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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?”
“I don’t know exactly where, but she’s in New York somewhere.”
A smile tugged the corner of his lips. She went to New York like they had talked about. “The point is, I’ve learned it’s senseless to wonder. I did what I did, you did what you did, and we are where we are. We just gotta do what we gotta do.”
“You know, you mask it with the alcohol and profanity, but you’ve grown up quite a bit this past year.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think Corrado would agree with you,” Carmine said. “He threatens me at least once a week. I’m just waiting for the day he catches laryngitis and can’t say, ‘I’ll kill you,’ so he just does it instead.”
Vincent laughed, shaking his head. “He’s threatened to kill me before. I’ve threatened to kill plenty of people, too, like Haven. It’s how we’re taught to control people, so it becomes second nature. Most of the men we deal with fear nothing except death.”
“You know, it’s fucked up how nonchalant you are talking about killing the girl I love.”
“You still love her?” he asked curiously.
Carmine nodded. “I think I always will. Regardless of all this bullshit, she’ll always be my hummingbird.”
“Hummingbird,” Vincent echoed. “Why do you call her that?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Kinda just came out one day and stuck.”
“Your mother would’ve loved that nickname.” Vincent smiled to himself. “I haven’t seen any in ages, but in the summertime hummingbirds used to swarm the tree in the backyard. Maura loved them; the way they could hover and fly backward and never tire. She was convinced the souls of the pure and innocent lived inside of them, and that’s why they defied nature.”
Before Carmine could respond, his phone chimed. He tensed when he saw the familiar message:
The docks, Third and Wilson.
Carmine slipped the phone back away. “Guess I gotta go.”
Vincent nodded as he lit another cigarette, not appearing surprised, and made no move to get up.
“You wanna go inside?” Carmine offered. “It’s still your house.”
“No, I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes and then be on my way.”
“Okay, then.” Carmine started walking away. “I’ll see you later.”
“Carmine?” Vincent called out.
