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“Yes.”
“This better be good.”
Carmine took a deep breath, cringing as he inhaled the scent of the food, and forced the words from his lips before he lost the nerve. “You know we’re getting married tomorrow . . .”
“Of course I know,” he replied. “I received my invitation and made plans to come. I am still invited, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, then. There’s no problem. I already made sure to clear your schedule for the weekend, so you shouldn’t have any problems consummating the marriage.”
Carmine cringed at his wording. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it? I’m getting impatient.”
“We want to know if you’ll give Haven away.”
Corrado stared across the table at him, unmoving, barely blinking, as if he hadn’t heard Carmine speak at all. He had, though, and after a minute or so he slowly shook his head, as if trying to process the words. “Give her away.”
“Yeah, you know, walk her down the aisle when we get married.”
“I know what you mean, Carmine.”
“Her dad, well . . . you know. And I’d ask my dad, but well . . . you know.”
Corrado had killed them. Carmine didn’t say it out loud, but they both thought it.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Carmine’s eyes widened. He had expected a staunch denial. “No shit?”
“Language.”
He blanched. “I mean, uh . . . so you’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
Carmine smiled, relief settling in, but it wasn’t near enough to calm his frazzled nerves. Just being within a block of that building put him on edge.
“You’re fidgeting,” Corrado pointed out. “Were you that nervous to ask me?”
“No,” he replied. “I was, but that’s not my problem.”
“Then what is?”
Carmine stared at his uncle, baffled how he could seem so comfortable. “It doesn’t bother you to be here?”
“Why would it?” Corrado eyed him with confusion. “I eat here all the time.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He leaned over the table, whispering. “. . . his kids.”
Corrado had killed them, too. Both of them.
Corrado’s eyes drifted past him toward the front register. Turning, Carmine eyed the owner, John Tarullo, curiously. He only vaguely recognized the man from when he was a kid, remembering eating here a few times with his parents. He knew it had been John, though, that saved him that October day. He owed him a lot—his life, to be precise—but Carmine could hardly stand to look at the aging man.
He was a walking, talking, unhappy fucking reminder of everything Carmine had been through.
Sensing the attention—or maybe it was purely coincidence—John chose that moment to look at the two of them. His expression remained stoic, strictly business, but Carmine could sense the deep sadness in his dark eyes.
