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As Carmine’s chest constricted, a memory came to his mind. It happened a few weeks before his mother had been murdered when his parents had taken them to Six Flags. He and Dominic had climbed into one of those spinning cups and spun it so furiously that by the time the ride was over, he couldn’t make sense of which way was up. His legs buckled as he climbed off the ride, his stomach churning ruthlessly. Collapsing, he threw up right there in the middle of the busy amusement park.
Today, in that room, he felt a lot like he did back then—dazed and disoriented, betrayed and confused.
Vincent had pulled him to his feet that day, kneeling in front of him. Carmine’s face turned bright red as tears of embarrassment welled in his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the cement, not wanting anyone to see him cry—especially not his father.
“Are you okay?” Vincent had asked. Carmine hesitated but slowly lifted his eyes, nodding as he took in his serious expression. “Everyone falls sometimes, son, even me, but the trick is to get right back up. They’ll always target the ones who appear vulnerable, so you need to be strong. Fake it until you make it.”
Carmine hadn’t known it at the time, but his father was giving him his first piece of advice on how to survive the lifestyle, and it was a lesson that sunk in as he sat in that cold, tense interrogation room. Unshed tears burned his eyes as he fought to hold them in, not wanting to buckle under the weight of his grief. He needed to be strong; he needed to keep his composure.
He couldn’t let those motherfuckers see him break.
The sound of Carmine’s name being called pulled him back to reality. Agent Cerone and the other man stared at him, throwing out the same questions. His ears still rung from the incessant gunfire, the buzzing noise in the air driving Carmine to the brink. He clenched his hands into fists, wanting it all to stop, and cringed as searing pain shot up his right arm. He looked at his hand, seeing the blood seeping through the white bandage. His vision went white and flashes of random memory struck him. He tugged at his collar, the air so thick he felt like he was suffocating.
Blood . . . there was so much fucking blood.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to think about something else, conjuring up an image of Haven. She was free, he reminded himself. She was following her dreams. As long as she was out there, as long as she had her life, all of it was worth it. The ache in his chest was worth it, the throbbing in his hand was worth it, and being in that room was worth it. All of the blood, sweat, and tears he had shed were worth it, because she was worth it.
He missed her.
God, how I fucking miss my hummingbird.
Carmine was so wrapped up in the moment that he forgot where he was until someone shook him. He jumped, clutching his chest with his injured hand and wincing as he opened his eyes. Agent Cerone stood beside him and grasped his shoulder, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “Can I get something for you? A glass of water, maybe?”
“You can get me out of here,” he snapped. ”How long do you plan on keeping me? I didn’t fucking do anything!”
“We just need to ask you a few more questions.”
“There’s nothing else I can tell you,” he said, shaking his head.
“Who’s your hummingbird?” he asked as he sat down again.
Carmine’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Just a moment ago you said you missed your hummingbird.”
He stared at him in shock, realizing he had said that out loud, and wondered what else he might have unknowingly said.
“I fail to see what this has to do with the incident tonight,” Mr. Borza chimed in. “I would appreciate it if we could stay on topic.”
“Fair enough.” Agent Cerone’s eyes lingered on Carmine for a moment longer. “How well do you know Salvatore Capozzi?”
“He’s my godfather,” he muttered, the agent’s expression instantly lighting up at the word. Carmine shook his head as he clarified. “I was baptized as an infant and my parents named him my godfather.”
“Oh, so he’s like a parent to you?”
“He was.”
“Was?” Cerone asked curiously. “Are you saying he isn’t anymore?”
“He’s fucking dead, isn’t he?” he spat.
“Oh, uh, no.”
Carmine stared at him, hoping he had heard him wrong. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, the confirmation sending Carmine’s heart racing. If Salvatore wasn’t dead, he was in danger—a lot of fucking danger. Not only had he witnessed everything and knew his darkest secrets, the things he would kill anyone to keep from being exposed, but he had also disobeyed an order. There was no way Sal would just forgive and forget. He had too much to lose to give Carmine a pass. “As far as we can tell he fled the scene. We have reason to believe he’s injured, but there’s no evidence he didn’t survive the attack.”
Carmine absorbed that information, trying to keep his expression blank although he was panicking inside.
