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Haven sat on a small brown stool, a canvas set up in front of her. Crumpled paper littered the floor around her feet, sketches she had discarded tinged with splatters of paint she had spilled throughout the day. The messy chaos that surrounded her fascinated Carmine, considering she was the most naturally organized person he had ever met. She couldn’t let laundry pile up, floors needed to be swept every day, and dishes had to be washed as soon as they were dirtied. She believed everything had a place where it belonged, but at times like these, all of that went out the window.
When Haven painted, it was just her and the canvas. A tornado could hit and take the roof off the building and she probably wouldn’t flinch. The apocalypse could come and Jesus could be standing right behind her, trying to take her to Heaven, and she would keep him waiting until she finished. No one interrupted her, not even Carmine, which was why he just stood there, waiting by the door.
He didn’t mind, though. He enjoyed watching her. Seeing her there, listening to her humming as she worked a mere few feet in front of him, set his soul at ease. Not long ago he had been so close to giving up, exhausted by life’s sudden twists and turns, but she showed up right when he needed her the most.
It had been a few months since she had moved to Chicago. A new school year started, and she had enrolled at a small art school downtown, while Carmine continued on with his life . . . the same life he had been involved in since leaving Durante. It was the same, the shift in power not altering his circumstances at all, but yet something was different. He approached it another way. He wasn’t as reckless . . . not now that he had a reason to come home at night.
He still fucking hated it, though. Hated every second of life in La Cosa Nostra with every fiber of his being.
Haven sighed loudly, the sound exaggerated in the empty room. She stood and pushed her stool back to pace back and forth in front of the canvas. The painting of the tree looked fine to Carmine, but he could tell she felt something was wrong with it. She added a bit more color to the trunk before blending some yellow in with a few of the leaves, setting her paintbrush down as she took a step back. She eyed the canvas intently, tilting her head to the side as if looking at it from a different angle would somehow change the image.
o;So you are?” Kelsey asked. “You’re moving?”
Haven turned to her friend, guilt flaring inside of her. “I am.”
“Why?” Kelsey’s eyes darted from Haven to Carmine. “Let me guess . . . because of him.”
Carmine stood there, arms folded across his chest, mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to interject.
“No, not because of him,” Haven said. “For him.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A smart man once told me there was.”
Kelsey sighed. “Look, Hayden, I—”
“Hayden?” Carmine interrupted, brow furrowed. “What the fuck?”
Haven frowned as she explained. “That’s my name here.”
“Why?”
“Corrado’s idea,” she muttered. “He picked it.”
“Wait, what?” Kelsey shook her head in confusion. “Your name here? Jesus, is that not your real name? Who are you?”
Uh-oh. “I can explain.” Haven paused. “Well, actually, no I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
She slowly shook her head. Kelsey’s attention moved to Carmine, who shrugged just as his phone rang. “I can’t explain either,” he replied, glancing at the screen before holding his phone up. “But maybe he can.”
* * *
An hour later, after awkward bouts of strained conversation between the three of them, Corrado showed up at the apartment. He stood in the middle of the living room as Kelsey sat on the couch, watching him warily.
“Do you know who I am?” he prompted.
“An officer of some kind?” she asked. “Isn’t that what we decided?”
Corrado smirked. “I’m Corrado Moretti. My father, Vito, died in prison while doing a life sentence for a murder commissioned by Antonio DeMarco.” He pointed to Carmine. “Antonio was his grandfather. His name’s Carmine DeMarco, and his father, Vincent, died in a shootout at Salvatore Capozzi’s house.” He pointed to Haven. “Salvatore was her great-uncle. Her name’s Haven Antonelli, and her father, Michael . . . well . . . let’s just say it all comes full circle.”
Kelsey gaped at him, her mouth hanging open.
“We’re a family,” he continued. “Sometimes we fight, and sometimes we go our separate ways, but at the end of the day, we’re still a family. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
After a few seconds of hesitation, Kelsey nodded. “I grew up in New York. I know all about the, uh . . .”
