Redemption (Sempre 2)

It was chaotic with so many kids running around, and Haven did her best to keep everything under control as they held a ceremony and handed out certificates. When it was over and time to go, Haven gave each kid a hug, telling them the same words that had been spoken to her at their age. Words she had lost focus of in the midst of all the heartache, but words both Maura and her mother had wholeheartedly believed.

“Never lose hope,” she said. “You’re special and meant to do great things in the world. I believe in you.”

Kelsey offered to walk one of the kids home as Haven cleaned up the mess. She could sense Corrado’s eyes on her but ignored him the best she could, trying to finish what she needed to do.

Corrado cleared his voice. “Were you attached?”

“To what?”

“Those children.”

“Yes,” Haven said quietly. “They reminded me of myself.”

“Strange how those things work. Doesn’t matter where you go—there will always be someone.” Haven nodded and reached for the large black trash bag, but Corrado grabbed it. “I’ll get this for you.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled. “The Dumpster is out back.”

Haven finished cleaning up and grabbed her things before heading for the parking lot, finding Corrado’s empty rental car parked by the door. She started around the building to see if he was still at the Dumpster. She froze when she saw him behind the parking lot with a man, the driver’s side door open on a black car with New York tags. The man had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his body language told her it wasn’t just casual conversation.

The man climbed in the car after a second, tires squealing as he sped out of the opposite side of the parking lot.

Corrado approached. “Do you need a ride?”

“I can walk,” she said. “It’s just a few blocks.”

“Nonsense.” He waved her off dismissively. “Get in the car.”

Corrado didn’t speak at all during the drive. Not long after they arrived, someone showed up to change the locks on the brownstone.

“I have some things to handle, and I need to get some sleep,” Corrado said, handing Haven a new set of keys. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow to make it to the wedding.”

Wedding? “Someone’s getting married?”

“Dominic and Tess,” Corrado said, eyeing her peculiarly. “Didn’t you receive your invitation?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. I had no idea.”

His expression flickered, a frown on his lips. “I must’ve forgotten to send it. There’s still time, though, if you’d like to send a gift. I’ll stop by in the morning before I leave to pick it up, if you want to go get something.”

“Okay,” she said, not knowing how to respond to that. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I suppose you’re welcome,” he responded. “Have a good evening, kid.”

21

Carmine sat alone in a booth in the back of the club, shot glasses scattered along the table in front of him. He could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, diluting his blood stream and hindering the thoughts from flooding his brain. They still came, a slow trickle of memories washing through him, but he found it easier to tolerate in smaller doses like this.

It still hurt, though. It was still a constant reminder of what could have been but wasn’t, and as far as he was concerned, never would be. There were reminders everywhere: in the deep brown of the wooden table that resembled the color of her eyes, in the twinkling of the club lights that made him think of catching fireflies, in the melody of the song playing that sounded vaguely like the one she used to hum.

She was everywhere, yet nowhere, and every second that passed felt like walking away from her all over again. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t forget. The memory of Haven haunted him.

He downed the last shot on the table, closing his eyes as he savored the burn, hoping it would finally be the one to kill the pain.

If someone years before had asked Carmine what life in Chicago would be like, he would have given them some cliché answer about money, power, and respect, but he knew better now. La Cosa Nostra wasn’t about any of that.

As Sal sat comfortably, pointing fingers and calling shots from his twelve-million-dollar mansion while drinking the best scotch money could buy, the men carrying out the jobs were barely scraping by. They were risking their lives for people who just stood by while they struggled, not caring what happened to them as long as they handed over a cut of their take.

It was all about paying tribute. If a group of guys hijacked a shipment, right off the top more than half went into the pockets of the administration. After giving the associates their cut and paying off everyone who looked the other way, each man was left with barely enough to pay their rent.