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“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?”
“I’m happy,” he replied. “There isn’t really anything anyone could give me.”
She looked at Carmine incredulously. “There is something someone could give you. Actually, it’s what I’d ask for.”
“What’s that?”
“Your freedom.”
Carmine wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, too bad it doesn’t work that way.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
They arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes. He led Haven inside and saw his uncle right away, sitting at a table in the back with Celia. A slew of men gathered around them like a massive human shield of protection, but Celia managed to spot them through the crowd. She waved, the movement catching Corrado’s attention. He looked over as they approached, his expression blank, but Carmine could see the annoyance in his eyes.
“Up,” he barked at the two guys sitting across from them. They didn’t hesitate before pushing their chairs back, vacating them, and Corrado motioned toward the now empty seats. “Sit.”
Haven immediately took a seat in the first chair, looking at Carmine apprehensively. He gave her a smile, trying to be reassuring, but the truth was he was just as nervous.
“You’re late,” Corrado said, glaring at Carmine from across the table.
He glanced at his watch: five minutes after eight. “I guess I am.”
“You guess you are?”
