“I’m not asking you to do anything. I just—”
Corrado cut him off. “You’re getting soft. I don’t know what happened to you, but I don’t like it. You claim you aren’t trying to involve me, but you’ve done so from day one by involving my wife.”
“I didn’t intend—”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t intend it, but I would’ve thought you, of all people, would understand. You lost your wife to this, and now you’re putting me in the same situation! For someone who grieved so wholly, you surely didn’t hesitate to set me up to endure the same. I want nothing more than to refuse your request right now, but I can’t. I have to help you, even though it goes against everything I’ve sworn myself to, because it’s the only way to protect Celia.” He stared at him pointedly. “This girl better be worth it.”
“She was to Maura.”
Corrado rubbed his face with frustration. “The things we do for women. What possessed you to run her DNA in the first place? You know who her parents are.”
Vincent sighed. “I wanted to get her a green card.”
“A green card?” he asked incredulously.
“I knew it was too risky to try to get her a birth certificate, so I thought I could get a green card to legally establish her here. With her father being a citizen, she’d be approved as long as the relationship could be established. I knew Michael wouldn’t agree willingly, so I thought a DNA test could strong-arm him.”
“And you couldn’t just ask me?”
“I told you—I didn’t want to involve you.”
Corrado shook his head. “Do you think Antonelli knows?”
“I doubt it. He wouldn’t have given up the girl so easily if he knew. He would’ve bartered for more. And I’m sure he didn’t know anything when . . . it happened.”
Corrado watched him intently. “It’s been five years now, huh?”
“Today,” he said. “Today makes five years.”
June first, the anniversary of the day Vincent hit rock bottom. Most would assume bottom was when his wife died, or the year after when he’d been unable to face his children, but rock bottom came years later . . .
Closing his eyes, he could still feel the hot air blowing in his face as he sped down the desolate highway. His hands shook, his body desperate for rest, but there was no way he could have stopped. He’d gone too far to give in.
His cell phone chimed loudly from the passenger seat, the harsh green light illuminating the darkness. His heart pounded vigorously at the sound, adrenaline surging through him. He ignored it like he had the last dozen times it rang.
For twenty-six hours he’d been driving, blatantly disregarding the code, but he wasn’t thinking of the future. He wanted vengeance. He had walked inside that house in Lincoln Park the day before and stood in front of the man who controlled his life, hearing the four words that pushed him forward. “Frankie Antonelli did it.”
Frankie Antonelli did it.
The closer Vincent got to the secluded ranch, the more frenzied he grew. A few miles from the turnoff to the property, the headlights of a car flashed his way. Vincent slowed down, watching as the familiar car whizzed by. Rage consumed him.
Frankie Antonelli did it.
Vincent made a U-turn and accelerated rapidly to catch up. Red lights flared in front of him as they hit the brakes, noticing Vincent’s approach. Frankie could have outrun him, but by the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. Vincent rammed into him, turning the wheel and clipping the back corner of the car. His chest slammed into the steering wheel on impact, his vision blurring as he painfully gasped for air.
Tires squealed, followed by a loud crash as Frankie’s car flew into some large boulders jutting out of the desert. Vincent swerved before coming to a stop in the opposite direction on the highway, the car still intact and on all four wheels. Smoke and dust lingered from the collision, making Vincent’s eyes water. He rubbed his face, his vision blurring, and he took a deep breath as he grabbed his pistol from the floorboard. Stepping out, his weak legs shook as he put weight on them.
Frankie Antonelli did it.
Frankie’s car was totaled, the front end demolished from the impact. As Vincent approached, he heard wheezing from the driver’s side. The window was shattered, glass crunching under his feet. Frankie’s legs were crushed under the front of the car, while his wife, Monica, slumped over in the passenger seat. Blood poured from her ears. Glancing back at Frankie, Vincent could see tears streaming down his face. “Frankie Antonelli did it,” he said, his voice oddly calm.
Frankie tried to shield himself as Vincent brought up the gun, slamming it in the man’s face as he blacked out in rage. By the time he resurfaced, the body in the driver’s seat was unrecognizable and Vincent’s hands were coated in blood.
He took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he stepped back from the wreckage. Gas pooled underneath the car, the odor of it strong. Vincent scoured through his pockets and pulled out the beat-up pack of Marlboros. There was one cigarette left. He lit it, feeling the burn as the smoke scorched his lungs. The nicotine soothed his nerves.
After a few drags of the cigarette, he flicked it toward the car, igniting the puddle of gas.
Vincent climbed in his car and drove to the Antonellis’ ranch, pulling down the driveway. The place appeared uninhabited, but that wasn’t true. People were there, and he knew where to find them.