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“Ah, he was, but I requested he stick around,” Salvatore chimed in, taking his usual seat. He motioned toward an empty chair beside him and Carmine slid into it, running his hand nervously through his hair. There were a dozen men in the room besides him, but he was the only low-ranked soldier present. These gatherings were always invitation only, and Carmine had appreciated the fact that he had never been invited to stay for one until that moment.
The men talked for a while about things that didn’t matter, like baseball teams and brands of liquor, while Carmine sat quietly, drinking more to calm the flare of his nerves. He wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting there when they finally delved into business—who owed money, who wasn’t producing enough, who had potential, and who they frankly were sick of dealing with. The ones in the last category were immediately written off, no questions asked, no objections. There was no regard for their families or their obligations. Intentions didn’t matter—they had been judged without having a chance to defend themselves.
It made Carmine sick to know that someday it could be him, sentenced to die callously, his murder plotted casually like they were deciding something as petty as preferable brands of alcohol.
“Dismember him,” someone said. “Take him apart piece by piece, and then incinerate the leftovers.”
“Too messy,” someone else chimed in. “Slip something in his food. Make it look like a heart attack. Clean and easy.”
“That’s cowardly! You’re better off putting a bomb in their car.”
“Oh, bullshit! And a bomb isn’t cowardly?”
“No. It’ll send everyone a message when the whole street blows up.”
“Yeah, it’ll send them a message, all right . . . it’ll probably send some of his neighbors to the hospital, too. They didn’t do shit to us.”
“So? Like bystanders haven’t been hurt before?”
“Yeah, but they got kids. We don’t fucking hurt kids, not if we can help it.”
“Just make him go missing,” someone suggested. “It’s not cowardly—it’s smart. The fact is he’s nobody. No reason for a scene. Just poof, be gone.”
Somebody scoffed. “It’s all cowardly unless you make it personal. Ain’t that right, Carlo? That’s what you always say.”
Carmine’s eyes shot across the room to where the scarred man sat in the corner, quietly sipping from a glass of scotch. Carlo tipped his head at the man in confirmation. “Always look them in the eye so they know it’s you, so you can see their fear. You want them to associate your face with death . . . that’s how you know you’re doing it right. Then when they understand, you do it quick—blow their head off, shut them up with a gun in the mouth when they try to scream for help. There’s nothing better. Always been my signature move.”
Those words hit Carmine hard and sharp, striking at his insides ferociously when flashes of the night in the alley ran through his mind. The sound of his mother’s terrified screams, the fear in her eyes as she somehow knew she was going to die. “Shut her up!” a man yelled. “Do it quick!” Then there was nothing but the loud bang of the gunshot as the man shoved the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger, forever silencing her.
Carmine was on his feet before he even knew what he was doing, the liquor splashing from the glass he clutched and splattering on the floor. His sudden movement startled the others, conversation instantly ceasing as men jumped to their feet, trained to sense danger. Guns were drawn and a chorus of clicks echoed through the room as safeties were released, the weapons pointed at Carmine’s head.
Tunnel vision fixed Carmine’s gaze on Carlo. He remained in his chair, slouching casually as he swirled the scotch around in his glass, staring right back. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes told a much different story. There was a challenge in them. He dared Carmine to say something to him.
Seconds passed—long, infinite seconds of tension and inner turmoil—before Salvatore broke up the sudden standoff. “Gentlemen, this is unnecessary. We’re all family here.”
The men lowered their weapons at once, concealing them again as they retook their seats. Low grumbling vibrated the room, their words indiscernible, but hostility infused the air, smothering Carmine. They would have shot him easily, the simple flick of a finger stealing his life.
nt didn’t stick around to find out what she meant by that.
36
The first weekend in June, Carmine received a call from Salvatore about a celebration for Corrado’s exoneration. He begrudgingly got dressed that Saturday night and drove to Salvatore’s house at dusk, parking his car toward the back before hesitantly making his way to the front door. He pressed the doorbell and Abby appeared, seemingly relieved when she saw Carmine there.
“Hey,” he said when she ushered him inside. “How are you?”
She smiled softly, her voice barely a whisper. “Fine. You, sir?”
“I’m here with these motherfuckers, so I’m obviously not doing that good.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said shyly, offering to take his coat. “You talk to me like I’m a person.”
“You are a person, Abby. They’re just too nasty to see it.”
She stared at him, surprised by his candid response, before slinking away to do her work. Carmine headed for the den when someone called his name, and he turned, his blood running cold the second his eyes came into contact with Carlo’s. The man smirked as he strolled toward Carmine. “You’re lucky your godfather didn’t overhear that exchange. Something tells me he wouldn’t be amused.”
Carmine stared back as he fought to control his temper at the man’s smug expression. “There’s nothing wrong with saying hello.”
“You said much more than hello, boy.”
