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“Good,” Sal said, pulling out a cigar and clipping off the end of it, “because I need Vincent taken out as soon as possible.”
Carmine’s blood ran cold, his heart stopping for a fraction of a second. Vincent? It couldn’t be so. He couldn’t mean his father.
“It’s unfortunate, but we have sources saying he’s been feeding information to the Feds,” Sal continued as he lit his cigar, savoring the first puff. “His father, Antonio—God rest his soul—was one of the greatest Boss’s in the history of the organization. Vincent turning is a notion I wouldn’t suggest if I weren’t one-hundred percent sure.”
Salvatore paused, glancing at Corrado, and Carmine held his breath. He waited for his uncle to defend him, for him to talk Salvatore out of it, to make him see logic that Vincent DeMarco would never jeopardize his family.
But the moment Corrado opened his mouth, Carmine’s hope disintegrated. “I’ll handle it.”
“He’ll expect you,” Salvatore warned. “He knows you’re the best.”
Corrado started to respond, but another voice silenced him. “What about the boy?” Carlo asked. “Why not him?”
“Me?” Carmine asked incredulously. “I can’t—”
“Can’t?” Sal countered, his eyes darkening. “Are you refusing?”
“With all due respect, sir, Vincent has a lot of experience,” Corrado said. “Carmine’s still an amateur.”
“True, but he wouldn’t fire on his son, especially one who looks strikingly close to his wife. It would be like Maura dying all over again. No, Carlo’s right. Carmine’s perfect.”
Carmine stared at them with shock, not knowing how to react. The fact that Salvatore would use his mother’s memory to his advantage in his violent twisted game made him sick. There was no way he had just been ordered to murder his own father. It was unfathomable. “I’m supposed to kill my father?”
“A traitor, Carmine,” Sal said sharply. “Your order is to eliminate the threat. It’s about time you’ve proven your loyalty, anyway. You should’ve been made to do it long ago, but I didn’t press the issue because of who you are. In fact, I’ve tolerated a lot I shouldn’t have because of your last name, but I won’t tolerate it any longer. Your grandfather would be rolling over in his grave right now.”
“He would,” Corrado chimed in. “Antonio would’ve never stood for this.”
“So do what’s expected of you,” Salvatore continued. “Earn some respect back for your bloodline.”
“But—”
Salvatore shot Carmine a look of murderous rage, silencing him abruptly. The atmosphere shifted once more to nonchalance as Sal puffed on his cigar with ease, turning his focus back to his fishing rod.
Two hours later the yacht docked again, and Carmine was the first one off the boat. He started down the dock in a stupor and heard Corrado follow, but he didn’t turn around. Seething, he headed straight for his car when Corrado grabbed him.
“Get off of me,” he spat, shrugging away from his uncle.
“Relax,” Corrado said. “You did good.”
Carmine laughed bitterly. “You expect me to relax? Maybe you can kill your own fucking family with no remorse, but I can’t! How the hell could you agree with him? I thought you knew my father better than that!”
“I clearly know Vincent better than you do,” he said. “You’re ignorant if you believe he didn’t know this would happen.”
“You’re saying he planned for this? What fucked-up world do you live in?”
“The same one you live in,” Corrado said calmly, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “But it’s a moot point, because you won’t be killing anyone, Carmine.”
“That’s news to me, considering I was just ordered to. What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to go home.”
Corrado turned away and got into his car, leaving without another word. Carmine headed home, pulling into the driveway a few minutes later. The house was warm, the air-conditioning still broken. Carmine grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose from the freezer before strolling to the living room, flopping down on the couch and kicking off his shoes.
Time passed as he sat there staring at the floor, his frantic mind trying to sort through his options while he attempted to drown it all out with liquor. It surged through his body, but it didn’t extinguish the ache in his heart.
Best-case scenario, Carmine thought, his father got away and he never saw him again. Worst-case scenario, he ended up dead, possibly at Carmine’s hands. Violence, mayhem, murder, bloodshed, fucking annihilation—he wondered if there was any way to avoid it anymore.
Later he still sat hunched over, gripping his hair with the empty bottle of vodka at his feet. He was still lucid, hadn’t even come close to drinking enough to black out. He got up when the sun set, the house cooling off a tad bit and growing darker. The cool wooden floor felt good against his feet as he strolled toward the kitchen, his head throbbing as he scoured the cabinets for more alcohol. He grew aggravated when he found none, slamming a cabinet drawer angrily as he grabbed his phone. Scrolling through his numbers, he stopped at Remy.
