by JM Darhower
“Fuck!” he said, treading through the bubbles to the dishwasher. Frantic, he pushed buttons and pulled on the door, trying to get it to stop. It continued to ooze bubbles, and he groaned as he started slapping the buttons. His temper flared after a moment, and he kicked the door. Haven winced at the sound it made, his foot leaving a small dent on the front.
He cursed and hobbled on one foot, smacking the buttons again. The dishwasher stopped, and Carmine eyed it cautiously.
“I think we have a little problem here,” she said, the entire thing just too much for her to take. The kitchen floor was covered, and they’d managed to make an even bigger mess than they’d started with. She cracked a smile, fighting to keep a straight face, and covered her mouth to quiet her impending giggles.
Carmine cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you laughing at me again?”
She started laughing, her body shaking with amusement at his expression. She stepped away from the counter, not paying attention to what she was doing, and lost her footing in the suds. Carmine shot forward to catch her but skidded too, his feet coming out from under him. He grabbed her, knocking them both to the floor, and she landed on her back with a thud. Carmine landed on top of her, and she lost her breath from the force of his weight.
He pulled himself up, a horrified expression on his face. “Christ, Haven, I didn’t mean to knock you down! Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? Huh? Did I? Say something!”
She pushed herself up, and he backed away to sit on the floor in front of her. She was covered in bubbles, her back soaked, and he was staring at her like she'd grown a second head. She started shaking again and covered her mouth to hold it in.
“Don’t cry! Fuck! Where are you hurt?”
The moment the panic-stricken words left his lips, she lost it. She laughed uncontrollably, so loud and hard her sides hurt.
“You scared me! I thought I hurt you!” Carmine yelled, but his angry façade cracked as she continued to laugh. “This is fucked up.”
She shook her head as she tried to catch her breath. “I think you did something wrong with the dishwasher, Carmine.”
He grabbed a handful of soap bubbles and flung them at her when she laughed again. She turned her head so they splattered her chest and cheek, and she didn't hesitate before flinging some right back. They hit him directly in the face, and he closed his eyes as he wiped the bubbles away.
“I can’t believe you did that!” He lunged at her with a determined look on his face. She scampered backward, but he caught her before she could get away. He pushed her back on the floor and hovered over top of her, pinning her down in the water.
She flicked more bubbles at him, a little clump hitting him in the nose, but it backfired. Leaning down, he just rubbed his face against hers, transferring them onto her.
Haven cocked her head then, feeling brave, and pressed her lips to his. Pulling back, she eyed him cautiously, but he just smiled and kissed her again. His lips were soft and wet, the flavor of him sweet but minty. There was another bitter tang there, and she wrinkled her nose. “You taste like soap.”
Chuckling, he grabbed her hand to pull her back up. He brushed some bubbles out of her hair. “How about we clean this mess up so we can talk.” He glanced around. “And nap. I’m definitely gonna need a nap.”
Chapter 15
Carmine leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest as Haven put the last of the dishes away. He’d realized too late that the dishwasher took a special cleaner and using dish soap didn’t suffice. Who would’ve guessed?
Haven turned from the counter and surveyed the kitchen. The marble floor was so clean Carmine could see his reflection in it.
“I’m done,” she said.
“Good, because I’m exhausted.”
He headed into the foyer, glancing behind him to make sure she was following. She gave him a small smile as he held his hand out to her, and she placed hers in his.
He led her upstairs, but she hesitated when he tried to head for his room. “I should shower,” she said, glancing down at herself.
He loosened his grip, but she kept her fingers wrapped around his. “Do you plan to drag me into the shower with you? Because I don’t think you can take one holding on to me otherwise.”
She let go. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, tucking a wayward piece of hair behind her ear. “Go take a shower. Whenever you’re done, just come to my room. But don’t bother knocking, because I’ll be under the covers and too lazy to get up.”
She headed to her room, giving him one last glance before shutting the door behind her. Carmine stripped and tossed his clothes onto the pile of dirty laundry that was once again growing quite large. He desperately needed them washed, but he felt like an asshole asking her to do it. Did girlfriends do that kind of stuff for their boyfriends? He wasn’t sure, considering he’d never had one before.
Hell, he wasn’t sure if she was even his girlfriend.
He was confused about the entire thing. All he knew was she’d stolen his heart, and there was no way he could ask for it back. In such a short amount of time she’d taken him over, as much a part of him now as the air he breathed.
Fucking thunderbolt.
He pulled on a pair of shorts and grabbed his stereo remote, scanning through stations as he plopped down on his bed. He was exhausted, his eyelids going closed. He drifted into a light sleep and forced his eyes open when the bed squeaked. Haven sat beside him, so he pulled back the comforter and motioned for her to join him.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, lying down.
“I was just resting my eyes,” he said. “You look better, by the way. I mean, I’m not saying you looked bad to begin with or anything, just that you look good after your shower. Yeah, that didn’t sound right either. Ignore me.”
She laughed at his tongue-tied rambling and reached out, hesitating with her hand in mid-air. He smiled reassuringly and closed his eyes, enjoying her light touch as she explored his face. She ran her fingers down his nose and across his forehead before threading them through his hair.
When he looked at her again, her expression stunned him. She looked awestruck, her hand stilled on his cheek, and he watched as her eyes glassed over. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
He nodded and took a deep breath, unsure of what to say. He didn’t want to come off too strong and frighten her, but he also didn’t want her to think this wasn’t a big deal to him because it was.
“Do you…?” she started, yet again making the first move.
“Do I what?”
She stroked her thumb across his cheek, sending tingling through him. “Do you really feel that?”
“Yeah. It’s like you have static under your skin.”
She smiled. “What do you think it is?”
“Colpo di fulmine?” he suggested. She just stared at him, and he smiled. “I guess you’re gonna want a translation.”
“Please.”
“It’s when you’re drawn to someone so forcefully that it’s like being struck by lightning.”
She stared at him. “Okay.”
“Is that an, ‘okay, you’re an idiot, Carmine, but whatever the fuck you say,’ or is it an, ‘okay, that shit makes sense?’”
“It makes sense,” she said. “It’s weird, but I think I like it.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know what to make of any of it,” she said, averting her eyes. “It’s all so new, and I don’t know what you expect.”
He pulled her face up so she’d look at him. “I don’t expect anything, tesoro. I can’t lie, I’m attracted to you, but we’re only gonna do what you wanna do. We’ll be whatever you want us to be. But I just want a chance. I’m asking you for a chance.”
“A chance to what?”
A chance to what? It was a question he didn’t know how to answer. A chance to prove himself? To be happy? To be there for her? To
be trusted? To be loved? To love her? To be understood? To finally be someone worthwhile? “Just… a chance. If you don’t think you can do it, I understand. I’ll back off.”
“I don’t want you to back off.”
“Good, because I really didn’t want to,” he said. “I can’t promise it’s gonna be easy, or that it’s gonna be all happiness. I’ve never done any of this before, so I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m gonna try to be good to you.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” she said.
“We can learn together. Just tell me what you want from me, and we’ll figure the shit out.”
She smiled, but he could sense her apprehension. “You make me happy. I, uh… I don’t know how far we can go, but I don’t like being here when you’re not around.”
He knew that had to have been hard for her. “Do you trust me?”
She stared at him. Hesitating. “Yes.”
Although it was the answer he hoped for, hearing her say it struck him hard. “So you trust I’m not gonna intentionally hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t predict the future, but I’ll do everything I can for you.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’re the one taking the risk by trusting me. I appreciate it, and I’m not gonna take the shit for granted.”
He pressed his lips to hers softly, and she smiled when he pulled back away. “Wow.” She ran her fingers gently across his lips. “Your mouth is surprisingly sweet for saying such naughty things.”
He burst into laughter. “I think you’re delirious. How about we take that nap now before you tell me I smell like sunshine or something.”
“You do smell like sunshine.”
“And how does sunshine smell?”
“It smells like the outside world. Warm. Happy. Safe.” She paused. “Green.”
“Green?”
She nodded. “Green.”
He gazed at her, not knowing what else to say. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.
* * * *
Tarullo's Pizzeria was a small establishment, owned by second-generation immigrant John Tarullo. Vincent had known him for years, their children the same ages. He was what they called an omu de panza, a man with a belly, and Cosa Nostra rewarded him for it. He minded his own business and looked the other way, and they made certain no one threatened his business. Tarullo didn't like relying on the mob for anything—in fact, he’d told Vincent many times how much he detested the organization—but he knew if it wasn't them, it would be someone else. Someone would come around expecting something from him, and it was better that someone at least be a familiar face.
Vincent, personally, felt protective of the place. If it weren't for Tarullo, Carmine wouldn’t be alive today. He'd been the one to find him the night he’d been shot, and Vincent would forever feel indebted to the man for saving his son.
It was something Tarullo would rather forget, though.
They'd never had much trouble at Tarullo’s Pizzeria, since everyone knew the place was under their protection, so Vincent was caught off guard when he received a call to go to the place.
The moment he stepped inside the fairly empty restaurant, he heard the loud, disruptive voices. He stood still, his hand settling on the gun concealed in his coat as he surveyed the men standing at the front counter.
They were Caucasian and both had sandy hair. Vincent assessed them as they bickered back and forth, their voices slurring. He wasn’t sure why he was being called in for such a petty situation, but when the drunken men's focus shifted from each other to Tarullo, he took a step forward anyway. He barely made it three feet from the door when it opened behind him, and he turned to look. His movements stilled yet again when he saw the man enter.
A single Russian word boomed through the pizzeria, stopping both disruptive men instantly. “Zatknis'!”
Shut up. It was one of the only things Vincent knew how to say in their language. He'd heard it barked many times in his life from the lips of the man now standing a few feet from him.
Vincent glared at him. He was tall and built like a linebacker, his gray hair concealed under a black cap. Although he had to be pushing seventy, the man had the mindset and skill of a psychopathic twenty-year-old assassin.
“Ivan Volkov,” Vincent said. “You're not welcome here.”
Ivan stared at him blankly for a moment before turning around and walking out of the pizzeria. Before the door could even close, he was stepping right back in. “I do not see your name on the sign. Do you own this place now?”
“I don't need to own it,” Vincent said. “You have no business being in this part of town.”
Despite the fact that Vincent was fuming, Ivan had the audacity to smile. “Why are you always so serious? We have only come for pizza.”
“Go eat somewhere else.”
“But I wish to eat here.”
The two men stood there at an impasse, Vincent's hand still hovering near his gun. Ivan was unaffected, though, and appeared impatient as he scanned the price menu on the wall.
The door opened again, and Corrado walked in. He didn't even bother looking at Ivan as he stepped around him. “Volkov.”
“Moretti.”
“Leave.”
“Why?”
“Because I'll be forced to kill you if you don't, and I'm wearing my favorite shirt. It'll ruin my night to get your filthy blood on it.”
Ivan said nothing in response as Corrado casually strolled up to the counter. The two men standing there moved out of the way when Corrado reached into his coat. Everyone tensed, a suffocating silence blanketing the room, but instead of pulling out his gun, Corrado retrieved his wallet. “I need a small deep dish pie with sausage and mushrooms,” he said. “Extra cheese, too. Light on the sauce. You know how I like it.”
Tarullo rang him up, the chime of the register magnified in the edgy restaurant. “$17.78.”
Corrado handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change.
Ivan sighed then, motioning for his guys to leave before turning to Vincent. “We will see each other again.”
Vincent nodded. “I'm sure.”
The Russians left, their voices loud once more as they stepped out into the street. Vincent looked at his brother-in-law. Corrado eyed him peculiarly as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his pizza. “They’re trying to provoke us.”
“I know,” Vincent said. “Did you get a call to come here too?”
Corrado shook his head. “No, I just wanted some pizza.”
Vincent stared at him. “You know we’re expected to meet Sal for a sit-down, right?”
“Yes,” Corrado said, looking at his watch. “But I’m hungry.”
Sit-down's to la famiglia were nothing like the movies. Growing up, whenever Vincent overheard his father mention them, he envisioned elaborate meetings held much like court. He'd laugh, imagining his father in a black robe with a gavel, sitting on a bench while the parties argued their sides. The guilty man lost and justice was served, another case put to rest.
No, sit-down's were nothing like that. Even their name was misleading. They more than often happened while on a casual stroll, sometimes adjourning with no words even spoken. You didn't plead your case, and it didn't matter if you were innocent. Judgment had been passed before you even showed up.
Vincent stood near a pier overlooking Lake Michigan with a few men standing to his side. The Federica floated not a hundred feet from him, and Vincent could see the person moving around on deck. It was a woman, and he stared at her for a moment, knowing it wasn’t Teresa. She looked young, maybe late-twenties, but there was a chance she wasn’t even yet old enough to drink. A goomah, a mistress, attracted to the lifestyle and turned on by the power she knew they held. Vincent thought them to be nothing but glorified prostitutes, exchanging sex for flashy gifts and trips abroad.
“Is Carlo coming?” Giovanni asked. Vincent turned away from th
e yacht, glancing around at the men that had gathered. Giovanni looked cold, bundled up in a thick coat.
Sal shook his head. “He’s gone back to Vegas.”
Carlo had taken over their operations in the casinos in Las Vegas a few years back, so he rarely appeared in Chicago anymore. Vincent resented him for the special treatment he received. He’d moved away too, but he was still expected to show up.
“So, fourteen pinched,” Sal said, getting down to business. “Two stool pigeons singing.”
There was collective grumbling among the men. Everyone knew what he was talking about. Fourteen members of Cosa Nostra had been arrested and two of them had turned state’s evidence, cooperating with the government.
“You gonna silence them?” Squint asked.
Vincent looked at him, still wary that he was invited to these secret meetings. “There’s too much heat. They’re being guarded.”
“So?” Squint said. “Take out the families. They’ll get the message.”
Vincent and Giovanni both opened their mouths to interject, but Corrado’s voice rang out before they could. “No.”
He was leaning against his Mercedes, clutching the box of pizza and devouring it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He said nothing else, no explanation, but that didn’t surprise Vincent. He’d said all he needed to with that one word.
“He’s right,” Sal said. “Just lay low until we know more.”
Squint grumbled to himself while Corrado continued to eat. Giovanni was starting to shiver, and Vincent grew impatient as Sal’s attention seemed to be drifting to the yacht.
“I think The Federica will need a good scrubbing soon,” Sal mused. “Kid on the east side seems to want to go for a spin. He keeps hinting at it. I might have to oblige.”
So casually spoken, but Vincent knew whoever that kid was wouldn’t be coming back from that trip alive.
