Sempre redemption, p.36
Sempre: Redemption, page 36
“Oh, so he’s like a parent to you?”
“He was.”
“Was?” Cerone asked curiously. “Are you saying he isn’t anymore?”
“He’s fucking dead, isn’t he?” he spat.
“Oh, uh, no.”
Carmine stared at him, hoping he had heard him wrong. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, the confirmation sending Carmine’s heart racing. If Salvatore wasn’t dead, he was in danger—a lot of fucking danger. Not only had he witnessed everything and knew his darkest secrets, the things he would kill anyone to keep from being exposed, but he had also disobeyed an order. There was no way Sal would just forgive and forget. He had too much to lose to give Carmine a pass. “As far as we can tell he fled the scene. We have reason to believe he’s injured, but there’s no evidence he didn’t survive the attack.”
Carmine absorbed that information, trying to keep his expression blank although he was panicking inside.
“How long ago did you initiate?” the other officer asked casually, changing the subject.
Carmine glanced at him, surprised at his nonchalance. “Initiate what?”
“La Cosa Nostra.”
He scoffed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, raising his voice. “We know you’re involved, so there’s no sense denying it.”
“You must’ve watched Scarface one too many times,” he muttered. “That shit’s not real. It doesn’t exist.”
He sighed exasperatedly, giving Carmine an annoyed look. ”We know it exists. We’re not stupid.”
“Neither am I,” Carmine snapped. “Take your bullshit questions about the Mafia elsewhere, because I have nothing to say about it. Period. End of motherfucking story.”
A tense silence fell over the room before Agent Cerone cleared his throat. “I saw her, you know.”
“Who?” Carmine asked, the shift in topic catching him off guard.
“Haven,” he clarified, his lips twitching as he fought back a smile.
“How . . . ?” His confusion deepened. How the fuck? “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about looking her up again.”
“Leave her the fuck alone,” Carmine spat, standing and shoving his chair back in haste. “I swear to God if you—”
Before he could finish, Mr. Borza grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat. “Threatening my client’s loved ones isn’t going to help you.”
“I wasn’t threatening anyone. I was simply saying—”
“We’re all well aware of what you were saying,” Mr. Borza said, “and it was nothing but a thinly veiled threat. You claim to want his cooperation, but yet you bring up Miss Antonelli in an attempt to upset him further.”
“I did no such thing,” Agent Cerone said. “As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t care about her. In fact, last we spoke, he denied even knowing her.”
“Then why bring her up at all?” Mr. Borza countered. “I requested once that you stay on topic and it’s clear you have no intention of doing so. Mr. DeMarco agreed to answer your questions, but he’s under no obligation. Given the fact that mere hours ago he witnessed his father’s murder, I’d say he’s been quite forthcoming.”
“He’s given us nothing,” the other officer said, still glaring at Carmine.
“That’s because he has nothing to give,” Mr. Borza retorted. “You can’t get from him what he doesn’t know. Because of that, I’m going to have to say this conversation is over. Either charge him with something or let him go.”
“We don’t have to do either,” the officer said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. “We have every right to detain him.”
“True, but you won’t. Not only is my client injured, but he’s also traumatized. The media would have a field day if you detained him . . . as if you don’t already have enough damage control to do. You don’t need to add harassing an innocent man to it.”
“Harassing? Innocent? He’s one of them!”
“Him?” Mr. Borza asked, glancing at Carmine. “You honestly believe the public is going to look at this boy and think ‘criminal’?”
Agent Cerone sighed. “You’re right.”
The officer looked at him with disbelief. “You’re going to let him walk?”
“I gave my word,” Agent Cerone said quietly, pushing his chair back and glancing at his watch. “Sit tight while I secure your release. I told you I’d have you out by morning and it looks like I was right, considering the sun will be up soon.”
38
Kelsey and Haven sat at the diner near their brownstone in a booth by the door. It was Sunday morning on their first weekend of summer vacation. There were a few other patrons in the diner, an elderly couple a few seats away and a family in the back, as well as two men drinking coffee at the bar.
A lady in a white top and khakis with a black apron tied around her waist plopped two plastic menus down on the table. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”
“Coffee,” Kelsey said. “Two creams, a dash of skim milk, and three packets of Splenda. Oh, and two ice cubes.”
“I’ll take coffee, too,” Haven said. “Just black, please. You know, normal.”
She returned with their drinks as Haven opened the menu and scanned it. Kelsey rattled off a list, emphasizing her need for extra bacon, whereas Haven asked for a stack of pancakes. As hungry as she was, nothing sounded appetizing.
“I’ll have it to you in a jiffy,” she responded, taking the menus and walking off. Haven sighed and picked up her coffee, taking a sip of the hot bitter liquid as she gazed out of the window. She heard one of the men ask the waitress to turn on the television and a few seconds later the diner was filled with the sound of the news.
The reports were mainly politics, with local scandals dominating the headlines. She had spent some time learning about political parties in New York. Kelsey’s dad was running for office again and Haven often asked her about it, but she always blew off the questions and claimed none of it mattered. She said she wouldn’t bother voting if her father’s job didn’t rely on it, insisting nothing would ever change no matter who got into office.
Haven never contradicted her, but she didn’t agree at all. Abraham Lincoln and the Thirty-eighth Congress passed the Thirteenth amendment that abolished slavery. Woodrow Wilson and the Sixty-sixth Congress passed the Nineteenth amendment to give women the right to vote. To Haven, it mattered.
The men started debating issues, the two opposite on everything. She sipped her coffee as their bickering grew louder, a debate about gun control, and Haven froze, spilling her coffee when she caught a glimpse of the television. Her stomach lurched at the sight of the familiar man, her eyes quickly scanning the caption on the bottom of the screen: D.O.J. Special Agent Donald Cerone.
The coffee scorched her skin and she gritted her teeth from the searing pain as her coffee cup clattered to the table, slipping from her hand. The diner grew quiet as people turned to the commotion at her booth, but Haven ignored them, her attention focused squarely on the television. She had a hard time catching the words, the throbbing in her hand distracting, as she felt like she was sinking under water.
“. . . Issued a statement about the incident in Chicago . . . embarrassment for the department . . . massacre at alleged Mob boss Salvatore Capozzi’s home . . . single deadliest incident in the history of the Outfit . . . debate on how witnesses are to be properly handled . . .”
It hit Haven like a ton of bricks when a picture of Dr. DeMarco flashed on the screen. “Alleged mobster had been on the run . . .”
“Oh God,” she gasped as they showed a clip of a large mansion, dozens of police cars parked in front of yellow tape.
“A federal witness . . . provided information that triggered the raid . . . opened fire before police arrived . . . unsure of the main target . . . warrant issued for Capozzi . . . believed to be injured in the gunfire . . .” They showed a picture of Salvatore with a number on the bottom to call. Haven shuddered, tears welling in her eyes. “. . . Seven dead at the scene . . . several taken into custody . . .”
Haven gasped as a picture of Carlo flashed on the screen, followed by footage of several others. Victims, they said, dead when police arrived. She stared in shock . . . Carlo was dead? She was so stunned she almost didn’t catch the next words.
“DeMarco’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow . . .”
Funeral.
One of the men in the diner sighed exasperatedly. “Perfect example of why we need gun control.”
“No way,” the other man said. “They do us all a favor by killing each other.”
A loud sob escaped Haven’s throat when it hit her and she quickly brought her hands up to cover her mouth. She trembled, shaking her head furiously. Funeral? Dr. DeMarco was dead?
“Hayden?” Kelsey’s voice rang out. “Are you okay?”
Haven tried to respond, but as soon as she uncovered her mouth another sob echoed through the diner. She jumped up from the booth and nearly fell, her legs barely able to withstand her weight. She pushed past her friend as she ran for the door and bolted down the street to her apartment. Kelsey yelled after Haven but she didn’t turn around, fumbling for the keys and rushing inside. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes and tried to get a grip on herself. The words of the news report continually ran through her mind, although she couldn’t make sense of it. How could he be dead? What happened?
After her breathing was under control, she opened her eyes again and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Grabbing the small black cell phone, she dialed the Chicago number and listened as it rang. “Corrado Moretti. Leave a message.”
Haven pushed back the nerves that always accompanied the call. The words escaped her lips, the burn in her chest dulling as another sensation settled in. Through the shock, through the horror and fear, she felt the resolve.
“I’m coming to Chicago.”
* * *
Haven left her apartment under the cloak of darkness, taking only a small bag of clothes. She locked up before making her way down the block to the nearest parking garage, taking the elevator up to the third tier. She spotted the black Mazda parked precisely where she had left it almost a year before. The thick layer of dirt and dust covering the paint concealed the scratches still adorning the top.
It took nearly every penny she had in her pocket to pay the parking fees and fill up the gas tank for her trip.
Her heart ached as she drove out of the city, thoughts of Dr. DeMarco infiltrating her mind. Unlike so many times before, when the incident where he had punished her would spring to mind, all she could think about were the good moments: the time he had given her the picture of her mother, the holidays, the sound of his laughter, and the look of pride on his face when Dominic graduated. She thought about the food he had given her and how he had handed over his keys so she could learn to drive. He hadn’t even been angry when it was returned with a scratch.
It seemed as if more than a year’s worth of memories flooded Haven, and with them came the tears. Dominic’s words ran through her mind, ones he had spoken down by the river in Durante.
“I already lost my mom to this life,” he’d said. “I don’t want to lose him, too.”
Dominic had made Haven see that it was okay to want more in life. He had helped her face her worst fear. It was only fair she would be there to help him face his.
39
Haven sat in the car along the curb, her stomach churning as she stared at the blue door of the old house. She had only seen it once before, sitting on the bottom step with Carmine by her side. More than a year had somehow passed since that day . . . more than a year since she had laid eyes on him. She wondered if he would be happy to see her, or if he would be angry she came.
So many scenarios flooded her mind as she got out of the car and made her way across the street. She tried to push back her anxiety as she stepped on the porch, but before she could even knock her name was called from down the street. Her vision blurred, her heart rate skyrocketing as she turned around, watching Corrado’s leisurely approach. “Sir.”
“I’m glad to see you’re well.” He eyed her intently, a serious expression hardening his face. Haven immediately grew paranoid, wondering if it was wrong for her to be there.
Panic crept through her at the prospect that she could be in danger. “I didn’t know if I should come.”
“It was nice of you to show up,” he said as he stepped closer. “I apologize for not calling. By the time I had a chance, you’d informed me of your intention to come, so I assumed someone else told you.”
“I saw it on the news,” she said quietly. “They said there was a massacre.”
Corrado scoffed at the word. “It was hardly a massacre. If it was, no one would’ve survived, but Carmine and I walked away.”
“Carmine?” she gasped, horrified. “He was there?”
“Yes,” Corrado said. “And as you can probably guess, he isn’t taking it very well. After Maura’s murder, he didn’t speak to anybody for a long time. It seems he’s dealing with his father’s death the same way.”
“Oh God.” The burn flared in her chest as her eyes filled with tears. “He saw them both die.”
“He did.”
“Is he, uh . . . ?” She motioned toward the door behind her. “Is he home?”
Corrado shook his head. “He’s already gone to the service with my wife.”
“Oh.”
“You’re welcome to join me,” Corrado said. “I’m waiting on the car service to pick me up. Plenty of time to meet them at the cemetery.”
Haven looked down at herself, eyeing her wrinkled shirt and dirty jeans. She had had them on since yesterday morning, having not taken the time to change before leaving. “I don’t really have anything with me to wear.”
“God doesn’t care what you wear, Haven,” Corrado said. “It wouldn’t matter to Vincent, either. But if it would make you feel better, I’m sure there’s something in my wife’s closet that would suffice.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Haven furiously shook her head. “I couldn’t impose like that.”
Corrado let out a sharp bark of laughter. “As much as I’ve already done, a change of clothes is hardly an imposition.”
That silenced her immediately.
“Come,” he insisted. “No excuses.”
Haven quietly followed him to his house and upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Celia. She glanced through the closet, pulling out a plain black dress she found in the back. It was slightly too big but fit better than she expected.
She borrowed a pair of shoes, too, some simple black heels that pinched her toes, a size too small but good enough for the moment. She did little else to prepare, in and out in less than twenty minutes.
Corrado waited downstairs for her, peering out the front door at the black town car parked along the curb. They climbed into it, and Haven shifted anxiously around on the leather seat.
“I’ve tried,” Corrado said quietly a few minutes into the drive. “I’ve done everything within my power for Carmine, but it seems to be beyond my reach. He’s too stubborn and reckless. The way he’s going, he’s doomed.”
Doomed. That word rippled through her, a cold chill striking her bones. “You’ve given up on him?”
“It doesn’t matter . . . not when he’s already given up on himself.”
Before Haven could respond, Corrado’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out, letting out a long exhaustive sigh as he answered the call. “Moretti speaking . . . Yeah, it’s all settled. I’m certain it’ll go according to plan.”
He hung up quickly, slipping his phone back away as his attention once more turned to her. “Is this visit temporary, or do you need to retrieve your things from New York?”
She blanched. “Well, I . . . I don’t know.”
He turned away from her, his eyes focusing straight ahead. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
* * *
The long, gold-toned casket stood out strikingly on the grassy knoll, a makeshift memorial of colorful flowers surrounding it on all sides. A crowd of mourners gathered, dozens of people dressed in their most expensive black clothing, their heads bowed and gazes cast away, as if avoiding having to face reality. Sorrow and misery wafted around them, the atmosphere stifling with pain lingering in the air.
Haven paused a few yards away from the service, her knees weak. Dr. DeMarco’s cold body lay in that box, his heart no longer beating and the life expelled from him. He was gone, never again to open his eyes and see another day.
The air seemed to be forced from Haven’s lungs at the thought, dizziness blurring her vision. She took a few steps to the side to lean against a tall maple tree in order to catch her breath as Corrado continued on, infiltrating the crowd. She scanned them as she composed herself, catching brief glimpses of Celia and Dominic, but the others were shielded from view.
She wanted to go closer, desperate to see Carmine, but her feet wouldn’t move no matter how hard she tried to make them.
“Vincenzo was a loyal man,” the priest declared, clutching a Bible to his chest as he stood behind the casket. “He was a husband and a father; a son and a brother. He wasn’t a perfect man, he made mistakes, but no man is perfect. We all sin; we all fall victim to temptation. Vincenzo was no different.
“Greed, lust, gluttony, sloth, wrath, envy, pride—the seven cardinal sins. He struggled with them, trying to balance the good and evil in his life, and many times he failed. But just because he succumbed to evil doesn’t mean he was evil. Vincenzo visited me often before his life came to an end. He expressed remorse for all of the hurt he had caused, and because of that I am certain of one thing—despite his flaws, Vincenzo Roman DeMarco was a true Man of Honor.”
