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He froze, dumbfounded, as she smashed her lips to his. When he finally got his wits about him, he parted his lips to kiss her back, but she abruptly pulled away, letting go completely. She took a step back. “You were drinking.”
There was no anger, not an ounce of hate in her voice. She wasn’t accusing Carmine—it was a simple statement. He had been drinking.
“A little,” he replied. She nodded and turned away to look out of the window. He stood there for a moment, but she didn’t speak again. The subject was closed, nothing else to say.
He headed upstairs to the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, surveying his reflection after splashing water on his face. He hardly recognized himself some days. Dark, heavy bags aligned his bloodshot eyes, his skin dry from the fickle Chicago weather. He had slicked his hair back that morning with pomade so it appeared a shade darker, making him seem paler than usual.
He went into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of black shoes from the closet, sitting down on the edge of the bed to put them on. Haven walked in while he was tying them and scrunched up her nose. “Your shoes are scuffed.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like the military where I need to shine the sons of bitches.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied as he glanced at his watch. It was already fast approaching eight o’clock, when Corrado had told Carmine to be there. “Are you ready?”
Carmine waited as she slipped on a pair of black heels, and they both grabbed their coats before heading out again. Haven was quiet as she got in the car, not speaking as he pulled away from the house. He fiddled with the radio anxiously, needing a distraction, and Haven just stared at him with a frown.
“What now?” Carmine asked, annoyed.
“Nothing.” She stressed the word, her answer speaking volumes. She was sending a message with that motherfucker. It was a You asshole, who do you take me for? I can’t believe you thought you could fucking fool me kind of nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
He looked at her, knowing what she wanted to hear. She wanted him to apologize for drinking, but he couldn’t do it. “I’m sorry for disappointing you,” he said. “I hate that shit.”
“I know,” she replied, reaching over and stroking his cheek before running her fingers through the hair near his neckline. She hit a snag and he grimaced. “What I hate is when you do your hair like this.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror at himself. Corrado preferred them to look clean-cut, but he hated it, too. “I kinda look like my fath—”
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, unable to even get the entire thing out. It had been four months . . . about sixteen weeks . . . one hundred and twenty-something days . . . and the wound was just as raw as it had been that fateful night. He still saw it sometimes when he closed his eyes, reliving the moment his father had taken his last breath.
Sometimes it was so hard he could barely breathe, in so much pain he felt like he was the one with the bullets lodged in his chest.
Haven massaged Carmine’s neck as he focused on the road, trying to get himself back under control.
“So since someone’s getting married, does that mean I can have whatever I want?” she asked offhandedly, distracting him from his thoughts.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Isn’t it true when someone gets married, you can ask a Mafia boss for something and he can’t refuse?”
It took a moment for what she had said to register. He laughed. “Have you been watching The Godfather?”
She blushed. “No.”
“Well, it’s not true, anyway,” he said, shaking his head. “They say the day of the Boss’s daughter’s wedding he won’t refuse anyone a favor, but it’s bullshit.”
“Oh,” she mumbled.
“What would you want, though?” he asked curiously. “If you could have one wish granted, what would you ask for?”
“I don’t know. What about you?”
