Sempre: Redemption

3

The sun had started to set when they settled into the family room that evening to watch a movie. Long shadows stretched across the floor, accented by the colored lights twinkling from the tree. Dominic ordered Chinese food before calling his girlfriend, Tess, to come over. She, too, was in town from Notre Dame and arrived within a matter of minutes, squeezing beside Dominic in a chair with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Haven and Carmine lounged on the couch, sitting so close their arms touched. Celia had excused herself to join her husband, while Vincent claimed to have some work to do upstairs.

“What’s Dr. DeMarco doing?” Haven asked quietly, leaning closer to Carmine. “He’s never around anymore.”

“Yeah, I think he’s up to something.”

“Like what?”

“I wish I knew,” he said. “But desperate times call for desperate measures, so whatever it is has gotta be drastic.”

“You think there’s trouble?” she asked, a tinge of panic in her voice.

He laughed dryly. “When isn’t there?”

A string of loud knocks vibrated the front door. They all glanced around at one another, nobody making a move to answer it. Carmine stood, shaking his head. “Don’t everyone get up at the same time.”

“I would’ve gotten it,” Haven said, “but I don’t have any money.”

“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay.”

“Thanks, DeMarco,” Tess said, tossing a piece of popcorn across the room at him. “At least you’re good for something.”

He flashed his middle finger at her.

Tess scrunched up her nose. “You can shove that finger up your ass.”

“Fuck you.”

Carmine headed for the foyer and pulled out his wallet to sort through his cash. The person at the door banged impatiently, loud and forceful. “Christ, I’m coming. Who do you think you are, pounding like the fucking—?”

He froze abruptly when he opened the door, his gaze falling on a shiny gold badge held up at eye level. “Police,” the officer said stoically.

Carmine’s response was immediate. “I have nothing to say.”

“You don’t even know what I want,” the officer said with a sharp laugh, amused by Carmine’s reaction. “I’m Detective Jack Baranski. Is there a girl named Haven here?”

“Why?” Carmine asked.

“I’d like to talk to her about a boy named Nicholas Barlow.”

Carmine’s muscles immediately seized up, his heart pounding aggressively as a brutal vision of his former friend forced its way to the front of his mind.

The loud bang of a gunshot ringing out in the distance. A piercing scream cutting through the air. Nicholas dropping to his knees and clutching his chest as he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. There was nothing but strangled silence. He was gone within a matter of seconds.

Dead.

Fucking dead.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” the detective said when Carmine didn’t respond. “May I come in?”

Carmine shook his head, barely able to get out the words. “Go away.”

Before he could slam the door in the man’s face, Vincent’s voice rang out behind him. “Let him in, son.”

Carmine turned to see his father standing on the stairs. He had to have heard wrong. Vincent DeMarco would never willingly invite law enforcement into his home. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Vincent descended the last few steps into the foyer. “Let him ask his questions.”

“No way,” Carmine spat. He was about to ask his father if he had lost his mind when his brother interrupted.

“Where the hell’s the food? I’m starving here,” Dominic hollered, stepping out of the great room and glancing toward the front door. His eyes went wide when he saw the police officer. “Whoa, definitely not the delivery guy! What did you do now, bro?”

Carmine groaned. Why did he have to assume it was him?

“He isn’t here for Carmine,” Vincent said. “He just has a few questions for Haven, and then he’ll be on his way.”

Begrudgingly, Carmine moved aside so Vincent could lead the detective into the family room. Dominic excused himself, bolting upstairs and dragging Tess along with him. Carmine went to close the door when a car pulled up, the Chinese delivery guy parking behind the unmarked police cruiser. Carmine shoved some money at the guy, then snatched the food and slammed the door, dropping their dinner off in the kitchen before hurrying to the family room.

Carmine sat on the arm of the couch beside Haven, not wanting to be far from her, as the man cleared his throat. “I’d prefer to speak to her alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Unfortunately for you, I do mind,” Vincent said. “I invited you in, but I won’t be put out by you.”

“Fine.” Detective Baranski pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Haven, do you know Nicholas Barlow?”

Haven picked at her fingernails as she started stammering. “Yes. Well, I know who he is, but I didn’t really know him that well. Or, I mean, I don’t . . . not didn’t.”

Her panicked eyes darted toward Carmine briefly before settling on the floor.

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Detective Baranski asked.

“The end of September,” she said. “Carmine had a football game that night.”

“And did anything out of the ordinary happen at the game?”

“I kicked his ass,” Carmine chimed in, wanting to spare her from having to recount it. “That’s not really out of the ordinary, though. We fought all the time.”

“Huh. Well, what happened after the fight?”

“He ran off,” Carmine said, “just like every other time we fought.”

The officer eyed Carmine suspiciously. “Was that the last time you saw him?”

“No, I saw him a week after that,” Carmine admitted. “I was taking the SAT at the high school when he showed up.”

“Why?”

“For shits and giggles. Why does anyone take the SATs?”

“I’m not asking you why you took the test,” Detective Baranski said impatiently. “I’m asking why he was there.”

Carmine shrugged, knowing what he meant the first time but not wanting to answer that question.

“Did anything happen then?”

“Exactly what happened every other time the two of us got together.”

“Another fight.” The officer nodded as if it were no surprise. “And the last time you saw him, Haven, was at the football game?”

“Yes.” She hesitated before shaking her head. “Well, no. I saw him later that night at Aurora Lake. We talked and then I went home.”

“And that was the last time you saw him?”

Her eyes quickly scanned the room as Vincent nodded, the movement so slight Carmine barely caught it. “Yes,” she whispered. Lying.

“Do you have any idea what might’ve happened to him?”

She didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

Tensing, Carmine looked at her incredulously. What the fuck?

“The night at the lake, he said there was nothing left here for him,” she said. “He talked about leaving, just disappearing, to start over somewhere where nobody knew him. I thought he was venting, but I wonder if that’s what he did.”

“It’s possible.” The officer closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket.

“I can’t help but think it’s my fault,” she continued. “Maybe I could’ve stopped him, or helped him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be . . . gone.”

Carmine’s chest tightened with guilt at her words.

“You can’t blame yourself for decisions other people make, miss,” Officer Baranski said, standing to leave. “I appreciate your time. If you think of anything else that might help us find Nicholas, give me a call.”

He pulled out a business card and Haven gingerly took it from him. Vincent showed the officer out and Haven sat still for a moment before crumpling the officer’s card up in a tight fist.

The tension in the room mounted. Carmine couldn’t stand the silence and turned to her as soon as the front door closed. “You really think this is your fault?”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “If I hadn’t—”

“That’s ridiculous,” he interrupted, not giving her a chance to explain. “You didn’t cause any of this.”

“But I did,” she said. “Don’t you see? All of it was me, Carmine, all because I’m some Princi—whatever! A stinking princess! Your mother and Nicholas died, Corrado got hurt, and you gave your life away like it didn’t even matter! What’s next? How much more is going to happen because of me?”

Carmine knew it then, seeing the tears flooding her sorrowful eyes, tears she had been holding back for weeks. The button had been pushed. The nuclear bomb had been ignited. Their fragile bubble of contentment was about to fucking explode.

“I won’t let you take that burden,” he said. “And don’t you dare feel guilty for what I did. If you wanna blame anyone for it, blame me. I did it because I wanted to, not because I had to. I did it because I love you, Haven, and you didn’t force me to fucking love you. I did that shit all on my own. And I don’t regret any of it.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I? You’re finally safe. You’re finally free.”

“Am I?” Haven shook her head with frustration. “Am I safe? Am I free?”

“Of course you are.” His brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“We’ve talked about this,” he said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “It means you can do anything you want—go where you wanna go, be what you wanna be, do what you wanna do. Fuck, be who you wanna be.”

“Can you?”

The question caught Carmine off guard. “Uh . . .”

Her voice cracked from distress. “Don’t you see, Carmine? How can I ever be free if you aren’t? How can I do those things if you can’t?”

“I think . . .” A ringing cell phone in Carmine’s pocket shattered his train of thought. He trailed off, pulling it out, and didn’t have to look at the screen to know it was Salvatore. Haven stood up without a word and started out of the room, but he called after her. “Wait, Haven. We need to talk about this so just . . . wait, okay? This will only take a minute.”

She stopped near the foyer and turned to him, tears still falling from her eyes. She said nothing.

His phone continued to ring in his hand and he groaned, knowing he needed to answer it. Taking a few steps over to the couch, Carmine sat down, his back to her. “Yes, sir?”

“I wondered if you were going to take my call,” Salvatore said.

“Of course I was,” he muttered, dropping his head and running his hand through his hair. He spotted the cop’s business card in a ball on the floor and snatched it up, frowning. “It’s just hectic here. I didn’t hear my phone.”

“Ah, well, I’m just calling to see how your holiday’s going. I assume Corrado has arrived, but I can’t get him to answer a phone, either.”

Carmine’s brow furrowed. A social call? “Yeah, he’s here. I think he’s asleep.”

“Makes sense,” Sal said. “He’s still recuperating, so I’m sure he needs his rest. It hasn’t been the same without him. It’ll be wonderful to have both of you on the job after Christmas.”

The color drained from Carmine’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Corrado didn’t tell you yet?” Sal asked. “I’ve requested he bring you back with him. I’ve been more than accommodating with your, uh, situation, but it’s time you build your life here. Chicago’s your home now. It was always supposed to be.”

“But it’s only been—”

“It’s been a month,” he said pointedly. “There’s nothing left there for you.”

Carmine knew there was no arguing with Salvatore. He had made his decision and nothing would change his mind. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

“I’m glad that’s settled,” Sal said. “I look forward to having you close by, Principe. Tell Corrado to call me when he wakes up. Buon Natale.”

Carmine hung up and glanced out of the room, wondering how much Haven had heard, and frowned when he saw the deserted foyer.

She hadn’t waited for him, after all.

“Is he okay?”

Vincent looked up from the papers on his desk, peering through his reading glasses at his son. Carmine strolled into the office, throwing himself down in the leather chair across from him. He slouched, his body language one of nonchalance, but Vincent could see the genuine concern in his eyes. “Your uncle?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s, uh . . . he’s still recovering,” Vincent said. “He’s only been conscious for a few weeks. He shouldn’t even be traveling yet.”

“But will he be okay?”

“You heard your aunt Celia. She said he’d—”

Carmine cut him off. “I know what she said, but I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.”

Vincent set the files down and leaned back in his chair. He removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes while his son quietly awaited a response. Carmine rolled a small ball of paper in his palm, tossing it from hand to hand.

“Look, Corrado was clinically dead. The human body is resilient, but the brain is vulnerable. It’s rare for someone to make a full recovery if they’re down for more than three minutes.”

“How long was Corrado down?”

“Four.”

Carmine seemed speechless, his mouth open but no words coming out.

“I’m not saying he won’t be fine,” Vincent continued, not wanting to alarm his son, but he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t sugarcoat it. “I’m just saying it’s too soon to tell. There’s no way to say what type of long-term effects Corrado will endure.”

“You mean like brain damage?”

“Yes, but not just that.” Vincent absentmindedly fumbled with the case file on his desk again. “Death has a way of changing people, son. When faced with our own mortality, we tend to start seeing the world differently. What once mattered may not be a priority anymore, and that’s not always easy for others to accept. We rejoice when people are saved, when lives are spared, but sometimes you have to stop and think, At what cost? Are we just prolonging the inevitable? Are we intervening when we have no right? Are we tampering with fate? We want them to live, but we have to consider that maybe they’re better off . . . not.”

It wasn’t until Vincent looked over at his son that he realized he had said too much. Carmine’s eyes were wide yet guarded, his mouth once again agape.

“I’m just rambling,” Vincent said, backtracking. “I’m exhausted and stressed and don’t know what I’m saying. Your uncle is going to be perfectly fine, Carmine. He defied medicine by even waking up, so there’s no reason to believe he won’t continue to do so. After all, according to the media, the man’s made of Kevlar.”

“I’ve heard,” Carmine said. “Mom tried to keep us from it all, but Dom and I used to see the newspaper headlines in Chicago. Corrado Moretti, the Kevlar Killer . . . arrested dozens of times but never convicted for any of his crimes.”

“Alleged crimes,” Vincent said. “I lost count on how many times he’s walked away from things that should’ve taken him down.”

“That’s a good thing,” Carmine said. “Since he has a record of beating charges, the two of you will probably get off of this RICO shit. Problem solved.”

“It’s a nice thought, but there’s a problem with that theory,” Vincent said. “The prosecution filed to have our cases tried separately, so I think I’m on my own.”

Carmine started to respond, but a voice stopped him before he could even get two words out. Vincent stiffened as he glanced past his son, seeing Corrado in the doorway to the office.

“You’ll be perfectly fine,” Corrado said, his voice flat.

“You think so?” Vincent asked.

Corrado nodded slightly. “We both will be.”

Vincent would have said more had he not been alarmed by his brother-in-law’s sudden presence. He had showered, his slightly curly hair still damp, his face smooth from a fresh shave.

“I’m going to bed,” Carmine muttered, standing up and bolting out of the room before Vincent could wish him a good night. Corrado stood in place for a moment before strolling into the office, sitting down in the chair Carmine had just vacated. He said nothing, but his eyes stared into Vincent intently.

“How much did you hear?” Vincent asked.

“Enough.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re right about people changing,” Corrado replied, “but I don’t think you were talking about me.”