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“But New York,” he said. “Your life.”
“The best parts of life have nothing to do with a place. Love, friendship, happiness . . . I don’t need to be in New York to have those things. I have it all here.”
“But school? Painting? What about that?”
“I can do those things anywhere, Carmine. But you . . . you’re in Chicago.”
The hopeful smile twisted his lips, held back no more. “Clean slate?”
“As clean as our slate can get.”
“Which is still pretty fucking dirty.”
She laughed, watching him for a moment before extending her hand. A nervous blush warmed her cheeks. Clean slate. “I’m Haven.”
“Carmine.” He took her hand. “You have an interesting name, Haven.”
“It means a safe place,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, entwining their fingers again. “And something tells me it fits you perfectly.”
43
The heads of the five families gathered around a long table in the back room of a swanky Italian restaurant just outside of New York City. Their unrestrained chatter overshadowed the music from the violinist in the main dining room, their laughter and exuberance palpable from the parking lot.
The hostess pointed Corrado in their direction the moment he stepped inside, no words necessary. They had been expecting him. He approached the men, personally greeting each one before slipping into the only empty chair.
“Moretti,” the Don of the Calabrese family said. “We’re glad you could join us.”
Corrado tipped his head. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
Drinks flowed as the men discussed everything from politics to music, side skirting business issues for most of the night. The conversation was fluid, almost friendly, but Corrado wasn’t fooled—he was being tested. They watched his every move and weighed his every word, gauging whether or not they wanted to do business with him. He had met them all before while on the job, but this was different.
This was the interview of his life.
“What brings you to New York?” Sergio Geneva, head of the Geneva faction, asked. “How long are you here for?”
“Just for the night,” Corrado said. “Brought my nephew and his girlfriend.”
“So personal reasons?”
“Mostly.”
The Calabrese Don looked at Corrado across the table. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. This friend of mine, Sammy Graves . . . he opened up this new casino. You know which one I’m talking about?”
“Of course.”
“He’s a good guy, on the straight and narrow. Got a family and kids. I tried to help him out, get his place off the ground upstate, give him a line of credit, but he declined. Wanted to do it himself, every bit of it legal.”
“That’s honorable,” Corrado said.
“So I’m sure you can see how this deal he made with Chicago is a bit of a thorn in his side. He never wanted that, you know, never wanted to make deals.”
“Understood,” Corrado said. “You tell him he has nothing to worry about with Chicago. A friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
The Don raised his glass. “I’ll pass the message along.”
“How’s the truce in Chicago?” another of New York’s dons asked.
