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Carmine looked back, seeing the serious expression on his face. “Yeah?”
“I love you, son,” he said quietly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “I don’t think I’ve told you that since you were eight, but I do.”
“I love you, too,” Carmine replied, his father’s words putting him on edge. “Look, don’t go do anything stupid, okay?”
Vincent chuckled. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”
“Yeah, well, that scares me, because I do some fucked-up shit.”
“Go.” Vincent waved Carmine off. “You know you can’t be late when you’re called in. Don’t worry about me.”
“Whatever you say,” Carmine mumbled, heading for the car. “Bye, Dad.”
“Good-bye, son.”
23
Carmine stood stoically on the long wooden dock one Sunday afternoon, dark sunglasses covering his eyes from the blazing sunshine. He was hesitating, telling himself he may have the wrong place, but the words The Federica etched on the side of the boat in front of him were a clear giveaway that he had the right one.
Five minutes passed, maybe ten, as he stared at the yacht in silence, not wanting to go any farther. Last night’s alcohol still simmered in his bloodstream, the remnants of Molly lingering in his veins. The buzz had faded away, though, as the onset of a headache made itself be known. He had been up until almost sunrise, partying with Remy and the other guys in his crew. He had just gotten home and climbed into bed when Sal called, telling him to report in at exactly one o’clock.
Business? Personal? Carmine wasn’t sure. What he did know, though, was he had no interest being there either way.
A car pulled up behind him, parking in the grassy lot beside Carmine’s Mercedes. He turned, watching his uncle climb out and head toward him. Corrado wore a white V-neck shirt, khakis, and a pair of tan loafers. Carmine’s brow furrowed as he stared at the man’s shoes.
“Something wrong?” Corrado asked, approaching him on the dock.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never really seen you so casual before.”
“It’s Sunday,” he replied, shrugging as if that were a good explanation. “Celia is spending the afternoon with her mother so I thought I’d join Sal today.”
“Oh.” Carmine looked away from him, his gaze turning back to the yacht. “What are we doing here, anyway?”
Corrado didn’t answer. Instead, he walked away, stepping onto the yacht and plopping down in a vinyl chair. Carmine remained still for a moment before joining him, taking a shaky step onto the polished wooden deck. He held tightly onto the railing to stabilize himself, the yacht swaying lightly. He was about to take a seat beside his uncle when Sal surfaced from inside, dressed even more casually than Corrado. Hairy legs hung out from the bottom of a pair of plaid shorts, a white undershirt clinging tightly to his oversize stomach. For once, Carmine felt like he almost fit in wearing his jeans and t-shirt.
“Principe!” Sal said excitedly, his eyes drifting from Carmine to Corrado. “Ah, Corrado! I’m glad you could join us, too! We’re just waiting for one more.”
Carmine eyed him anxiously. “Who?”
Sal nodded toward shore as a black sedan pulled up. Coldness rushed through Carmine as if there were ice in his veins as the man stepped out. The scar on the side of his face gleamed in the sunlight like a bright, sinister warning sign pointing to danger ahead.
Carmine’s headache kicked in full-force, the pounding blinding as he clenched his teeth together to stop from saying anything. Instead of reacting, he forced himself to sit down in the vacant chair beside his uncle.
Carlo stepped onto the yacht, walking with determination, an aura of conceit enshrouding him. It was evident in his stride, and his smile, and his stance—the man believed he was invincible.
“I hope I’m not late,” Carlo said.
Carmine glanced at his watch: 1:13 P.M. They were all late, technically speaking.
“No, no, of course not,” Sal said, smiling gleefully as he slapped Carlo on the back. “It’s just good to see you.”
They set sail a minute later, navigating out toward an unoccupied area where nothing surrounded them but the calm, dark waters of Lake Michigan. Carmine remained tense, every muscle in his body rigid, as the men grabbed fishing rods and cast them in the water. They lounged and shared laughs, steadily sipping alcohol.
“So, we have a bit of a situation,” Salvatore said eventually, his nonchalance shifting to seriousness. “We have another traitor that needs dealt with. He can’t see it coming, and he’s going to trust few at this point. You understand the gravity of the situation?”
“Of course,” Corrado responded at once. “The rats have to go.”
Salvatore turned to Carmine, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. Carmine nodded, unsure of why he was asking him, but he wasn’t going to question it. His job was simply to agree. “Yes, sir.”
