Carmine sat in the library, holding a tan acoustic guitar. Darkness obstructed Haven’s view of his face, but the glow from the moonlight illuminated his hands as he plucked the strings.
She took a few steps forward, entranced as the music smoothed out and grew louder. It swirled all around her, goose bumps springing up as the melody seeped into her skin. Her stomach fluttered and limbs tingled, warmth spreading throughout her body. She closed her eyes, reveling in the foreign sensation, until the music stopped.
Haven’s eyes snapped back open, and she could see his face then, still partially encased in the shadows. He frowned, staring at her with questions in his eyes, but she had no answers to give.
Turning on her heel, Haven ran back into the room and closed the door, pressing her back against it as the music started up once more.
* * *
The next morning, Carmine woke up earlier than usual and grabbed a bowl of cereal, his footsteps faltering in the family room. Dominic sat on the couch reading a Sports Illustrated, and Haven was beside him, neither of them speaking.
Before Carmine could utter a single word, Haven leaped to her feet and scurried away. He watched her retreating form before taking the seat she’d vacated. “She acts like I’m diseased and she’s gonna catch something by coming near me.”
Dominic nodded. “I noticed.”
“I haven’t done anything.” He paused. “I don’t think, anyway.”
“You don’t realize how abrasive you come off,” Dominic said. “It’s the way you look at people.”
Carmine shrugged. There wasn’t anything he could do about that. “Whatever. There’s obviously something wrong with her.”
“Have you taken the time to ask her what it might be?”
“Haven’t had a chance,” he said. “Like I said, she runs from me.”
“Well, maybe if you took an interest in her, she wouldn’t act sketchy around you.”
“Is that what you did—took an interest?” Carmine asked. “I’m not sure Tess would be happy about that.”
Dominic shoved him, spilling some of his cereal. “I was nice to her, bro. You should try it.”
Carmine brushed some of the stray Lucky Charms from his lap, glaring at the wet patch where the milk had soaked into his pants. “Asshole.”
* * *
Vincent DeMarco was an easily recognized man. The people in Durante knew him as the talented doctor and the dedicated single father, the wealthy bachelor women rigorously pursued. He’d accumulated a few wayward gray hairs, but he looked younger than his forty years. He was like his father that way. Antonio DeMarco had died at fifty when he looked more like a youthful thirty-five.
Genetics, Vincent thought, was a peculiar thing.
Although he was well known, few people saw the man behind the mask. Vincent felt like he lived two different lives, both equally real yet at odds with each other. He liked to believe he was the family man that others saw, but he was also deeply committed to a different type of family.
A family not bonded by genetics, instead forged by spilled blood and sworn oaths. LCN, the government called it, short for La Cosa Nostra, but it was known by many different names: la famiglia, borgata, outfit, syndicate. It all meant the same. The Mafia.
He’d taken a step back from the life years ago, moving away from Chicago and the center of the action, but there was no leaving the organization once it had you in its brutal grasp. He was kept on as an unofficial consigliere to the Don, Salvatore Capozzi. Vincent’s job was to play the middleman, to give advice when asked and come when called, and he did this obediently, taking care of whatever needed to be handled. But just because he was good at what he did, didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Vincent sat in the smoky den of the mansion in Lincoln Park, holding a full glass of scotch as he listened to the swarm of men debate business. There were twenty of them, but Vincent wasn’t sure why half were there. They had no say in how things were run, some of them so new they hadn’t earned their buttons. There was no reason to trust them—no reason to confide in them—considering there was no blood on their hands.
Not to say he wanted them to be murderers. He envied their clear consciences and wished he could warn them all to turn away. Get out while they still could, because someday it would be too late . . . and that someday would probably end with a lengthy prison sentence.
Or a hollow-point bullet to the brain. Vincent hadn’t decided which outcome would be worse.
But he couldn’t warn anyone. He’d sworn an oath to put the organization first, and if the organization wanted these dime-a-dozen thugs, Vincent would deal with his ill feelings silently. He’d initiated young—one of the youngest made men in history. Usually guys struggled for decades trying to prove themselves worthy, most never surviving long enough to see it happen. But not Vincent. He’d slipped right in the door while his father was in control.
He wasn’t the youngest to do business with them, though. Kids were recruited fresh from high school, molded into vindictive soldiers to do the family’s bidding. The young ones incurred all the risk, while those at the top lavished in the fruits of their labor.
Blood money. Hundreds had died to pay for the mansion in which they sat.
“We cannot tolerate these things. They are savages.”
Giovanni was speaking, his thick accent making Vincent strain to pay attention. Sicilian by birth, he’d immigrated to America a decade before and moved up in rank to become their highest-producing Capo. Some of his crew was present, sitting off to the side. Vincent had a hard time remembering the names of the soldati, but one he was familiar with was Nunzio.