Sempre (Forever) (23 page)

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. You’re the one taking the risk by trusting me. I appreciate it, and I’m not gonna take the shit for granted.”

He pressed his lips to hers softly, and she smiled when he pulled back away. “Wow.” She ran her fingers gently across his lips. “Your mouth is surprisingly sweet for saying such naughty things.”

He burst into laughter. “I think you’re delirious. How about we take that nap now before you tell me I smell like sunshine or something.”

“You do smell like sunshine.”

“And how does sunshine smell?”

“It smells like the outside world. Warm. Happy. Safe.” She paused. “Green.”

“Green?”

She nodded. “Green.”

He gazed at her, not knowing what else to say. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

*  *  *  *

Tarullo's Pizzeria was a small establishment, owned by second-generation immigrant John Tarullo. Vincent had known him for years, their children the same ages. He was what they called an
omu de panza
, a man with a belly, and
Cosa Nostra
rewarded him for it. He minded his own business and looked the other way, and they made certain no one threatened his business. Tarullo didn't like relying on the mob for anything—in fact, he’d told Vincent many times how much he detested the organization—but he knew if it wasn't them, it would be someone else. Someone would come around expecting something from him, and it was better that someone at least be a familiar face.

Vincent, personally, felt protective of the place. If it weren't for Tarullo, Carmine wouldn’t be alive today. He'd been the one to find him the night he’d been shot, and Vincent would forever feel indebted to the man for saving his son.

It was something Tarullo would rather forget, though.

They'd never had much trouble at Tarullo’s Pizzeria, since everyone knew the place was under their protection, so Vincent was caught off guard when he received a call to go to the place.

The moment he stepped inside the fairly empty restaurant, he heard the loud, disruptive voices. He stood still, his hand settling on the gun concealed in his coat as he surveyed the men standing at the front counter.

They were Caucasian and both had sandy hair. Vincent assessed them as they bickered back and forth, their voices slurring. He wasn’t sure why he was being called in for such a petty situation, but when the drunken men's focus shifted from each other to Tarullo, he took a step forward anyway. He barely made it three feet from the door when it opened behind him, and he turned to look. His movements stilled yet again when he saw the man enter.

A single Russian word boomed through the pizzeria, stopping both disruptive men instantly. “
Zatknis'
!”

Shut up
. It was one of the only things Vincent knew how to say in their language. He'd heard it barked many times in his life from the lips of the man now standing a few feet from him.

Vincent glared at him. He was tall and built like a linebacker, his gray hair concealed under a black cap. Although he had to be pushing seventy, the man had the mindset and skill of a psychopathic twenty-year-old assassin.

“Ivan Volkov,” Vincent said. “You're not welcome here.”

Ivan stared at him blankly for a moment before turning around and walking out of the pizzeria. Before the door could even close, he was stepping right back in. “I do not see your name on the sign. Do you own this place now?”

 “I don't need to own it,” Vincent said. “You have no business being in this part of town.”

Despite the fact that Vincent was fuming, Ivan had the audacity to smile. “Why are you always so serious? We have only come for pizza.”

“Go eat somewhere else.”

“But I wish to eat here.”

The two men stood there at an impasse, Vincent's hand still hovering near his gun. Ivan was unaffected, though, and appeared impatient as he scanned the price menu on the wall.

The door opened again, and Corrado walked in. He didn't even bother looking at Ivan as he stepped around him. “Volkov.”

“Moretti.”

“Leave.”

“Why?”

“Because I'll be forced to kill you if you don't, and I'm wearing my favorite shirt. It'll ruin my night to get your filthy blood on it.”

Ivan said nothing in response as Corrado casually strolled up to the counter. The two men standing there moved out of the way when Corrado reached into his coat. Everyone tensed, a suffocating silence blanketing the room, but instead of pulling out his gun, Corrado retrieved his wallet. “I need a small deep dish pie with sausage and mushrooms,” he said. “Extra cheese, too. Light on the sauce. You know how I like it.”

Tarullo rang him up, the chime of the register magnified in the edgy restaurant. “$17.78.”

Corrado handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change.

Ivan sighed then, motioning for his guys to leave before turning to Vincent. “We will see each other again.”

Vincent nodded. “I'm sure.”

The Russians left, their voices loud once more as they stepped out into the street. Vincent looked at his brother-in-law. Corrado eyed him peculiarly as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his pizza. “They’re trying to provoke us.”

“I know,” Vincent said. “Did you get a call to come here too?”

Corrado shook his head. “No, I just wanted some pizza.”

Vincent stared at him. “You know we’re expected to meet Sal for a sit-down, right?”

“Yes,” Corrado said, looking at his watch. “But I’m hungry.”

Sit-down's to
la famiglia
were nothing like the movies. Growing up, whenever Vincent overheard his father mention them, he envisioned elaborate meetings held much like court. He'd laugh, imagining his father in a black robe with a gavel, sitting on a bench while the parties argued their sides. The guilty man lost and justice was served, another case put to rest.

 No, sit-down's were nothing like that. Even their name was misleading. They more than often happened while on a casual stroll, sometimes adjourning with no words even spoken. You didn't plead your case, and it didn't matter if you were innocent. Judgment had been passed before you even showed up.

Vincent stood near a pier overlooking Lake Michigan with a few men standing to his side.
The Federica
floated not a hundred feet from him, and Vincent could see the person moving around on deck. It was a woman, and he stared at her for a moment, knowing it wasn’t Teresa. She looked young, maybe late-twenties, but there was a chance she wasn’t even yet old enough to drink. A
goomah
, a mistress, attracted to the lifestyle and turned on by the power she knew they held. Vincent thought them to be nothing but glorified prostitutes, exchanging sex for flashy gifts and trips abroad.

“Is Carlo coming?” Giovanni asked. Vincent turned away from the yacht, glancing around at the men that had gathered. Giovanni looked cold, bundled up in a thick coat.

Sal shook his head. “He’s gone back to Vegas.”

Carlo had taken over their operations in the casinos in Las Vegas a few years back, so he rarely appeared in Chicago anymore. Vincent resented him for the special treatment he received. He’d moved away too, but he was still expected to show up.

“So, fourteen pinched,” Sal said, getting down to business. “Two stool pigeons singing.”

There was collective grumbling among the men. Everyone knew what he was talking about. Fourteen members of
Cosa Nostra
had been arrested and two of them had turned state’s evidence, cooperating with the government.

“You gonna silence them?” Squint asked.

Vincent looked at him, still wary that he was invited to these secret meetings. “There’s too much heat. They’re being guarded.”

“So?” Squint said. “Take out the families. They’ll get the message.”

Vincent and Giovanni both opened their mouths to interject, but Corrado’s voice rang out before they could. “No.”

He was leaning against his Mercedes, clutching the box of pizza and devouring it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He said nothing else, no explanation, but that didn’t surprise Vincent. He’d said all he needed to with that one word.

“He’s right,” Sal said. “Just lay low until we know more.”

Squint grumbled to himself while Corrado continued to eat. Giovanni was starting to shiver, and Vincent grew impatient as Sal’s attention seemed to be drifting to the yacht.

“I think
The Federica
will need a good scrubbing soon,” Sal mused. “Kid on the east side seems to want to go for a spin. He keeps hinting at it. I might have to oblige.”

So casually spoken, but Vincent knew whoever that kid was wouldn’t be coming back from that trip alive.

They spoke a bit more as Vincent’s mind wandered, only returning to the conversation when the Russians were mentioned.

“We need to act,” Giovanni said. “I still believe this is a mistake.”

“They were at Tarullo’s tonight,” Vincent said. “Volkov and two others. They were taunting us.”

“Did they hurt anyone?” Sal asked. “Or did it get handled?”

“It was handled.”

He nodded. “No reason to dwell on it then.”

Giovanni started to interject, but Sal gave him a look that told him the subject was closed. He waved his hand after a moment, silently dismissing them, and Corrado was in his car without having spoken another word. Vincent turned to walk away but was stopped by the Don’s voice. “How is my godson?”

Vincent’s blood ran cold at the question. “He’s fine.”

“Is he doing well in school? Passing?”

“He’s squeaking by. Still skipping a lot.”

Sal laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me. School’s not the place for him. This business,
la famiglia
, is in that boy’s blood. And that’s everything, you know. Blood.
Famiglia
. That’s what matters.”

Vincent had nothing nice to say about that, but Sal didn’t wait for a response. Reaching into his coat, Sal pulled out a thick, padded manila envelope. He held it out to Vincent. “Give this to
Principe
for me. Just a little something from his godfather.”

Begrudgingly, he took it with a nod. Sal walked away then, heading to his goomah on the yacht, and Vincent went to his car. Once inside of it, he shoved the envelope of cash into his glove compartment. He had no intention of giving it to his son.

*  *  *  *

Carmine was in and out of nightmares, the memories as painful as the bullet that tore through him that fateful night. He sat up abruptly when the sound of the gunshot ricocheted through his mind, grabbing his chest to calm himself down. Hyperventilating, he tried to take deep breaths as his eyes stung with tears.

Hearing a noise beside him, his head snapped in that direction. Haven was staring at him. He groaned, realizing he woke her up, and ran his hands down his sweaty face. “I told you I knew what it was like.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you want to talk about yours?” She shook her head. “Let’s just go downstairs or something. I need out of this room.”

Haven climbed out of bed, stretching. Her shirt rode up when she raised her arms into the air, exposing her slim stomach and discolored scars. Carmine stared at them, his own scar aching on his side, but it suddenly didn’t feel as painful in comparison.

They headed downstairs, and Carmine sighed when he heard the TV in the family room. “No better time than now to test our willpower.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Haven said, disappearing into the kitchen. He hadn’t even said he was hungry. Baffled, he strolled to the family room and froze as soon as he hit the doorway and saw the couch intact.

“Where was the fucking couch cushion?” Carmine’s sudden appearance startled Dominic, and he knocked over a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Carmine plopped down on the couch, ignoring the looks his brother was giving him. “And clean up that popcorn. I vacuumed this morning.”

Laughter rang out from the kitchen as Haven overheard.

Dominic looked at him incredulously. “
You
cleaned?”

“Yeah. Somebody had to, and your lazy ass didn’t get out of bed to help. And seriously, where was the cushion? I was
this
close to just setting the whole couch on fire and letting insurance pay to get a new one.”

Dominic snickered, picking up the popcorn from the floor. “I found it in my bathtub.”

Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Why was it in the bathtub?”

“I don’t even know, bro, but I slept there with it.”

Haven walked in after a moment and handed Carmine a plate. She set hers down and glanced at Dominic. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Carmine answered for him. Dominic threw a piece of popcorn at his brother in protest but motioned for Haven to take a seat. Carmine took a bite of his sandwich, turning his attention to the TV, but he could see Dominic watching him from the corner of his eye. He tried to be nonchalant about it, but the looks burned through him, making his temper boil. “Why are you looking at me?”

Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Paranoid?”

“
Vaffanculo
.”

*  *  *  *

After finishing their sandwiches, the two of them headed back up to the third floor. Haven paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at her bedroom door, before wordlessly taking a seat at the library window.

Carmine went into his room and grabbed his guitar, joining her a moment later. She picked up a book from the small table between them, and Carmine smiled when he saw it was
The Secret Garden
.

“So you haven’t given up on that?”

“No,” she said, opening it to a page about a quarter of the way in. “It’s good. She searches for the garden and makes friends with this little robin. It reminds me of…”

She trailed off as Carmine started plucking the strings of his guitar, random notes sounding out in the room. “Reminds you of what?” he asked when she didn’t continue.

“Nothing,” she said. “Sorry, I just… it’s really good.”

“Don’t apologize,
colibri
. Tell me about it.”

She smiled. “It reminds me of when I was little. I didn’t have any friends, so I used to talk to the animals.”