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The waitress paused beside him, smiling politely. “What can I get you?”
“Uh, vodka,” he said. “Straight up.”
“Bring him the whole bottle,” Sal chimed in. “Something from the top shelf, sweetheart. Nothing but the best for young DeMarco.”
Carmine forced a smile, but he got no satisfaction from Sal’s words. The waitress returned after a moment with a bottle of Grey Goose and a thick glass, setting it in front of Carmine before walking away. He wordlessly poured himself a shot, feeling Sal’s eyes on him as he swallowed it to ease his frayed nerves.
The burn was familiar. Warm. Numbing. He savored the sensation.
Sal’s focus shifted back to the others, the conversation at the table flowing freely between the men. It made little sense to Carmine so he sat back quietly, sipping on the liquor as he tried to disappear into the background. His mind wandered, his eyes drifting toward the two girls. They giggled, hanging on to Sal’s every word as if the bullshit he sprayed was made of pure gold. Carmine wondered what they saw in him, why they stuck around. Money? Presents? Did they get off on his power? Was it just for kicks? It sure as fuck couldn’t have been attraction.
“So, Principe, are you settling in?” Sal asked, capturing Carmine’s attention again. He tore his eyes from the girls and looked to his godfather, who stared at him with his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.” He poured another drink. “I’m moving into my parents’ old house.”
“And you have all of your things?”
“They arrived today.”
“And the girl?” Sal asked. “Has she arrived?”
Carmine tensed, his glass to his lips. He set it down after a moment without taking a drink, afraid the liquor wouldn’t make it past the lump in his throat. “Uh, no. She’s not.”
Sal’s expression fell as concern clouded his face. Pulling his arm from around the brunette, he leaned closer to the table, his high-pitched voice uncharacteristically low. “What do you mean she’s not?”
“She’s not coming,” Carmine clarified.
“Never?”
“No. She’s, uh . . . not with me now.”
Tension swept over the table. Sal remained strangely still, just staring at Carmine. Anger brewed in his dark eyes. The others sensed the shift in atmosphere and grew quiet, watching the two of them cautiously.
o;Good-bye,” she said quietly.
9
Haven walked blindly down the long hallway, the boxes in her arms obstructing her view. She shifted them around, trying to catch a glimpse in front of her, and ran straight into Dia.
Haven smiled apologetically but Dia simply waved it off as she pulled out a set of keys and opened her door. Haven juggled the boxes once more, careful not to run into anything else as she walked into the small, quiet apartment. Her footsteps faltered when Dia flicked on the light, illuminating the room surrounding her. Photos covered every surface, blanketing the paint like wallpaper.
Haven had been here before, once, on her eighteenth birthday. She forgot Dia wanted to be a photographer.
Her eyes scanned the pictures instinctively, recognizing some of the faces, but they all felt foreign to her except one. Straight in front of her, on the wall above the couch, was an old photo of her and Carmine. His face was all over, infiltrating the sea of colorful memories, but this one was different. This one called to her, silently screaming her name above the others. Neither had even known the photo was being taken as they stared at each other that Christmas day more than a year before. Their love had been new, untainted and naïve. Blissful ignorance shone from their eyes, two souls completely unaware of the anguish on the horizon.
Dia kicked the door shut, the slam echoing through the room and making Haven flinch. It suddenly felt as if the memory-clad walls were closing in on her. The boxes slipped from her arms, hitting the floor with a thud.
Stepping around them, Haven walked over to the couch and grabbed the photo, wordlessly yanking it off the wall.
“Sorry,” Dia said, setting the other boxes down. “I should’ve reminded you . . . warned you.”
Haven closed her eyes. Warning her they were there would have done nothing to dull the ache. It resided deep inside her, infecting her tissues and seeping into her bones, clenching her heart as it took over her chest. Her lungs felt stiff, like brand-new leather, stubbornly refusing to expand as she took a deep breath. She was suffocating from the pressure of what could have been.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, forcing the words out. “I’m okay.”
Dia said something else, but Haven didn’t wait to hear. She walked away, slipping into the spare bedroom and closing the door, pressing her back against it as she clutched the photo to her chest.
* * *
