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Carmine stared at the priest with disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Carmine stood, stretching his tired body as he ran his hands down his face. “We wasted a whole night here when you could’ve driven me home hours ago.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t say we wasted the night,” Father Alberto said. “I rather enjoyed speaking with you. It was quite illuminating.”
Carmine followed the priest out of the church and around the corner, where an old model Cadillac Deville was parked along the curb. He smiled when he saw it, eyeing the light blue paint and tan interior.
“This is yours?” Carmine asked.
ollowed Kelsey, her eyes guardedly surveying the vast house as they made their way upstairs. Kelsey showed her to the guest room, where Haven’s bag already sat beside the bed. “My bedroom’s right down the hall,” she said. “The door on the end.”
Kelsey left her there, and Haven took a seat on the large canopy bed. The guest room, the size of her entire apartment across the city, was adorned in various shades of burgundy and gold, the carpet beneath her feet vibrant white—so bright, in fact, she was almost afraid to move.
Haven unzipped her bag, reaching inside for the familiar leather-bound journal. Kicking off her shoes, she lay back on the bed and stared up at the see-through gold cloth draped above her, a frown tugging the corner of her lips. No matter how hard she fought it, attempting to keep a smile on her face, the sadness won out.
Christmas Eve. Tomorrow was Christmas day. And the next day, well . . . she didn’t like to think about what December 26 marked.
Opening the book, she pulled out the piece of paper she had tucked inside and unfolded it, staring at the sloppy writing, haphazardly scribbled in the middle of the night last Christmas. She had read it so many times she could recite it word for word.
She got to the end, her fingers tracing the three simple words: I love you.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
A year later, she still did.
* * *
Carmine’s brow furrowed as Corrado drove past the street that led to home. He cleared his throat. “Uh, I think you missed the turn.”
Corrado’s eyes remained on the road in front of him. He offered no reply as he reached for the radio, pressing the button to turn the music up. Frank Sinatra loudly vibrated the speakers, the song making Carmine’s skin prickle. His heart banged against his ribcage, echoing in his ears.
Frank Sinatra tended to trigger something in Corrado.
Panicking inside, his paranoia spiked as Corrado drove onto some vacant roads, deep into a neighborhood Carmine hadn’t been to in more than a decade. He had definitely fucked up and he knew there would be consequences, but he never thought it would be this. He never considered the fact that his uncle might get fed up. He never thought he might actually end him.
Carmine, until that moment, still believed he was invincible.
After driving for a few more minutes, Corrado slowed and pulled the car along the curb. Reaching over, he grasped the passenger side handle and flung open the door. “Get out.”
Carmine’s eyes darted around for some sign of life. Corrado wouldn’t kill him if there were witnesses. “What?”
“I said get out!”
Carmine obeyed at the sound of his uncle’s raised voice. He jumped out of the car and slammed the door, his frantic mind working fast. He thought about running, debating if he could evade him in the nearby alleys in the night, but he didn’t have to act. Tires squealed and a cloud of smoke filtered into the air as Corrado hastily sped away, leaving him standing there alone.
Carmine stared at the red taillights as they faded into the night, partially relieved but even more baffled. “What the fuck?”
“Now, now,” a voice said behind him, so close the hair on the back of Carmine’s neck stood on end. “That’s no way to talk here.”
Turning around, Carmine instinctively reached in his waistband for his weapon but unsurprisingly came up empty. He had nothing, to be precise—no ID, no wallet, not even a penny in his pocket.
He stood frozen at that realization, his panic dissipating as he took in the cloaked form a few feet away. The first thing he noticed was the Roman collar, the bright white sliver of fabric shining brightly in the darkness.
Confused, Carmine glanced past the man and surveyed the massive brown building, taking in the ornamental front door and massive steps leading to it. Corrado had dropped him off in front of an old church.
“Sorry, sir,” he muttered. “Or, I mean . . . your holiness?”
