by JM Darhower
The moment he pulled up in front of the house, a warm trickle streamed from his nose. Snatching down the visor, he looked in the mirror to see the blood.
“Just my luck,” he said, pulling off his shirt and holding it up to pinch his nose. He walked into the foyer and spotted his father, holding a black duffel bag. Carmine cursed under his breath. He’d hoped to get up to his room undetected.
“Going away again?” Carmine asked, trying to head for the stairs, but Vincent stepped in his path.
“To Chicago, yes.” He pulled Carmine’s hand away to survey his bloody nose. “If you keep snorting that stuff, you’re going to damage your septum.”
Carmine moved away from his father. “How do you know I just didn’t get punched?”
“Because no one from the hospital called. If someone punched you in the nose, you would’ve broken theirs.” Vincent started toward the door with his bag. “Lay off the coke, son. I don’t like it.”
* * * *
Carmine fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and was woken up sometime later by a loud knock on his door. He pulled himself out of bed, groaning, and swung it open to see Dominic in the hallway. He thrust a bag at Carmine. “Your date’s here.”
Fuck. He’d already forgotten all about the dance.
He showered and washed his hair, trying to wake up. He dressed in a black suit and black dress shoes before grabbing the bag. Pulling out the tie, he held it up and glared at it. It was shockingly pink. Fandango, my ass.
He slipped it on, knowing he didn’t have time to argue. After unlocking his bottom desk drawer, he filled a flask with vodka and slipped it into his pocket. He headed out, but paused in the library when he saw Haven coming up the stairs.
Carmine tried to think of something profound to say, something to make it all right again. “This tie makes me look fruity, doesn’t it?”
Yeah, that wasn't it.
Haven burst into laughter, and he felt like a fool but smiled anyway. He hadn’t heard her laugh all week and missed it more than he liked to admit.
She laughed so hard tears sprung to her eyes. “Like the cake.”
He shook his head when she disappeared into her room. She didn’t even know what he meant.
...or did she?
Lisa waited impatiently in the family room, wearing a dress the same shade as his tie. Carmine grabbed her hand, trying to be polite, and led her out to his car. When they reached the dance at the school, Lisa went off with her friends while he stood off to the side, drinking. Heavily.
They danced a bit, which equated to her rubbing against him, and by the time his flask was empty, he was drunk and ready to leave. Lisa smiled seductively when he told her, and the two of them went straight to her house. Her parents were out of town for the weekend, and Lisa hit up the liquor cabinet, handing him a bottle of Southern Comfort. He took a drink and grimaced at the sweet flavor as she grabbed his tie and led him through the house like a dog on a leash. He barely noticed in his drunken state.
She took him to her bedroom, where he drank even more.
She started kissing on his neck and snatched the bottle back away before pushing him down onto the bed. He laid there and let her strip him, watching as she slipped off her dress. Climbing on the bed, she hovered over him and leaned in for a kiss.
Turning his head, he muttered, “I’m not that drunk.”
Her touch was uncomfortable, too intimate for him. She went too slowly, her hands gentle. Nothing felt right about it, her body all wrong.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wished he could just enjoy it. He’d gone to a school dance and worn a pink tie for this, and now his body was rejecting a guaranteed lay. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore, and it was driving him nuts.
As soon as that thought ran through his mind, something seemed to click with him. He started laughing, the sound erupting from him before he realized what he was doing. Lisa moved away, sitting on the bed beside him as he sat up. “What’s wrong with you, Carmine?”
“I think I’m losing it,” he said, jumping out of bed and grabbing his clothes from the floor.
“You are!” she said, a tinge of hurt in her voice. “You’re crazy.”
“I know.” He laughed again. “Nutty like a fucking fruitcake.”
She stared with disbelief as he pulled on his clothes. “You’re leaving?”
“I don’t love you,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m never gonna love you.”
He walked out before she could say anything. It was rude, he knew that, but he had to get out of there.
He had to go home.
* * * *
Saint Mary’s Catholic Church looked like a medieval castle tucked into the heart of bustling Chicago, with its tall, pointy towers and strong tan bricks. The grass surrounding it was withered, the sidewalk cracked and faded, but the church was still as immaculate as ever. High arches and golden colored walls accented the wooden décor, the ivory marble floor sparkling from the sunlight streaming in the stained glass windows. When Vincent was young, it felt like he’d stepped inside a massive treasure chest, everything around him bright and glowing. Every Sunday, without fail, Saint Mary’s made Vincent believe he truly belonged there.
Today, however, as he made his way through the vacant pews, he felt like an outcast in the place of worship. The warmth and acceptance was gone, nothing but coldness surrounding him. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, altering the priest to his arrival. He headed straight to the confessional and sat down as Father Alberto took a seat on the other side.
Vincent pushed the screen out of the way that separated them, knowing it was senseless shielding himself from the elderly priest. He'd know it was him. He always did. Vincent had been confessing to Father Alberto his entire life, the severity of the sins seeming to grow worse every time he showed up.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Vincent started. “It's been three months since my last confession.”
Father Alberto made the sign of the cross before he spoke, his Sicilian accent still present even though he’d lived in America for decades. “What sins have you committed, my child?”
Vincent sighed. Since his last confession, he’d lied, stolen, and been an accessory to murder in the name of la famiglia, but there was one sin that weighed heavily on his mind today. “I hurt someone… a girl. It wasn’t so bad that she won’t recover physically, but emotionally is another story.”
“Did you intend to cause the girl harm?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you remorseful?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Have you told her of your regret?”
He ran his hands down his face in frustration. “No.”
Father Alberto was quiet for a moment. “Was it her?”
There was no need for Vincent to answer. They both knew it was her… and they both knew it wasn’t the first time.
“I was angry,” Vincent said. “It was the 12th, the day I lost Maura. The pain that morning was the worst it’s been in years, and I was so tired of hurting. I wanted someone else to hurt for once. I wanted someone else to feel what I felt. I had to get it out of me before I exploded. I needed to finally feel better.”
“And did you feel better?”
“No,” he said. “I feel worse. I’m still angry – so angry, Father – but on top of it, now I’m ashamed. I want to stop feeling this way, but I don’t know what to do to make it go away.”
“Ah, but I think you do know what to do,” Father Alberto said. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Release, and ye shall be released.”
“Luke 6:37,” Vincent said, recognizing the scripture. “But what if I can’t stop? What if I can’t just let go? What if I can’t forgive?”
“But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”
“Matthew 6:15.”
Father Alberto smiled gent
ly. “Your hate is poison, Vincenzo. It eats you from the inside out. You must find it in your heart to let go. Then, and only then, will you find the peace you seek. Only then will you be forgiven.”
Chapter 11
Haven lay in bed, staring at the alarm clock as the numbers rolled past midnight. Exhausted, sleep had evaded her the past few nights, her broken hours of slumber interrupted by nightmares that wouldn’t stop. The thought of closing her eyes terrified her, afraid of reliving that moment in Dr. DeMarco’s bedroom again. It wasn’t just him anymore, though—it was all of it. Seventeen years worth of neglect and abuse had finally caught up to her.
She saw Number 33’s face with the look in her eyes like she could somehow see right through her. Like she knew all of her secrets and felt all of her fears. It haunted Haven. Tortured her. She desperately just wanted to sleep, but all she was offered was deafening silence.
There was no music tonight. Nothing to distract her.
After the boys left for the dance, Haven spent the evening drawing and thinking about her life. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d allowed herself to grow jealous. She longed to be the pretty girl in the pretty dress, going to a dance with the other teenagers. She told herself it was useless to dwell on those things, since she couldn’t be someone she wasn’t, but the envious feelings lingered anyway.
She gave up, tired of wallowing, and crawled out of bed to go downstairs. She headed to the kitchen for something to drink but froze when she turned on the light and realized someone was there.
Her alarm tapered when she recognized Carmine. He was sitting on the counter beside the fridge, his shoulders slouched and a bottle of liquor in his hand.
He glanced at her, their eyes meeting, and even from across the room she could see the passion in them. A lot of soul lurked underneath his hardened exterior.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t realize you were home.”
“You’re not interrupting, Haven. It’s not like I’m fucking doing anything. I’m just sitting here, drinking myself into a coma.”
His tone startled her. She considered walking away, but he spoke again before she could. “I just sounded like a dickhead, didn’t I?” She didn’t respond, unsure whether agreeing or disagree would upset him more. He sighed. “You can tell the truth.”
“Yes,” she said, taking a few steps forward. She just brushed by him to open the refrigerator door. She pulled out the jug of orange juice and set it beside Carmine on the counter. He was blocking the cabinet where the glasses were, and she knew there was no way to open it without hitting him. “I need a glass.”
Expecting him to get down, she was surprised when he instead moved his head to give her enough room to open the cabinet. She stood on her tip-toes between his legs, the smell of his cologne making her head swim as she reached for a glass.
He spoke then, and she nearly dropped her glass as his breath fanned out against her neck. “Get me one, too.”
A shiver ripped through her as she grabbed a second glass, unable to stop her reaction. The abrupt slam as she closed the cabinet door made them both jump.
Haven poured herself some orange juice, pausing. “Did you want some of this, Carmine?”
“Yeah, definitely want some of that.”
He laughed to himself, waving her off when she looked at him. She poured his juice and set the jug back in the fridge. Carmine's behavior was confusing her, but a part of her craved companionship. Now that he was there, she had a distraction. And maybe she’d even have the music again.
He tipped back his bottle of liquor, grunting after he pulled it from his lips. “Ugh, that’s rough,” he said, his voice gritty. He took the bottle and poured some in his glass, hesitating before reaching over and dumping some in hers. “I don’t like drinking alone.”
Alone. Haven knew how that felt.
She sniffed the drink. “What is it?”
“Why ask me? You can read, so fucking read it.” Her eyes widened, and he groaned. “I sound like a dick again. I didn’t mean it like that.”
She tipped back the drink, irritated, and chugged down the liquid. It still tasted mostly like orange juice, but there was an edge to it that burned her throat. Carmine stared at her as she set her empty glass onto the counter.
“La mia-fucking-bella ragazza,” he said, chuckling. He tipped his drink back and chugged it. “You have potential, tesoro.”
She smiled. She still had no idea what those words meant. “Thanks, I think.”
“It’s a compliment,” he said. “And you’ll get many more where that one came from if you can do it again.”
He hopped down from the counter and poured two more glasses of orange juice, adding some of his liquor to both. Haven took a deep breath and picked hers up, tipping it back. It was a lot stronger the second time, the burn harsher. She barely got half of it down before pulling the glass away with a cough. “Goodness gracious, that’s strong.”
Carmine set down his empty glass. “Yeah, I loaded that one down.”
He grabbed the jug of orange juice again and filled hers back up to the top. “Don’t chug anymore. If you do, you’ll pass out on me, and I’d really like some company.”
A swell of emotion shot through her, the longing returning.
He poured half his glass full of the liquor before holding the bottle up. “And it’s Grey Goose vodka, in case you still wanted to know.”
* * * *
They went up to the third floor. Carmine pushed open his bedroom door, motioning for her to go inside. He set his drink down on his desk and sat down in the chair, but she hesitated, unsure of what to do. “You can sit anywhere you want,” Carmine said, sensing her dilemma.
She chose to take a seat on the edge of his bed and anxiously took a sip of her drink.
“So, let’s play a game or something,” Carmine suggested.
Her nerves flared. “What kind of game?”
“How about 21 questions?” She had no idea what that was, and he took notice of her bewildered expression. “We take turns asking each other questions until we hit 21. Only rule is you can’t lie. I don’t give a shit what it’s about—just no lying.”
She took a deep breath, even more nervous. “You go first.”
Her hand trembled as Carmine looked at her, and she hoped he couldn’t tell. He sighed and stood up, taking her glass and setting it down on his desk. After pulling out his keys, he unlocked his bottom desk drawer. “How do you feel about drugs? And that doesn’t count as my question. I just wanna know before I do this.”
“Uh, I don’t know much about them.”
He pulled out a bag of marijuana and rolled a blunt. He brought it to his lips once it was together and lit it, inhaling as he crouched down in front of her. “This will relax you, okay?”
She nodded, transfixed by his proximity.
“I’ll make it easy on you,” he said. “Just sit still and inhale. Hold it as long as you can.”
He brought the blunt to his lips and sucked in deeply as he leaned toward her. Haven’s heart raced as he cocked his head to the side, pausing when his lips were an inch from hers. She inhaled as he exhaled, the smoke from his lungs infiltrating her system. She closed her eyes as everything clouded, only letting go when she needed some air. Exhaling slowly, she opened her eyes to see Carmine still in front of her. He’d moved his head back, his staggering expression almost burning more than the smoke.
“Question one—how did you practice reading if you weren’t allowed to have any books?”
She blushed. “I took a book that belonged to my first master.”
“Why does that embarrass you?”
“I just confessed to being a thief.”
“Yeah, well, you live in a house with a career criminal. Thievery doesn’t faze us.” He retook his seat. “Your turn.”
“You’re a career criminal?”
He looked at her with confusion. “No, I meant my father. You know, with what he does in Chicago.” She didn
’t know, and that seemed to strike him after a moment. “Shit, I figured… it doesn’t really matter. Forget I said it. Ask something different.”
Still confused, she just pulled out something random. “How’d you get that scar on your side?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ, you’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?”
This game wasn’t going well. “Do you want me to ask something else instead?”
“No, it’s fine. I got the scar when I was eight. I was shot, bullet ripped right through my side.”
Haven wasn’t sure what sort of answer she expected—maybe he’d fallen or cut himself—but she didn’t think he'd say he’d been shot. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I told you before—we’re more alike than you think. I shed blood over shit that wasn’t my fault too.”
Could they really have things in common? “Why were you shot?”
He shook his head. “You already asked your question. It’s my turn. Do you have any secret talents?”
“I don’t think so.”
He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You have to be good at something. Sewing, drawing, poetry, singing… something.”
“Well, I like to draw, but I don’t know if it’s a talent.”
“Will you draw something for me?”
She smiled. “You already asked your question.”
He laughed, waving her off. “Fine, your turn.”
“Why'd you get shot?”
“Can’t say, because I don’t really know why,” he said. “Ask something else.”
She hesitated. “Well, why did you attack that boy at the game?”
“Because Nicholas deserved it. I’ve done a lot worse than just knock him down. That’s nothing compared to what happened last time we saw each other.”
