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“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.
“Look, Corrado was clinically dead. The human body is resilient, but the brain is vulnerable. It’s rare for someone to make a full recovery if they’re down for more than three minutes.”
“How long was Corrado down?”
“Four.”
Carmine seemed speechless, his mouth open but no words coming out.
“I’m not saying he won’t be fine,” Vincent continued, not wanting to alarm his son, but he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t sugarcoat it. “I’m just saying it’s too soon to tell. There’s no way to say what type of long-term effects Corrado will endure.”
“You mean like brain damage?”
“Yes, but not just that.” Vincent absentmindedly fumbled with the case file on his desk again. “Death has a way of changing people, son. When faced with our own mortality, we tend to start seeing the world differently. What once mattered may not be a priority anymore, and that’s not always easy for others to accept. We rejoice when people are saved, when lives are spared, but sometimes you have to stop and think, At what cost? Are we just prolonging the inevitable? Are we intervening when we have no right? Are we tampering with fate? We want them to live, but we have to consider that maybe they’re better off . . . not.”
It wasn’t until Vincent looked over at his son that he realized he had said too much. Carmine’s eyes were wide yet guarded, his mouth once again agape.
“I’m just rambling,” Vincent said, backtracking. “I’m exhausted and stressed and don’t know what I’m saying. Your uncle is going to be perfectly fine, Carmine. He defied medicine by even waking up, so there’s no reason to believe he won’t continue to do so. After all, according to the media, the man’s made of Kevlar.”
“I’ve heard,” Carmine said. “Mom tried to keep us from it all, but Dom and I used to see the newspaper headlines in Chicago. Corrado Moretti, the Kevlar Killer . . . arrested dozens of times but never convicted for any of his crimes.”
“Alleged crimes,” Vincent said. “I lost count on how many times he’s walked away from things that should’ve taken him down.”
“That’s a good thing,” Carmine said. “Since he has a record of beating charges, the two of you will probably get off of this RICO shit. Problem solved.”
“It’s a nice thought, but there’s a problem with that theory,” Vincent said. “The prosecution filed to have our cases tried separately, so I think I’m on my own.”
Carmine started to respond, but a voice stopped him before he could even get two words out. Vincent stiffened as he glanced past his son, seeing Corrado in the doorway to the office.
