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“Carlo’s a friend of ours.”
Carmine scoffed. “He’s no friend of mine.”
“On the contrary, son . . . he is. He’s been in the organization for years. Salvatore initiated him right after your grandfather passed away.”
It struck Carmine then why he recognized the guy. He remembered exactly where he had seen him. “We have to tell Sal.”
“Tell him what?”
“That one of his men is dirty,” he spat. “He was involved in the kidnapping. He was in that warehouse!”
“What makes you think he was there?”
Carmine stared at his father incredulously. “Haven saw him. He had to be there!”
“No, he didn’t.” Vincent shook his head. “He wasn’t even in Chicago.”
“Yes, he was. I saw him! They were arguing in Sal’s office, but when I showed up, he left.”
Vincent hesitated. “That doesn’t mean he was in on anything.”
“Then how the fuck did she draw him?”
Sighing, Vincent flipped the page in the notebook and paused, holding it up. The color drained from Carmine’s face as he stared at another drawing, this one just as in depth as the other—except, instead of a monster, he was staring at an angel.
The drawing of his mother struck something deep inside him, seizing his heart in a vice grip and constricting his chest.
“The same way she drew Maura,” Vincent said quietly. “From memory. She’s already told me she hallucinated in the warehouse, and Carlo has a face no one would forget—clearly, considering you remember him and you rarely notice anyone except for yourself. It’s not a far stretch to say she saw him as a child.”
Carmine rolled his eyes, not buying that explanation. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not,” Vincent said.
“But what if you are?” Carmine asked again. “What if he was in on it all?”
“He wouldn’t be. His loyalty to Sal is unwavering. He’d do anything for the Boss, would never betray him, and Sal feels the same way about him. It’s just not plausible. You can ask Corrado if you don’t believe me.”
“And you can ask Haven,” Carmine said, his father’s unwillingness to even consider the idea annoying him. It was certainly nothing new, but it grated on his nerves now more than ever. “I’ll leave you alone now so you can call back whoever it was you were really talking to. I have my own shit to figure out.”
He stood to leave when his father cleared his throat. “Ascoltare il tuo cuore, Carmine. Just remember that, and I’m sure you’ll do the right thing . . . whatever that may be. Like I said, you are your mother’s child.”
Ascoltare il tuo cuore. Listen to your heart.
If it weren’t so distressing, Carmine might have seen the irony of what his mother had always said. A person couldn’t escape fate, because what was meant to be would always be. No matter how hard Carmine tried to avoid the Mafia, he came back to it in the end.
And Haven had been destined for freedom . . . his mother made sure of that.
Carmine stepped out of his father’s office and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he came upon his friend, Dia. He dialed her number, listening as it rang and rang, and let out a deep breath when her voicemail picked up. “Call me when you get this.”
5
Merry Christmas!”
Haven jumped at the unexpected voice and spun around from the kitchen window. Celia stood just inside the doorway, smiling warmly, her eyes bright and awake with enthusiasm, even though the sun had barely started to rise outside.
“Uh, Merry Christmas,” Haven said. “Good morning.”
Strolling over to the pantry, Celia rooted around, pulling out what she would need to make Christmas dinner. She was dressed in a gray long-sleeved dress and a pair of matching heels, her shiny dark hair cascading down her back and her makeup freshly applied. It was the complete opposite of how she had appeared when Haven last saw her in Chicago a mere month ago. Her glow was back, compassion and love radiating from her like warm sunlight.
