“Help her! You told me you would, you f**king liar!”
Corrado grabbed his arm, pulling him away from Miranda’s lifeless body and shoving him back onto the ground. “She’s too far gone.”
“How the hell do you know?”
His expression was cold. “I know a dead body when I see one.”
Carmine sat in the dirt, his eyes stinging with tears. He looked around frantically, hoping it was a vicious nightmare he would soon wake up from, and spotted a smug smile on Katrina’s lips.
The sight of it made him lose control. “This is your fault!” He looked between Katrina and Michael. “You killed her! You made her do this!”
“Who cares?” Katrina snapped. “She’s a slave!”
The moment those words met his ears, all logic fizzled away. “No, she wasn’t a slave!”
“Carmine!” Corrado warned.
“She was a Principessa!” he said, ignoring his uncle. “Salvatore’s gonna kill you when he finds out!”
Grabbing the garden shears from the ground by his leg, Carmine flung them at Katrina and struck her in the side when she tried to move away. Deranged, she grabbed a shovel and ran toward him. He scurried backward and tried to get to his feet as she raised the shovel above her head. Corrado reacted swiftly, pulling his gun from his coat and aiming it at his sister with no hesitation. The sound of the gunshot ricocheted off the walls in the small enclosure, and Carmine recoiled at the deafening noise. The horses reared up again, spooked by the gunshot.
Katrina gasped as the bullet ripped through her chest, her footsteps halting as she swung the shovel in reaction. It slammed into Carmine’s shoulder blade, sharp pain running through his left side. Katrina sputtered and dropped the shovel to clutch her chest. Another shot rang out, hitting dead center between her eyes, and she dropped to the ground.
A frantic Michael screamed, lunging for him, and Corrado reacted once more. Ducking, Carmine covered his head when the gunshot rang out, blood splattering in his direction as the bullet ripped through Michael’s skull. He fell forward with a thud beside his wife, limp on impact.
Carmine dry heaved again as Corrado fired a few more shots into their bodies, his finger casually pulling the trigger as if it meant nothing. As if they weren’t people. As if they weren’t his family.
Glaring, Corrado yanked Carmine off the ground. He staggered a few steps as he gained his footing, his legs trying to buckle under his weight. He swayed, trying to hold everything in, but the annihilation sent shockwaves through him.
Corrado returned his gun to his coat and pulled out his cell phone as Carmine sat on the small stool. Putting his head between his legs, he covered his face with his hands and took deep breaths. He counted to ten, trying to calm down, but his ears rang and head pounded as Corrado spoke calmly into the phone.
One.
“There’s been an incident.”
Two.
“I burned two, sir.”
Three.
“A confrontation escalated.”
Four.
“I had to act.”
Five.
“My sister and her husband.”
Six.
“I take full responsibility.”
Seven.
“I’ll get a place ready.”
Eight.
“And I’ll accept any consequences . . .”
Nine.
“ . . . even if it means rescinding my vouch for the girl.”
Ten.
Carmine stared at his uncle when he hung up. “Rescind your vouch?”
Corrado slipped his phone into his pocket. “Yes. You better hope Sal feels forgiving, because I just broke our code of conduct.”
“I, uh . . .”
“There’s nothing else to say, Carmine. What’s done is done.”
“But, uh . . .” Corrado’s nonchalance scared him. “Your sister. You always protect your family.”
“Well, you’re my nephew, correct?” Carmine nodded. “And Katrina attacked you, correct?” Another nod. “That means I protected my family. My sister and her husband made their beds, and it’s nobody’s fault but their own they now lie in them.”
Carmine didn’t speak, afraid he’d get sick if he tried. He never imagined things would happen like this—never imagined the day would end with him splattered in blood, the same blood that coursed through Haven’s veins, while both of the people who brought her into existence were dead.
“It’s over now,” Corrado said, looking at the bodies. “This isn’t yours to deal with . . . it’s mine. But I hope this teaches you a lesson, and you finally realize you don’t know everything.”
* * *
Haven jolted awake, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she sat upright in the dark motel room. The black-and-white static on the television screen faintly illuminated Carmine standing by the doorway. A strange sensation trickled through her, a coldness starting in her chest. “Carmine?”
He stared at her, and in the glow of the television, she could see his panic. His eyes shined with tears of desperation, and she knew something had gone wrong.
“What happened?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”
Carmine took a step forward and ever so slightly shook his head. The subtle movement rocked her foundation. When he stepped farther into the light, she could see the red on his shirt, the splatter of blood. She had seen it before, streaking her blue dress as she stared down at the body of the fallen teenage girl. It was the mark of desolation. It was the mark of death. “Oh God, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“It’s not me,” he whispered, his face twisting in agony. “She’s gone.”
She’s gone. Haven knew those words. He’d said them about his own mama.
Haven’s chest constricted as it felt like her lungs had collapsed, her insides bursting into vicious flames. “No!”
Carmine’s raspy voice echoed with distress as he reached for her, but she pushed him as hard as she could. “Stop! You’re wrong! Where is she, Carmine? What happened to my mama?”
Despite her attempts to get away, Carmine grabbed her and squeezed her tightly. She tried to push out of his arms but he held on, never wavering. “Let go! Tell me where she is!”
He shushed her, and she could hear his voice tremble as he started to cry. “I’m sorry, hummingbird, but she isn’t coming back.”
His tears shattered what was left of her resolve. Uncontrollable sobs ripped from her as she wailed on him, screaming that he didn’t know anything. Balling her hands into fists, she repeatedly hit him in the back. He took every blow in stride, never once loosening his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did everything I could, but she’s f**king gone.”
Her panic surged. She chanted the word no and screamed incoherently, telling him he needed to go make it right. She blamed him, because he wasn’t giving her an explanation, his reassuring words only stinging more. He ignored his ringing phone, not moving an inch as he took everything she threw at him, every harsh word and painful scream.
Every “I hate you” echoing from her chest was followed by an “I love you” from his lips. Every time she begged him to let go, he told her he would be there forever. His hold was strong, his arms familiar, but it did nothing to take away her pain.
“She didn’t suffer,” he whispered. “It was her choice.”
* * *
Haven barely said a thing for days. Carmine explained to her what happened, told her what he knew, but she didn’t react. She said nothing. They stayed in the motel in California for the rest of the week, but by the time the weekend rolled around, they had to go. The Mafia had departed and his father was still alive, having diffused another situation. They had only come to clean out the basement, worried about the police attention centered on Vincent.
The drive was strained without conversation. Carmine stopped frequently during the day to take breaks. By the time the weekend came to a close, they were pulling back into the city limits of Durante. He parked beside his father’s Mercedes when they reached the house, and he climbed out, stretching. Haven went straight inside, not bothering to wait for him. He followed her, running into his father the moment he stepped into the foyer.
Vincent eyed them cautiously. “Hey, kids.”
“Hey,” Carmine said.
“Dr. DeMarco,” Haven said. “May I be excused, sir?”
“Of course, dolcezza. You don’t have to ask.”
Carmine frowned, watching as she disappeared up the stairs. “I guess I’m going to bed.”
His father sighed. “Take it one day at a time, Carmine.”
42
Bookcases towered above Haven like skyscrapers. Strolling among the stacks, she occasionally pulled out a book and surveyed the front cover before skimming the description on the back.
They’d been back in Durante for a few days, just in time for Carmine’s senior year of school. He immersed himself in class and football, leaving Haven with days to fill on her own. She cooked and cleaned, but she still had hours left over with nothing to do and no one to talk to.
Needing something to distract her, she turned to the library, hoping to get lost in a different world, to be absorbed in a fictional time and place, the life of someone else. She wanted to forget about everything so she wasn’t constantly plagued with thoughts of her mama’s last moments. She found herself wondering what she’d been thinking: Had she been scared? Had she been in pain? Was there ever a moment that she second-guessed her decision?
The feeling of failure nagged Haven. She ran that day in Blackburn because she had been desperate to save her mama, and she hadn’t forgotten that. But now it was too late. Her mama was gone.
Haven ran her fingers along the spines of some books, and came across one without a name. She pulled out the leather-bound book and a piece of paper tumbled to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it, her brow furrowing when she saw it was a letter.
Walking to the chair by the window, she sat with the book in her lap as she scanned the withering note.
10/08/97
Mrs. DeMarco,
After careful consideration, I’ve decided I can no longer be a part of this investigation. I took the case without knowing the details, and had I known them at the time, I would have declined. For all intents and purposes, Haven Antonelli does not exist, and I implore you to forget you ever encountered her. Enclosed you’ll find a full refund of my fees. Consider our contract severed, and I request you no longer contact me concerning this.
Arthur L. Brannigan
Private Investigator
Stunned, Haven scanned the paper a second time, certain she had to have misread, as pieces of the puzzle filled in to expose a hidden picture that left her speechless. Eyes brimming with tears, her stomach dropped when she realized the date on the top of the paper.
October 8, 1997—a few days before Maura DeMarco had been killed.
* * *
Vincent tapped his pen against his desk, surrounded by mounds of files. Work piled up, but he couldn’t focus on it. His attention kept wandering, his thoughts and eyes drifting toward the live feed playing on the screen beside him.