. “It’s kinda fucked up to be smoking with you, a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor anymore.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Can’t have a suspected member of La Cosa Nostra wielding scalpels.”
Carmine felt guilty for bringing it up. “Sorry.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Did you just apologize to me?”
“Maybe.”
Vincent smiled. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too. It doesn’t really matter, though—not anymore. It is what it is.”
“Can you get reinstated after the trial? Go back to practicing medicine?”
He cut his eyes at Carmine incredulously, not bothering to entertain the question. “I actually started smoking after your mother died. I drank, too. A lot. That’s the biggest reason I couldn’t face you kids for almost a year. I know you blamed yourself, and it was difficult to see you, but I didn’t want you to see me, either.”
“What changed?” Carmine asked curiously. It was something he had always wanted to know, but a question he had been too damn self-absorbed to ask. “What made you pull yourself together?”
Vincent took a long drag. “I tried to murder Haven.”
That response made Carmine choke on a puff of smoke. “What?”
“The night I killed the Antonellis, I tried to kill her, too. My gun jammed and she slept right through it. But I realized that night your mother would have been disgusted. I wasn’t doing her memory any justice. So I pulled myself together before anyone else got hurt.”
Carmine tossed his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. He wasn’t sure whether it was the smoke or his father’s admission, but his chest suddenly ached. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the flask and took a drink, trying to dull the pain. Vincent watched him curiously so he held it out to him, offering his father some. He hesitated but threw his cigarette down and took it. He grimaced from the hot liquid, but it didn’t stop him from taking a second swig.
“I’ve failed you a lot, withheld when I should’ve been honest, and it’s to the point where all I have left to give is the truth,” Vincent said quietly. He looked like a broken man, utterly defeated. “I remember the face of every person I’ve killed. I see them everywhere I go, and I know they aren’t there, but the memory of what they looked like in their final moment lingers. The fear, the anger, the heartbreak—it follows me everywhere. I remember the way your mother looked, too. The way she looked when I saw her that night in the alley.”
“So do I,” Carmine said. “I remember the sound of her screams.”
Vincent looked at Carmine curiously, apprehension in his eyes. He had never talked to him about that night, the memory too painful to verbalize. The only person he had told was Haven, but standing there with his father and taking in his broken expression, it felt necessary.
Sighing, Carmine closed his eyes as he sat beside him on the step, running his hand through his hair nervously as he recalled detail by detail what happened that fateful night. From the moment they stepped out of the piano recital to waking up in the hospital, every ounce of pain came out through his words.
“I can’t remember what they looked like, though,” Carmine said. “I’ve tried to imagine the killers hundreds of times, but it’s a blur. The man with the gun, I don’t think he ever looked at me, and the other, his face is always fucking distorted.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Shut her up! Do it quick! That’s it.”
Vincent sat quietly and took it all in, his head bowed. “You almost bled to death. I was so angry at her that night, and the whole time she was dead and you were lying behind a Dumpster.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Carmine said. “The only people to blame are the motherfuckers with the guns in the alley that night.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right. I sometimes wonder if I could’ve stopped it, though.”
“Yeah, well, Mom would tell you that’s fucking bullshit,” Carmine said, earning an amused look from his father. “Well, not in those words, but you know what I mean. Like you said a bit ago, it is what it is. I mean, often this past year I’ve wondered if we could’ve saved Haven a different way, so I could be with her wherever she is . . .”
“New York,” Vincent said as he trailed off.
Carmine eyed him curiously. “New York?”
