Redemption (Sempre 2)

Carmine started to turn but stopped, those words washing through him, comforting the ache inside of him. Walk away.

“I’m tired of running,” Haven had said. “I want to be able to walk away.”

Without even thinking about it, he flung himself at Corrado, wrapping his arms around his uncle in a hug. Corrado’s body remained rigid as he just stood there, caught off guard by the display of affection. The hug was over in a matter of seconds.

“Can I ask you something, Uncle Corrado?” Carmine asked when he reached the door.

“Yes.”

Carmine motioned toward the .22 still laying on the desk. “What was the gun for?”

His answer was immediate. “In case you hesitated.”

Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Would you really have shot me for that?” he asked, pausing for two beats before shaking his head, not giving him a chance to respond. “Actually, you know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t even wanna fucking know.”

He opened the door and stepped out of the office, the sound of Corrado’s laughter following him.

* * *

Corrado sat in his office after Carmine left, staring at the gun. It wasn’t even loaded.

After a moment, he picked it up and opened his desk drawer. He dropped the gun in, staring down at it as it clanked against the unlabeled VHS tape. He had nearly forgotten it was in there, but the words he had heard as he watched it were ones he would never forget. He could still hear Frankie’s voice and see his flickering face as he confessed.

“In the spring of ‘73, Carlo offered Ivan Volkov thirty thousand dollars to take out Salvatore’s brother-in-law. He wasn’t the first one hired. Seamus O’Bannon was approached first, but he wanted nothing to do with killing a man’s family.

Carlo and I . . . we tailed Ivan. We didn’t think he’d really do the job, and we were right. When he showed up at the house, he realized Federica and the baby were home. He left, I guess to come up with a new plan, but Carlo said we’d gone too far to walk away.

He shot them. Killed them both. Then he went into the baby’s room. She was sleeping. He pointed his gun to her head, but I couldn’t let him do it. I took her instead. I mean, I get it. Leave no witnesses. But what kinda witness does a baby make?

I took her to Sal, and all he had to say was, “I don’t care what happens to her as long as I don’t have to look at her face.” But I had to look at her face, and I have to look at her daughter’s face, and I can’t do it anymore. Every time I see them, I feel the guilt all over again. I want to be rid of them, I want to never have to see them again, but something stops me every time.

If they disappear, no one will ever know who they are. No one will ever know what we did . . . what he did. But they’re proof. And someday, somehow, I know it’ll come back to haunt him, but I think he knows it, too.

I think he’s going to have me killed next.”

Corrado stepped out of his office a few minutes later, pausing when he reached the main floor of the club. The place was still quite packed, the guests dancing the night away and drinking heartily at the bar. Half of them didn’t even notice the bride and groom had left, too wrapped up in their own lives to even take a look around them.

It was something Corrado was used to in people. Selfishness. They thought only of themselves and their own desires, their ego too big for them to be able to reach past it. Corrado wasn’t innocent of it himself. For many years, he only saw black and white. It was his way or no way, and his way was always right.

But somewhere along the line, that changed. Maybe it was his own death that did it, or maybe it happened when he delivered death, but one day he opened his eyes and finally noticed the gray between the layers. It was subtle, but it was there, and once he saw it, he couldn’t look away.

The others, though, would never see it. They would never understand. They were all built one way, put together piece by piece like droids—no conscience, no remorse, no guilt. They lost track of the things that mattered over time, and without realizing it, Corrado had, too.

He strolled through the club, grabbing a long-stemmed red rose from one of the dark glass vases on the tables. Twirling it in his hand, he strolled up to his wife and held it out to her. “For you, bellissima.”

Her eyes widened as she took the flower from him. “Wow, what did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing,” he replied, smirking as he added, “and everything.”

A smile lit up her face as he took her arm, leading her past the others into the center of the dance floor. He motioned to the DJ and the vibrating bass of a pop song abruptly cut off, Sinatra’s version of “Luna Rossa” starting up seconds later.

His hands firmly grasped her hips as he pulled her close. Celia wrapped her arms around his neck, clutching the rose along his back. They swayed to the music, staring into each other’s eyes.

“So Carmine and Haven ran out of here awfully fast,” she mused.

“Did they?”

“Yes. Carmine looked like he was injured. I asked what happened, but he told me not to worry about it. He looked happy, though. Ecstatic, even.”