Sempre (Forever) (12 page)

“What does what mean?”

“What you just said.”

Carmine sighed. “I said you scared me.”

She could tell he was intentionally being evasive. They sat in silence for a moment, Carmine stroking her cheek with the back of his hand as he stared into her eyes. It was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t seem to break from his gaze.

“I’m sorry this happened,” she said. “Especially when your girlfriend’s visiting.”

His brow furrowed briefly before he laughed. “I don’t have a girlfriend, but if I did, it definitely wouldn't be Dia. I have the wrong equipment for her.”

Haven wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but Carmine didn’t take the time to explain it to her.

She felt her cheeks reddening from the intensity of his stare, but before she could get her thoughts in order, Dominic’s voice rang out. “
Colpo di fulmine
.”

They both jumped, glancing toward the doorway, and Carmine pulled his hand away from Haven. “What?”

“
Colpo di fulmine
,” Dominic said again, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it hit earlier.”

Carmine’s expression shifted. His eyes narrowed and brow creased as he shook his head. “No fucking way.”

“Yep,” Dominic said. “Kaboom!”

Carmine jumped up and stormed from the room as Dominic laughed. He took a seat on the bed, looking at Haven with a smile. “That brother of mine is always full of surprises.”

After a few minutes, Dr. DeMarco appeared. “Do you know what Carmine’s problem is? He nearly ran me over in the driveway.”

“No clue,” Dominic said. “Maybe he’s late for something.”

“He’s still grounded, so he shouldn’t be going anywhere,” Dr. DeMarco said as he sat down on the other side of Haven’s bed. “I heard you gave the kids a scare. Are you feeling any better?”

“A little bit.”

He grabbed her wrist and checked her pulse. “You were kept so isolated growing up that your immune system isn’t as strong as most others. You’ve picked up a virus somewhere, so just take it easy for a while. You’ll be fine.”

*  *  *  *

Colpo di fulmine
. The thunderbolt, as Italians call it. When love strikes someone like lightning, so powerful and intense it can’t be denied. It’s beautiful and messy, cracking a chest open and spilling their soul out for the world to see. It turns a person inside out, and there’s no going back from it. Once the thunderbolt hits, your life is irrevocably changed.

Carmine never believed in any of it.
Colpo di fulmine
, love at first sight, soul mates… he thought it was all bullshit. Love was just people deluded by lust, pussy blinding men from using their common sense. His father used to talk about loving his mom so much it hurt, but Carmine always believed he’d been exaggerating.

He still wanted to think that. He wanted to deny it existed. But there was a twinge of something deep inside of him, past the thick steel-reinforced, Kevlar coated, barbed-wire fence surrounding his heart, that suggested otherwise. And the moment he saw Haven’s limp body laying on the floor, he nearly started hyperventilating. This peculiar girl had come out of nowhere, and he was afraid she was going to leave as quickly as she’d appeared. That she’d vanish from his life without a trace before he had a chance to
know
her.

His chest ached at that thought, his insides on fire, and the girl who caused it was oblivious to it all.

In other words, Carmine thought, he was royally fucked.

Carmine drove to the next town, scrounging up enough change in his car to buy a cheap fifth of vodka at the liquor store with his fake ID. He pulled over alongside the road and drank alone in the darkness until his mind was fuzzy and he felt nothing anymore.

He passed out eventually and awoke the next morning, his head pounding viciously as he glanced at his watch. Realizing he was already late for school, he threw on his sunglasses and drove home doing the speed limit for the first time in his life. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over, since it was likely there was still alcohol coursing through his veins. He was sure his father wouldn’t be too thrilled to have to post bail in the middle of the afternoon because his seventeen-year-old son was driving under the influence.

He was sure the cops wouldn’t be happy about the loaded Colt .45 pistol concealed under the driver’s seat with the serial number scratched off, either.

Carmine checked his phone on the drive home, finding a dozen missed calls. He deleted the voicemails without listening to them, terrified of what he’d hear. There was no way he could avoid Haven, because it hadn’t worked thus far, so he decided he’d be her friend. They could be friends. He’d keep his feelings under control, and no one would know any better.

But the moment Carmine walked into the house, he knew he was fooling himself. Haven was asleep on the couch in the family room, and he felt that twisting inside of him at the sight of her. She had goose bumps on her arms so he grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully covered her up.

He showered before grabbing some crackers from the kitchen to put something in his stomach, and he was heading back toward the family room when he heard her voice. “Carmine.”

He turned to her, running his hand through his damp hair as their eyes met. She looked at him imploringly, and it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. He took a seat beside her. “You’re looking better today.”

“I feel better,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Yeah, but I’m not really known for doing what I’m supposed to do.”

She smiled. “Rebel.”

He was surprised at how relaxed things were between them. He expected tension.

Haven was quiet for a bit. Carmine looked at her, realizing she was staring at the tattoo on his chest. “Time heals all wounds.”

Her eyes shot to his. “What?”

“My tattoo, ‘
il tempo guarisce tutti i mali
.’ It means ‘time heals all wounds’ in Italian.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to stare. I was just curious about them.”

“It’s fine. The one on my arm is a cross draped in the Italian flag, and ‘
fiducia nessuno
’ is on my wrist. It's usually covered.”

He pulled off his watch and turned his arm over so she could see the words scrawled across the veins in small script. She lightly traced the ink with her fingertips. Tingling shot up his arm from her touch, and he closed his eyes briefly at the sensation.

“What does it mean?”

He pulled his arm away and put the watch on. “Trust no one.”

“Did they hurt?”

He shrugged. “I’ve felt worse pain.”

Images flashed in his mind at those words, and he absent-mindedly reached down to rub the scar on his side. He nearly got lost in the memory but was brought back to reality when he heard a rumbling sound. He looked at Haven, realizing it was her stomach. “Do you ever eat?”

She nodded. “Every night.”

“Really? You never eat with us.”

She hesitated. “Master Michael said someone like me shouldn’t sleep in the same house as someone like you, much less sit at the same dinner table at night.”

“Christ, they did a job on you in California. Were you always with the Michael prick?”

“He was always around, but he didn’t become my master until his parents died.”

“Were his parents just as bad?”

“No. Frankie liked to scare me, but he didn’t hit much, and Miss Monica sometimes played with me. Michael ignored me a lot at first. It only got worse a few months ago when my mistress realized…”

He glanced at her when she trailed off. “Realized what?”

“Where I came from.”

“California?”

“No, I mean that I came from Master Michael. He made me.”

Carmine’s eyes widened. “Your master was your father?”

She picked at her fingernails, shamefaced. “He didn’t mean to be. He said I was a mistake.”

Her own flesh and blood. “That’s just wrong. Your family? They should’ve treated you better.”

She sighed. “I think they believed they were being fair by letting me live.”

Chapter 8

The house was dark except for the faint glow of light from the window in the family room. Carmine sat at the piano, slumped forward as he stared down at the keys. Haven stood in the doorway to the room, her body rigid as she watched him. Restless and exhausted, she’d been too anxious to sleep. For the first time since coming to Durante, there hadn’t been any music last night.

Carmine’s posture told her something was wrong, and she felt like she was intruding on a moment. It was something she wasn’t supposed to see. Something sacred. Something intimate.

He laced his fingers through his hair as he dropped his head down even further. His body trembled, and Haven’s chest tightened as a sob escaped Carmine’s throat. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach at the sound of his soft cries.

Holding her breath, she took a step back. She treaded lightly as she started for the steps, relieved to reach her room undetected. Confusion nagged at her. She didn’t know what she felt for Carmine, what those feelings were that flowed through her, but she did know seeing him in pain upset her. That was frightening, because his family held her life in their hands. Vulnerability would get her hurt.

Only when she heard Carmine come upstairs did Haven have the courage to head back down. She was standing in the kitchen, unsure of what to do with herself, when Dominic strolled in.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Although Dominic didn’t seem chipper, there was no sign of distress to his voice. She told herself that as she pushed back her nerves and whipped up a batch of pancakes. The food was finishing when Carmine appeared. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the jug of orange juice, brushing past her to get a glass.

“Smells good,” he said quietly. There was no spark to his words, none of that passion Haven was used to hearing. He looked weary, and she fought the urge to try to smooth away the bags under his eyes.

“I can make you some,” she offered.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She forced a smile, despite the fact that the atmosphere scared her. “I really don't mind.”

 He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment.

Once the boys were eating, Haven cleaned up. She started some coffee, knowing Dr. DeMarco drank a whole pot of it every morning. It was brewing when he walked in, his footsteps faltering about a foot away. He stared at the pot for a moment before turning to her, his tone accusatory. “You made coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I made breakfast, too. Are you hungry?”

He ignored her question. “I’ll be home today. Don't bother me unless it’s an emergency.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned and walked out without pouring himself any coffee.

The boys put their plates in the sink when they were finished, and Carmine hesitated in the kitchen. “Stay out of my father’s way today.”

It sounded like a warning. “I will.”

He stared at her for a moment as if he was going to say something else, but he just shook his head and walked out.

*  *  *  *

Besides a load of Dr. DeMarco’s laundry, there wasn’t much work to be done. By noon, she was finished and lugging his hamper upstairs. Carmine’s words lingered in her mind, and she planned to hide for a while as soon as his clothes were put away.

Dr. DeMarco left his door open for her the days she was supposed to clean in there. He still hadn’t given her a code to open anything, so she just followed his lead. She pulled the hamper inside the room, feeling strange to be in there with him at home. It made her stomach churn, and she wanted out of the room as quickly as possible.

Opening the top drawer, her movements halted when she saw the silver gun lying across the clothes. She picked it up by the handle to move it out of her way. It was heavier than she expected.

The sound of a door captured her attention, and her head snapped in the direction of the noise. Dr. DeMarco stood just inside the room, having shut them in together. Intense fear ripped through her at his expression. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes glowed with rage.

She dropped the gun as a reflex, and it landed on top of the dresser with a loud thump. The fire in Dr. DeMarco’s eyes sparked even more at the sound, and he reached behind him, so careful and deliberate it was almost in slow motion. He grabbed the deadbolt and turned it smoothly. Haven’s heart raced as the click of the lock echoed through the room.

She knew it then. She’d made a grave mistake.

She’d never seen him look like this, his eyes darkening like a tornado in the distance, tumultuous and clouded. There was a spark of unpredictable evil lurking beneath. Staring at him, Haven finally saw a glimpse of Vincent DeMarco. The mobster. The
monster
.

He took a step forward. Instinctively, Haven stepped back. She’d never been more afraid of him as she was at that moment. She didn’t know the man in front of her at all.

She backed up against the wall, realizing there was nowhere for her to go. Dr. DeMarco stopped in front of the dresser and carefully picked up the gun. He eyed it for a moment, and Haven silently prayed it hadn’t been harmed.

“Guns are beautiful things. So powerful.” He reached into the dresser drawer and pulled out a gold bullet. “It's fascinating how much devastation something so small can cause.”

The detachment in his voice frightened Haven even more. Her legs shook as she stood against the wall, her body violently trembling.

He glanced at her. “Do you know anything about guns?”

She tried to sound strong, but her voice shook just as much as the rest of her. “No, sir.”

He returned the bullet and shut the drawer, staring at the weapon. “This is a Smith & Wesson 627 Revolver. .357 magnum, eight shots, hollow-point bullets. I have plenty of guns, but this has always been my favorite. It has never let me down.” He paused. “Except once.”

Turning, he raised the gun and pointed it at Haven. Closing the distance between them, he thrust the muzzle in the center of her throat. She gasped as the force cut off her air flow. “Just a flick of my finger on the trigger can blow a hole through your neck, obliterating your trachea and larynx. You’d die without a doubt. If you’re lucky, it might even be quick, but there are no guarantees. Most likely, you’d be unable to speak or breathe but be capable of feeling everything until you suffocated to death. That could take so long that you might bleed out first, but you never know at point-blank range. The bullet could even rip through you with enough force to sever your head. Literally, blow your head off.”