“Huh?”
“I’m just curious how she won you over,” he replied. “How she got under your skin and made it worth risking offending me by refusing my money.”
Gavin sighed, his eyes drifting across the room to where a small white kitten lay, fast asleep in the corner. “Honestly? I don’t know how it happened.”
Corrado stared at him for a moment before turning to leave. “They never do.”
44
Carmine stood quietly near the doorway of the art studio, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The large room looked almost like a warehouse, everything painted off-white except for the dark concrete floor. Bright fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the dozens of colorful paintings on display around the room. The artwork shone prominently, begging for attention, but nothing stood out more than the scene in the middle of the room.
Haven sat on a small brown stool, a canvas set up in front of her. Crumpled paper littered the floor around her feet, sketches she had discarded tinged with splatters of paint she had spilled throughout the day. The messy chaos that surrounded her fascinated Carmine, considering she was the most naturally organized person he had ever met. She couldn’t let laundry pile up, floors needed to be swept every day, and dishes had to be washed as soon as they were dirtied. She believed everything had a place where it belonged, but at times like these, all of that went out the window.
When Haven painted, it was just her and the canvas. A tornado could hit and take the roof off the building and she probably wouldn’t flinch. The apocalypse could come and Jesus could be standing right behind her, trying to take her to Heaven, and she would keep him waiting until she finished. No one interrupted her, not even Carmine, which was why he just stood there, waiting by the door.
He didn’t mind, though. He enjoyed watching her. Seeing her there, listening to her humming as she worked a mere few feet in front of him, set his soul at ease. Not long ago he had been so close to giving up, exhausted by life’s sudden twists and turns, but she showed up right when he needed her the most.
It had been a few months since she had moved to Chicago. A new school year started, and she had enrolled at a small art school downtown, while Carmine continued on with his life . . . the same life he had been involved in since leaving Durante. It was the same, the shift in power not altering his circumstances at all, but yet something was different. He approached it another way. He wasn’t as reckless . . . not now that he had a reason to come home at night.
He still fucking hated it, though. Hated every second of life in La Cosa Nostra with every fiber of his being.
Haven sighed loudly, the sound exaggerated in the empty room. She stood and pushed her stool back to pace back and forth in front of the canvas. The painting of the tree looked fine to Carmine, but he could tell she felt something was wrong with it. She added a bit more color to the trunk before blending some yellow in with a few of the leaves, setting her paintbrush down as she took a step back. She eyed the canvas intently, tilting her head to the side as if looking at it from a different angle would somehow change the image.
Carmine chuckled under his breath and strolled over to her. She stiffened when she sensed him, taking a deep breath before relaxing again. “How long have you been here?”
“A little while,” he responded, placing his hands on her hips. He pulled her body back against his and leaned down, nuzzling into her neck. “How did you know it was me?”
“I smelled you,” she replied casually.
His brow furrowed. “Are you saying I stink?”
She laughed and nudged Carmine playfully as she turned around. “Of course not. You smell good, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” He smirked. “Like motherfucking sunshine, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Hmmm, why not?” He pulled her closer, pressing himself against her. “I always liked being cocky with you.”
She blushed and turned back to her painting.
“So a tree, huh?” he asked. “It’s nice.”
“It’s wrong,” she said, tilting her head to the side again as she studied it. “Don’t you think so?”
“Uh, it looks like a tree to me. What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s missing something. It doesn’t feel like the same tree, does it?”
“What tree?” he asked. “The white tree of Gondor? The fucking whomping willow? The one Eve stole the apple from?”
“The tree in Durante,” Haven said impatiently. “You didn’t even recognize it, so obviously it’s not right.”
“It’s a tree, tesoro. It has wood and leaves and acorns and shit. I’d say it’s perfect.”
“It doesn’t have acorns,” she said. “It’s a sycamore tree. Does it really look like an oak tree? They’re nothing alike.”
He sighed. How was he supposed to know? “Haven, baby, you could tell me it was the Joshua tree and I’d agree because I can’t tell the difference.”