Sempre: Redemption

26

Christmas on the Upper East Side turned out to be a more formal affair than Haven anticipated. No gifts were exchanged in the morning, no stories shared in the afternoon. At precisely three o’clock they all gathered in the large dining room, the four of them sitting at a table fit for a dozen. The staff served the meal, quietly and swiftly fixing each of them a plate before disappearing from the room.

Haven stared down at her food as the others started eating, her stomach in tight knots. Those people, the servants—didn’t they have families? Why were they working there on Christmas?

Thoughts of the worst kind infiltrated her mind. They couldn’t be, could they? A senator, a man of the law, wouldn’t keep slaves in his home.

Would he?

The possible answer to that terrified Haven.

“So, Hayden . . .”

Haven looked up from her plate, turning to Kelsey’s mother, Anita, down the table from her. Anita wore her dark hair in a tight bun on top of her head, a long string of pearls draped around her neck. She sipped from a glass of white wine that she had already refilled twice since they sat down.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Tell me about your family.”

Haven stared at her. “My family?”

“Yes, your family. I’d like to know why you’re not with them on Christmas.”

“Mother . . .” Kelsey hissed through clenched teeth at the same time her father muttered, “Anita, please.”

“Relax, I’m merely curious,” she said, waving them both off as she eyed Haven. “So, your family?”

“Well, uh . . . I don’t really have one,” she replied. “My parents are both gone.”

“An orphan?” Anita gasped loudly, leaning closer to the table. “How tragic! How did they die?”

“Car accident,” she answered right away, swallowing back the harsh truth that the only parent she really ever had took her own life to free herself from restraints . . . restraints put on her by the man who was supposed to be her father.

“So sad,” Anita said. “What about your other family members? Brothers? Cousins? Uncles? Aunts? Do you have anybody?”

“That’s enough, Anita,” Cain said, his voice firm. “Drop it.”

“Oh, get off it,” Anita said as she took a sip of her drink. “You can’t tell me you’re not curious why a young girl has no place to go on Christmas.”

“She has someplace to go,” Cain countered. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

Anita scoffed. “Please, Cain. Nobody actually wants to be here. Not even our own daughter wants to be in this house.”

“That’s because you always give everyone the third degree,” he said. “I don’t even want to come here half the time because of your interrogations.”

“Oh, don’t give me that! That’s not why you don’t come home! Maybe you can lie to everyone else and have them believe the bullshit that comes out of your mouth, but not me.”

“Bullshit?” Cain slammed his hand down on the table. “You want to talk about bullshit, let’s talk about it.”

Back and forth they went, bickering, slamming each other with harsh words. Kelsey continued to eat, completely unfazed, while Haven flinched and cringed at their exchange of hostility. It went on forever until suddenly they both seemed to run out of things to say.

Silence strangled the room. Haven took a few bites of her food, forcing it down, grateful that was over.

Until Anita spoke again. “So Kelsey, sweetheart, how bad did you fail school this time?”

“I didn’t fail,” Kelsey said. “I made mostly As and Bs with one D.”

“What was the D in?”

“Painting.”

“How in the world?” Anita shook her head in disapproval. “Even a monkey could pass that class. Any idiot can slap paint on a canvas.”

The words were like a crack to Haven’s chest. She let out an involuntary gasp, stung by the insult. Cain’s eyes darted from her over to his wife. “Dammit, Anita.”

“Oh, you’re a painter?” she asked. “I’m sure your work is lovely, dear. Just lovely. My daughter, on the other hand . . .”

The bickering started all over again.

Haven breathed a deep sigh of relief when dinner ended. Kelsey excused herself to use the restroom while Anita grabbed the bottle of wine and darted from the room, leaving Haven alone with Kelsey’s father.

The staff came in to clear the table. Haven watched them curiously, forgetting Cain was there until he spoke. “They’ve been employed by my family for a long time.”

Haven glanced at him curiously. “What?”

“The staff. They’ve worked for me for years, since Kelsey was a baby. Christmas is completely voluntary, but since they get paid double on holidays they usually all choose to work part of their shift.”

“Oh.” Suspicion washed through Haven. “How did you . . . ?”

“How did I know you wondered?” he asked, nailing her question right away. “I didn’t grow up wealthy. My mother moonlighted as a dancer. My father was a conman. Needless to say, I know that look on your face well.”

“What look is that?”

“The look of not understanding how life can deal someone such a crummy hand.” Cain stood, tipping his head. “It was nice meeting you. You’re welcome here any time.”

He walked out, leaving Haven alone in the giant dining room. Kelsey returned after a moment, pausing in the doorway. “So?”

“So,” Haven said, standing up, “maybe you weren’t totally exaggerating.”

Kelsey laughed. “Told you. Terrible.”

Terrible? Maybe not, but they certainly reminded Haven of people she had tried to avoid since she was a kid.

Saint Mary’s Catholic Church was a ghost town on a Saturday night, the rows of pews leading up to the pulpit vacant. The Bibles were all closed, tucked into their wooden nests, awaiting tomorrow’s service when the words printed on their pages would once again become front and center in dozens of lives.

Lives that, when the moon shone in the night sky, casually and callously disregarded the commandments they swore to abide by in the Sunday morning sunlight.

Vincent slipped into the church under the cloak of darkness, shrouded in an oversize black hooded sweatshirt covered in thick snowflakes. He removed his hood once safely inside, exposing his dark unkempt hair. He hadn’t had a cut in weeks, nor had he taken the time to shave—his scruffy hair coated his jaw while baggy jeans hung loosely from his waist. He appeared to be quite the opposite of the clean-cut doctor he once was.

He strolled up the aisle toward the front of the church, stopping near the massive organ to the left of the pulpit. It didn’t take long, only a moment or two, before Vincent heard footsteps behind him in the church. They were subtle, undetectable to ears that weren’t trained to listen to the dangers carried on the wind.

He hadn’t seen Father Alberto in quite some time—not since he had spilled his soul, letting loose all of his deepest, darkest demons—but he needed the man now. He needed his guidance. He needed to know that sometimes it was okay to do something immoral in order to spare others from suffering. Two wrongs don’t make a right, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, one inconceivable wrong could be forgiven if it set it all straight again.

Vincent bowed his head as he closed his tired eyes, sullenly making the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“What else is new?”

Vincent’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice, low yet striking, entirely detached and frighteningly familiar. Guarded, Vincent’s heart pounded as hard as a bass drum when he turned around, coming face-to-face with the last person he expected to encounter: Corrado.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Corrado said, standing beside the front pew a few feet away. “You haven’t been stealing your son’s clothes, have you? It’s really not a good look.”

Vincent eyed his brother-in-law suspiciously. Corrado seemed relaxed, his hands in the pants pockets of his black fitted suit as he stared at him, awaiting a response.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Vincent asked.

Corrado shook his head. “Lucky guess. You’re quite predictable, to be honest. Just as predictable as your son.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Vincent,” Corrado replied. “Church sanctuary ended centuries ago. They can’t offer you protection anymore. Well, maybe protection from God, but not from man. Nothing can protect you from man’s wrath. Not the police and certainly not a priest.”

“I didn’t come for asylum,” Vincent said. “I came to get advice.”

“Ah, maybe I can help you, then. Please, continue. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . .” Corrado raised his eyebrows expectantly as he trailed off.

Vincent glanced around. Corrado was blocking the main exit of the church. There was nowhere for him to go, no way to leave unless Corrado allowed him to pass. “It’s been six months since my last confession.”

“Six months,” Corrado repeated. “I’m sure you have a bit of repenting to do then.”

Vincent scoffed. “Probably not as much as you.”

Corrado let out a laugh as he pulled his hands from his pockets. Vincent’s hair bristled when he saw the black leather gloves. It was a sight he knew well, the sight of the man at work. He was like a reaper, a malicious spirit ripping the life from men before vanishing undetected, leaving no trace of himself behind.

Corrado’s victims rarely knew what hit them. Most never even saw him as he snuck up on them in the night, firing a single shot through the base of their skull, severing their spinal cord and killing them instantly. It was neat and tidy, painless and quick. He was in and out and on to the next thing within a matter of minutes. Corrado wasn’t in the business of torture . . . unless you made him mad.

When Corrado got angry, when he took things personally, a different side of him emerged. The ugly, green monster burst forth, ripping through his calm skin, and nobody was safe from his rage when that happened. He never made a mistake, never got sloppy, but the otherwise unruffled man was no longer merciful. He would tear a man to pieces, slowly, methodically, until everything left behind was no longer recognizable.

“Did Sal send you?” Vincent asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Corrado shook his head. “I came on my own.”

Not business. Personal.

Corrado took a step forward then, tugging his gloves to make sure they were on tight, and Vincent instantly took a step away. He did it again, and again, and again, like the two of them were doing a deadly tango.

“I don’t want to believe it,” Corrado said, “but seeing you here—seeing you like this—I can’t help but wonder if it’s true.”

“It’s not how it seems,” Vincent said.

Corrado shook his head. “It never really is, is it? But that’s irrelevant, and you know it. You crossed a line, and it doesn’t matter why you did it or what you planned to do on that other side, the fact that you went over there is inexcusable. Lupo non mangia lupo. How many times did we hear your father say that when he was alive? How many times? Wolves don’t eat wolves. We don’t turn on our own.”

“You’re right,” Vincent said. “If you can’t trust your own kind, who can you trust?”

“No one, according to your son,” Corrado said. “Non fidarsi di nessuno. Did you even stop to think about how this is going to affect him? How this is already affecting him?”

Thoughts of Carmine made Vincent’s chest ache. “Is he okay?”

“Of course he’s not okay. He’ll never again be okay! It’s his job to kill you!”

Flinching from the hostility, Vincent took a few quick steps back. “You can’t let him do it.”

“I don’t plan to.” Corrado stealthily moved with him, not missing a beat.

A loud voice echoed through the cathedral then, stalling them both. Father Alberto stepped out of his office, scowling. Corrado backed up, putting some space between him and Vincent, as the priest swiftly approached. “Gentlemen, I’m not a man to judge, and I’ve never condemned you for your life choices, but there comes a point where enough is enough! You don’t bring that into the house of the Lord. This is a place of worship, of love, of acceptance. We’re always open, but only to those who check their sinning at the door.”

“You’re right.” Corrado shoved his hands back into his pockets. “This isn’t the time or the place for this.”

“And what, exactly, are you two squabbling over?” the priest asked. “You’re family!”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Vincent said. “That’s all.”

“Right, a misunderstanding,” Corrado agreed, clearing his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I should be going. I have business to handle later tonight.”

Father Alberto raised his eyebrows at him. “I hope not too late. I expect to see you planted in one of these pews tomorrow morning.”

“I wouldn’t miss your service for anything, Father,” Corrado said, looking from the priest to Vincent. “It’ll all be finished before the sun comes up.”

He turned, casually strolling toward the exit as if he had not a care in the world. Vincent and Father Alberto both watched, remaining silent until Corrado disappeared outside into the night. Vincent sighed, running his hands down his face in exasperation. Not good. Not good at all.

“Oh, Vincenzo, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“A situation with no way out,” he said quietly.

“I don’t believe that,” Father Alberto said. “There’s always a way out.”

“Alive?”

Father Alberto was quiet, staring at the door Corrado had disappeared out of as he pondered Vincent’s question.

“That’s what I thought,” Vincent muttered when the priest supplied no response. “I guess there are worse things to be than dead.”

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” Father Alberto said, quoting Matthew 11:28. “As true as that may be, I don’t like you sounding so defeated. You should never give up.”

“I’m not giving up, Father. I’m giving in. I’ve fought against the current for a long time, but in the end I got swept downstream anyway. And I can’t keep swimming. I can’t. I’m too damn tired to do it anymore.”

“So, what, you just let yourself drown?” Father Alberto asked with disbelief.

“No,” Vincent said. “I wait for someone to throw me a lifeline, and then I drift away.”

“And what if no one does? Certain things are unforgiveable. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“I have faith I won’t have to.”

Father Alberto shook his head. “You look terrible, Vincenzo. Come, I have an extra cot in the back for you to get some sleep.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Then at least eat something and freshen up.”

He wanted to refuse, but the thought of food and a shower was too tempting to resist. Following Father Alberto to the back, he scarfed down two sandwiches and a bag of chips as the man sat across from him, studying him with his concerned eyes. “Is there a reason you came here tonight?”

“Advice,” he said. “My father used to have this saying: chi tace acconsente. I just wondered what you thought about it.”

Chi tace acconsente. Silence gives consent. Antonio DeMarco believed if you wanted something, if you believed in something, it was your responsibility to fight for it. If you remained silent, if you just stood back and did nothing, then you had no one to blame but yourself when nothing happened.

“I believe your father was a wise man,” Father Alberto said. “I may not have agreed with his choices, but I always admired his beliefs when it came to family and responsibility. And it’s true—if you stand for nothing, you’ll fall for anything.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Is that scripture?”

Father Alberto smiled. “No, I believe it was Alexander Hamilton.”

“Thanks, Father.” Vincent stood. “I’ll take that shower now, if you don’t mind.”

Father Alberto showed him to the small bathroom. Vincent stripped out of his clothes, sighing as he pulled the simple gold necklace from around his neck, setting it on a shelf beside the towels. He squeezed into the shower, the stall so tiny he barely fit inside, and scrubbed with a bar of unscented soap. After washing his hair, he got out and dried off, putting his dirty clothes right back on again.

Vincent walked away, avoiding Father Alberto and any sort of good-bye as he made the inevitable journey to the exit. He covered his head with his hood again when he stepped outside, his hair still damp. A nice breeze hit his face as he stopped on the top of the church steps and peered out at the empty street.

A chill ran through his body, but it had nothing to do with the cool night air.

“Corrado.” He greeted him quietly, not bothering to look at the figure lurking in the shadows beside the steps. He knew he would be out here, waiting for him.

“Well, Vincent, we could call you a lot of things, but a coward certainly isn’t one of them.”

“Come on! We’re running behind!”

Corrado stood in the upstairs bathroom, early morning sunlight streaming in the window as he stared at his reflection in the small mirror. He was already showered and dressed, but he had done little else to prepare for the day. Exhaustion infiltrated every cell in his body, clearly visible in the lines on his face. He studied them, surveying every mark and blemish, every gray hair on his head and every blood vessel in his tired eyes.

“Do you hear me, Corrado? We’re going to be late!”

Celia stepped into the bathroom, frowning. Without saying another word, she walked up behind him and fixed the collar of his shirt.

“Twenty-seven years,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “We’ve been married for almost three decades and you still have to fix my tie most days.”

She smiled. “It’s hard to believe it’s been that long.”

“I know,” he said, glancing from her reflection back to his. “I’m showing my age.”

Celia laughed as he turned around to face her. “You’re still as handsome as the day we met.”

“And you’re even more beautiful.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her lips on his own. She broke the kiss within a matter of seconds, though, and wrinkled her nose when she pulled away. “You’re quite a bit scruffier now, though,” she said, rubbing the prickly hair on his jaw.

“I didn’t feel like shaving,” he said. “Don’t have the energy today.”

“You do look tired,” she commented, her hand moving from his face to his hair. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Some.”

“You got in really late last night.”

“Yes.”

He gazed at her, seeing the questions in her warm brown eyes. Where were you? Where did you go? What did you do? Who were you with? Who did you hurt? They were questions that nagged her, always on the tip of her tongue, but she would never ask and he was grateful for it. He didn’t want to lie to her, and there was no way he could tell her he had stalked her only brother a mere few hours ago like he was prey, cornering him like a wounded animal in the same church they were headed to.

“Well, come on,” she said, looking away from him. “We still have to pick up Mom, and you know she hates being late. If we don’t hurry, she’s going to complain the entire time.”

Corrado stepped out of the bathroom, shutting off the light, and followed his wife out to the car. Neither said much on the drive to Sunny Oaks Manor where Gia DeMarco had resided for the past few years. Corrado was never fond of the woman and her harsh tongue, but he had the utmost respect for her.

When they arrived, Celia went upstairs to get her as Corrado waited by the entrance. He opened the car door when he saw them coming and Gia slid into the back seat of the Mercedes without acknowledging him. She scowled, her arms crossed over her chest.

Corrado shut the door, sighing, as Celia shot him a pointed look that said whatever they were about to endure was entirely his fault.

He would take the blame. It was the least he could do.

“You look nice, Gia,” he said politely as he pulled out into traffic. “Is that a new dress?”

“Is that a new dress?” she muttered, mocking him. She stubbornly stared out the side window of the car, refusing to look in his direction. “I’m not a child, you know, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one—especially by you. Antonio would have your head if he were still alive, God rest that bastard’s soul.”

“He would,” Corrado agreed quietly. “Antonio would be severely disappointed.”

“It really is a nice dress, Mom,” Celia chimed in, glancing into the backseat with a hopeful smile plastered on her face. “That color blue looks fantastic on you.”

“And other colors don’t?” Gia asked, finally shifting position to look at her daughter. Her gaze scanned her, picking her apart piece by piece with her sharp eyes. “You shouldn’t wear so much black, Celia. The darkness washes you out, and you look like you’re in mourning. People are going to think you’re unhappy. They’re going to start wondering about your marriage. Is that what you want? For them to think you can’t please your husband?”

“Don’t be silly,” Celia said, turning back around. “Everyone knows I wear black because it’s slimming.”

“Well, it doesn’t appear to be working,” Gia said. “Maybe you should try exercise.”

Celia forced a laugh, but Corrado could tell from her expression that the insult stung. He reached over to grab his wife’s hand, wordlessly comforting her.

They pulled up to a stoplight, traffic heavy despite it being early on a Sunday. Gia dramatically exhaled and Corrado glanced in the rearview mirror in just enough time to see her turn her stubborn eyes back out the side window. “I can’t believe we’re late. We’re going to have to sit in the back.”

“We always sit in the back, Mom.”

“Because we want to, not because we have to,” Gia said. “I hate when I don’t have a choice. I should have a choice, you know. When your father was alive, everyone waited for us to sit first. It was a matter of respect. No one cares anymore.”

Corrado sighed in relief when the light turned green.

The church was packed when they finally arrived, and Corrado had to park around the corner. He offered Gia his arm, but she refused and walked a few feet ahead of him, huffing the entire way. Celia tried to keep up with her mother but Corrado didn’t bother, instead strolling slowly toward the church doors.

He slid into the back pew beside his wife a few minutes later, smoothing out his jacket. Mass had already started, Father Alberto standing up front preaching about love and forgiveness. Corrado remained quiet through the service, merely going through the motions, and he stayed in his seat when it was time for communion. When it was over and they were dismissed, Corrado was out the door before anyone else.

Celia and Gia joined him, lingering with the others and greeting friends. Corrado stood along the side, patiently waiting for them, when Father Alberto sought him out in the crowd. “I didn’t see you at first, Corrado. I thought perhaps you were missing church today, after all.”

“Of course not, Father,” he replied. “We were just running a bit late.”

The priest eyed him closely. “Will I be seeing you later this week?”

“For . . . ?”

“Anything,” he said. “My door is always open, but as you know, I regularly take confession on Wednesday nights.”

He was fishing, Corrado realized. He wanted information that Corrado wasn’t going to give.

“Maybe,” he replied. “The week’s still young. There’s no telling what may happen between now and then.”