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“Sure,” the man said. “Just as soon as you show me some ID.”
Carmine stared at him, stunned. “Are you fucking with me?”
The bartender sighed. “Look, I feel for you, but you know your uncle . . . I ain’t losing my life just so you can drink. He said you were cut off permanently.”
“This is fucked up,” Carmine muttered, wishing he had something to soothe his frazzled nerves before he had to face Corrado. “Where is my uncle, anyway? He told me to meet him here.”
“He’s in his office,” the bartender said, motioning toward the hallway. “You know which one it is.”
Frustrated, Carmine pushed away from the bar and slowly made his way to the back. He knocked on the door and waited. The last thing he wanted was another fight with Corrado.
“It’s open,” Corrado yelled.
Carmine stepped inside. Corrado sat in his leather chair, nonchalantly flipping through paperwork. Not wanting to interrupt, Carmine wordlessly plopped down in a chair in front of his desk.
Corrado glanced up at him and stilled his movements. “Did I tell you to sit?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I think a man of reasonable intelligence can conclude you should still be standing. You’re by no means a genius, but even a two year old can follow simple commands.”
Carmine’s mouth drew into a thin line as he tightly pressed his lips together, fighting hard not to respond to the insult. He should be used to it by now, but his temper still often got the best of him.
He stood back up.
“Now you can sit.”
Motherfucker.
Carmine plopped back down, fidgeting as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow, the lights in the room feeling too bright and uncomfortable. His heart hammered in his chest as he waited for Corrado to tell him why he had been called there, but the silence lingered on. Corrado returned to his paperwork, ignoring his presence.
Nearly twenty minutes passed—excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes—before his uncle looked up at him again. “Are you on something, Carmine?”
“No,” he said, his eyes narrowing defensively. “I haven’t. Not since . . .”
“And you better not,” Corrado said. “It’s unacceptable. Disrespectful. I’ve put a bullet in men for less than what you did, and . . .”
Sighing, Carmine slouched in the chair as his uncle went on and on, the same shit he had heard more than a dozen times the past few weeks. He knew it all—in fact, he knew it before the incident even happened—and he was getting tired of constantly being berated for his mistake.
He had paid enough, he thought, the aftermath something he would never forget.
His mind wandered then, drifting, until the sound of a phone ringing shattered his train of thought. Corrado immediately stopped talking as he glanced at it, his eyes darting straight to him, his expression severe. “If you say a single word, I’ll make you suffer. Understand?”
He blanched, nodding, suddenly too terrified to reply.
“I mean it,” Corrado warned. “Don’t even breathe too loud.”
Reaching for his phone, Corrado answered it as he brought it to his ear. “Hello, Haven.”
And just like that, the air flew from Carmine’s lungs. Corrado narrowed his eyes at him as he let out a shuddering breath, but he couldn’t help it. The room felt smaller, stifling, suffocating.
He wanted to puke. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sucker punch his uncle and snatch the fucking phone from him just to hear her voice one more time.
But he did nothing. He merely sat there, staring across the desk, straining his ears in hopes to hear something, anything . . . just a part of her again.
“I just called to tell you I’d be away for a while,” Corrado said. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, but I may be out of touch for a few months.”
Corrado was silent as he listened to her response. He pulled his phone from his ear after a moment, laying it on his desk as he pressed a button on the screen. Carmine’s stomach sunk, figuring he had hung up, until he heard her sigh through the line. It was subtle, barely inaudible, but it was there. Speakerphone.
