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Those words didn’t have the impact Dominic seemed to think they would. Instead of comforting her, consoling her, she felt all remnants of lingering happiness fade away, like the last bit of water from a faucet swirling down a narrow drain.
On your own. The words seeped into her skin, inciting the same terrified feelings she once had in Blackburn when she ran through the desert, desperate for her life to be spared. Everything she knew disappeared into the night, leaving her alone with a cloudy future.
Alone.
“How can he be gone?” she whispered. “He didn’t even give me a chance to say good-bye.”
8
Carmine stood in a pile of slush along the street. His socks clung uncomfortably to his feet as wetness seeped through the soles of his old Nike’s, but he couldn’t move from that spot. He was as frozen as the ice that coated the sidewalk.
The house stood only a few feet away from the curb, the blue door illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlight. It was just after sunset, but the cloud-covered Chicago sky made it feel much later.
They had been traveling all day since leaving Durante, two hours in the car before quite a few more on a plane. There hadn’t been any arguing, no judgment or pity—in fact, no one said much of anything at all. He was left alone to his thoughts, and while he usually appreciated it, today was an entirely different case.
Because Carmine’s thoughts were about as calm as a fucking hurricane.
When they had landed, Corrado had asked him where he wanted to go. Not thinking, Carmine muttered the lone word home. He had meant Durante, back where he yearned to be, but his uncle took him literally.
And an hour later, he stood in front of the house he grew up in, his soaked feet refusing to budge. A chill ran the length of him as a car sped by, hitting a small puddle and spraying his back with filthy frigid water. He immediately took a big step forward, out of the way, and shook his head as he moved onto the sidewalk.
“Quit being such a pussy,” he muttered to himself, reaching into his pocket for the key his father had given him. “It’s just a fucking house.”
Clutching his duffle bag tightly, he made his way to the porch and unlocked the front door. The air was just as cold inside, his teeth chattering from the dampness. He reached for the light switch upon instinct and groaned when nothing happened.
No electricity.
He strolled through the downstairs in the darkness, coming upon empty room after empty room.
No furniture.
“Fuck.” He dropped his bag in the middle of the living room and stood there for a moment, peering around at the barren walls, before closing his eyes.
There was nothing there anymore.
He could faintly remember the last time he stood in that spot. The room had been cluttered, lived in and loved, every bit of space filled except for the back corner. It had been bare; reserved for the one thing Carmine wanted most. He had been asking for months and finally . . . fucking finally . . . it was the day.
“How are they going to get it in the house, Mom?” he’d asked. “It’s too big to fit through the door!”
“Oh, they’ll find a way,” Maura had replied, stepping into the room as she slipped on her jacket. “Even if it’s piece by piece, they’ll get the piano in here.” She ruffled his messy hair, beaming at him. “Now come on, sole. We have things to do, and we don’t want to be late for your recital! The new piano will be here when we get home tonight.”
Carmine smiled fondly at the memory of his mom’s sweet voice, but his expression fell once he reopened his eyes. His gaze drifted to the back corner of the living room. They never made it home that night.
Tears burned his tired eyes for the second time that day, but this time, he didn’t fight it. There was no one to hold them back from, no reason to keep it in. No reason to be strong. Tomorrow he would pick himself up and move forward, walk out the door with his head held high, but not tonight. Tonight he was alone in a cold, dark house, surrounded by nothing but fuzzy painful memories.
* * *
Vincent DeMarco sat alone in his office, drumming his fingers against the wooden desk. The sun had set hours ago, the room enshrouded in total darkness. His eyes slowly adjusted so he could view his surroundings, but he didn’t bother trying to look at anything. He’d seen all he needed to see.
Haven’s notebook lay open in front of him to the page Carmine had shown him days before. He had studied the drawing of Carlo intently, taking in every line of his face, every distortion in his grotesque scar. His skin crawled at how chillingly accurate her rendering of his appearance was, every crack and ripple, down to the small oblong shaped mole under his left eye.
A mole, Vincent knew, that had only appeared in the past year.
He had run his finger over the spot on the page when he noticed it, wondering if it was just an ink smudge, trying to convince himself it was a crazy coincidence. There was no way she could have known it was there. She couldn’t have seen it before.
Unless . . . she had.
His stomach was in tight knots as he considered that.
