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FIJI Natural Artesian Water. No one ever asked him what he drank. They all preferred dark liquor—scotch, brandy, sometimes even bourbon—so they didn’t bother inquiring about what was in his glass.
“Carlo didn’t even have to do, uh . . . whatever it is he does.” Sal motioned toward Carlo sitting off to the side, his arm around a young blonde woman. “Seems they came to their senses on their own. Called about an hour ago and said the deal was on.”
“That’s great,” Corrado said, taking another drink. “It’s good to know who we can count on these days.”
12
The black dress shoes, half a size too small, made it difficult for Carmine to wiggle his toes. The suit, crisp and brand new, was stifling, the material scratching his skin as he rode in the passenger seat of Corrado’s Mercedes.
Uncomfortable, he tugged at his blue silk tie. It suffocated him, like a noose tied around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to loosen his collar and take off the coat, maybe even kick off the damn shoes, but he was pretty sure that would only irritate his uncle.
“What’s wrong with you?” Corrado asked as if on cue, cutting his eyes to him from the driver’s seat. “Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m trying.” Carmine shifted in the seat and pushed the small switch to lower the automatic window, but nothing happened. Corrado had them locked. “It’s a furnace in this car. I’m sweating like I’m in a fucking sweat box here.”
“Such a way with words,” Corrado deadpanned. “I advise you to keep your day job.”
Carmine rolled his eyes. Like he had a choice. “Do you have the heat on or something?”
Corrado shrugged him off. “It’s just your nerves.”
He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. They were heading to a party at Sal’s house and Carmine was on edge. He hadn’t wanted to go, making excuses to get out of it, but even the social gatherings were mandatory.
“Stay away from the alcohol tonight,” Corrado warned him.
Carmine looked at him incredulously. Not drink?
“You’ll be in a room with some of the most dangerous men in the country,” Corrado said, noticing the question in his expression. “You’ll want to be coherent.”
“Why?” Carmine asked bitterly. “I thought we were all family.”
“We are family,” Corrado replied. “And you saw what I did to my only sister.”
Carmine’s stomach lurched at the memory.
* * *
By the time they reached Sal’s mansion, Carmine was pouring sweat. He took a deep breath, trying to relax as he followed his uncle to the door. A young girl swiftly opened it for them. She didn’t speak, nor did her eyes move from the floor.
Once they were inside, she closed the door and positioned herself against the wall out of the way. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen, a skinny girl with blonde hair and pale skin.
Carmine eyed her cautiously, knowing what she was right away. Her body language, the way she slinked into the background like a chameleon blending in with its surroundings, told him a story no words would ever say.
The pressure in his chest nearly bucked his knees as he thought of Haven.
“Carmine! Corrado!”
Sal’s voice drew Carmine’s attention away from the girl. His godfather approached, his arm around his wife’s waist. She scowled, sipping a glass of champagne, refusing to lower herself by speaking to any of them.
“I’m glad you gentlemen could make it,” Sal said, pulling away from her to hold his hand out. Carmine fought a grimace as he pressed his lips to the back of it, near the man’s massive gold ring.
“Of course,” Corrado said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Sal raised his eyebrows, dramatically looking over Corrado’s shoulder. “And your wife? Where is Celia this evening?”
“She’s feeling under the weather tonight,” Corrado replied.
“Ah, such a pity. Send her my well wishes, will you?”
