Redemption (Sempre 2)

Corrado shook his head. “I did none of those things.”

“Murder, then?” The prosecutor raised his eyebrow in challenge. “Did you kill your own family, Mr. Moretti? Is that what happened to Vincent DeMarco?”

Corrado stared at the man, keeping his expression blank. If he only knew the depth of that question . . .

“The jury just saw through you,” he responded coolly. “You had no case. You should work on that, you know. You don’t seem to be very good at your job.”

The prosecutor’s posture stiffened. “I am good at my job. The problem is people like you have absolutely no respect for it. You have no respect for the law. But you’ll get what’s coming to you someday.”

“I look forward to it.”

The prosecutor stormed away as Corrado addressed his lawyer. “Juror number six . . . I want you to find out who she is.”

Mr. Borza blanched. “Why?”

“I think I owe my freedom to her.”

Corrado turned to the crowd of spectators, watching his wife make her way toward him. He opened his arms, pulling her to him in a tight embrace. Her body shook with happy cries as he kissed the top of her head.

“Six months away from you was far too long, bellissima,” he whispered. “I promise it’ll never happen again.”

35

The gallery was packed, hardly a foot of space between the people inside. Haven stood outside the building, gazing through the sheet of thick glass that separated her from the Novak Gala. Every time the door opened, she could hear the soft melody of classical music filter out into the street, fading away into the darkness as soon as the door closed again. She could see the patrons smiling and laughing, socializing as they admired the artwork, comfortable in their surroundings, while Haven was anything but.

Nervous, she tugged at her dress, feeling ridiculously out of place and awkward in a pair of high heels. Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding so hard she could feel it clogging her throat, the only thing, she feared, keeping her from throwing up. She regretted telling Kelsey she would meet her there, afraid with every step she took that she would fall flat on her face.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she opened the gallery door, stepping inside and holding out her ticket to the man working. He took it with a smile, nothing but warmth in his eyes as he gazed at her, no sign he felt she didn’t belong.

“Welcome, ma’am,” he said politely, motioning toward a guest book to the right. “Please sign in and enjoy yourself.”

She nodded, stepping to the side and grabbing the pen before she scribbled on the first blank line: Hayden Antoinette. She gazed at it for a moment, her smile fading a bit, but pushed the sadness away. She knew who she truly was, even if nobody else did.

The lighting was warm and the atmosphere welcoming. Haven strolled through the crowd, mostly keeping her head down, her eyes flickering periodically to the paintings on the wall. It wasn’t until she came to the back of the gallery that she spotted hers, the familiarity stalling her footsteps immediately. She stared at it with wide eyes, her initials scribbled in the corner of the canvas.

It was surreal. In that moment, Haven had to pinch herself.

I had a dream, Carmine had said on their last night together. You made a painting—some abstract shit, I don’t know—but it was so good they hung it in a museum and raved about how talented you were. It was like you were the next fucking Picasso, tesoro.

“It’s quite a spectacular piece of work, isn’t it?” a man asked, pausing beside her as he gazed up at it. He squinted his eyes, studying it, analyzing the dark background tinged with white and tan, musical notes distorted by splatters of red. “It looks like a concert to me. Maybe the artist is also a musician.”

Haven smiled. He couldn’t be further from the truth. “Maybe.”

He walked away and Haven stood there, listening as a few others offered their unsolicited analysis, every one of them missing the mark. She was about to walk away, to stroll through the gallery and check out the other works, when a throat cleared behind her. “I take it this is yours.”

She spun around so fast at the sound of the familiar voice that she nearly lost her footing, staggering. Her eyes met a pair of blue ones. “Gavin? What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, stepping forward. “Kelsey invited me.”

“Oh.” It took a second for those words to sink in. “Oh! So you and her . . . I mean, you guys . . . ?” She paused, brow furrowed. “What happened to Fred?”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not interested in her.”

“You’re not?” Guys were always interested in Kelsey.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”