Carmine cringed at the word and nodded.
He played again as Haven went back to her book. He felt no judgment, no disappointment, no pressure to explain. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how much he craved that acceptance. She’d changed him. He wasn’t sure how, but he felt different. He was Maura’s son again, and not so much Vincent DeMarco’s heir.
* * *
“Look at the Suburban.”
Corrado’s voice was nonchalant, but Vincent knew better than to believe he wasn’t on alert. He waited a few seconds before turning, seeing the black Chevy Suburban parked along the curb half a block away.
The darkly tinted windows obstructed the inside view, but Vincent could manage a guess or two at who was there. “FBI, you think? Doesn’t seem like locals.”
“Anything’s possible,” Corrado said. “FBI, DOJ, CIA . . .”
Vincent shook his head. “What did you do to have the CIA working on a Saturday night?”
“You never know,” Corrado said. “Maybe they’re looking to recruit me.”
Vincent laughed, although he wouldn’t put it past them. Wouldn’t be the first time the government showed up, wanting to exchange services.
“They were parked near the club this morning,” Corrado said. “Then at the restaurant tonight.”
“And you’re just now pointing them out to me?”
“You should’ve spotted them yourself.”
“You don’t think it’s someone like the Irish, do you? Russians?”
“No, it’s law enforcement.”
“Must be a rookie on his first stakeout,” Vincent said. “Or else they’re intentionally letting themselves be seen.”
“Either way, I’m offended. What do they take me for? An idiot who wouldn’t notice or a coward who would be intimidated?”
“Maybe they aren’t here for you,” Vincent said. “Maybe they’re watching me.”
Corrado shrugged. “It would make more sense.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the idiot who wouldn’t notice.”
If Vincent weren’t a mature man, and if his brother-in-law wouldn’t punch him for it, he would have certainly rolled his eyes then.
“I’ll tell Sal,” Corrado said. “If they’re lurking, we’ll want to take precautions.”
Corrado headed inside his house with a nod while Vincent strolled down the block. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket as he stepped onto the porch of the white two-story house, using the worn copper key to unlock the front door. The smell of mothballs was strong, dust tickling his nose when he stepped into the corridor. Heat wafted around him, the place muggy from being closed up for so long.
Vincent strolled through the empty downstairs, the sound of his feet on the wood echoing off the barren walls. An ache in his chest made it hard to breathe, and although Vincent blamed it on the thick air, he knew it was emotional torment eating him up instead.
In the front room, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He could see it then, the sunlight streaming through the open windows, air blowing in and stirring the blue curtains. The house was cluttered with furniture and knickknacks, family photos covering every inch of space.
And he could hear it, footsteps running in the hall upstairs, the squeals of excited children as they played hide-and-seek. Music streamed from a small radio, the sounds of Mozart and Beethoven.
And Vincent could feel it, the warmth and love, the happiness he craved. It was pure chaos, but it was his peace. It was his home. There was nothing else like it.
And there she was, like always, fluttering around the house in her flowing summer dress, bare feet on hard wood, toenails painted soft pink. She smiled at him, green eyes twinkling.
But when Vincent opened his eyes again, it all faded away. He was left with nothing but darkness, silent except for his strangled breaths in the vacant room. He still slept there sometimes when he visited, even though there was no electricity or furniture. He would lie on the bare floor and stare at the white ceiling, time wasting away as he wallowed in memories.