Sempre (Forever)

by JM Darhower

  But his pride was being shattered by another event, one that had forced him to finally break his silence. In two very short days, Carmine would turn eighteen.

  His youngest son would finally be emancipated in the eyes of the law, and outside forces were already threatening to take his life away.

  Vincent hoped Carmine had no intention of getting involved in la famiglia, but he knew things changed in the blink of an eye. The Don wanted the Principe, a puppet he could mold into a cold, calculating soldier. Sal wasn’t above manipulation, and Vincent was afraid of what he’d do to get his hands on Carmine.

  Corrado and Celia had flown in for Dominic's graduation and to celebrate Carmine’s birthday. The kids had gotten up before dawn to head to Asheville for the afternoon, and Celia was upstairs, purposely giving the two men some space.

  “She doesn’t look like a Principessa,” Corrado said.

  “I had the same thought.”

  “But you’re positive of it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I always suspected there was more to that girl,” Corrado said. “It never made sense that Frankie would put a hit out on your wife just because she was interested in his granddaughter. Sure, he treated the girl horribly, but it wasn’t worth going to such extreme measures to cover it up. But this… this is worth killing over.”

  Vincent cringed. Corrado noticed his reaction and clarified. “I’m not saying she should’ve died. You know how I feel about that. I still, to this day, wish I would’ve done more when Maura came to me, but I never thought Antonelli could be so heinous.”

  “None of us did.”

  Corrado looked away from him. “It’s hard to believe she’s one of our own. Not saying I don’t believe you, because I do. It’s just surreal to discover, after all of these years, that the little slave girl is Joseph and Federica’s granddaughter. That their baby survived and ended up in Antonelli’s care. What are the odds they’d be related to…?”

  “Salvatore,” Vincent said, completing his thought.

  Corrado shook his head. “He has surviving family, after all.”

  So many people had been lost in the chaos in the ‘70s, a lot of bodies never recovered. It started with one man making a spectacle of the lifestyle and escalated to a clash that spread throughout the country. It became about revenge and bloodshed, men going against everything the organizations stood for in the name of vengeance. The same families that had sworn to protect women and children were so blinded by hatred they took it out on the innocent.

  Joseph Russo had been discovered buried in a cornfield in Idaho years later. Antonio sent men out looking for Federica, hoping she’d gone undercover with their baby, Carla. But a bundle was dropped off on the doorstep of an associate’s club one night, human bones wrapped in a pink baby blanket with the initials C.R. monogrammed in the corner. There was no DNA in those days, no way to tell who was who, but everyone believed it then. They knew it then. Federica and the baby were dead.

  Obviously, they’d all been wrong.

  “I knew you were hiding something, but I never imagined it would be this,” Corrado said. “The odds of that woman turning out to be Sal’s dead niece are about as likely as Jimmy Hoffa showing up tomorrow on the corner of Lincoln Avenue and Orchard Street.”

  “I’m inclined to believe anything’s possible now.”

  “True,” Corrado said. “They all disappeared around the same time. I’ll be on the lookout for Hoffa whenever I’m in the neighborhood now.”

  His tone was serious, so Vincent couldn't be sure if he were joking or not. He usually couldn’t with Corrado and didn't dare laugh either way. There was nothing funny about this situation.

  “So whoever killed them gave Carla to the Antonelli's, and Frankie took the child knowing who she was. He ordered the wife of a fellow Mafioso murdered to retain his secret, because he knew what he’d done would be an automatic death sentence if discovered by Sal,” he said, summing up in a few seconds what had taken Vincent an hour to stumble through.

  “As it would be for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, right?” Vincent asked. “You understand why I couldn’t turn the girl over to him.”

  “We wouldn’t still be sitting here if some part of me didn’t,” Corrado said. “The fallout would be disastrous. Not only would you be killed on principle, but her life would also be in danger. Squint’s set upon inheriting the dynasty, banking on the fact that he’s the closest thing the Don has left to a relative. Carmine’s in enough danger because of Sal’s interest in him. Adding the girl to the equation would only jeopardize them both further.”

  “Not to mention what all of this would mean for the organization,” Vincent said. “They never did determine who killed Joseph and Federica, or what they even did with her body. Sal would go on a rampage, and we have enough problems right now.”

  “He’d start another war,” Corrado said. “We’d all be in danger.”

  “I know. I’m not worried about myself, Corrado. I just don’t want either of those kids to be taken down by this.”

  “So you want Principe and Principessa to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after? That’s not asking for too much, right?” he asked, his voice hard. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this is the real world, Vincent. I have a greater chance of getting you out of this than I do of keeping both of them unscathed. I honestly don’t know what you expect of me.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything. I just—”

  Corrado cut him off. “You’re getting soft. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I don’t like it. You claim you aren’t trying to involve me, but you’ve done so from day one by involving my wife.”

  “I didn’t intend—”

  “No, I’m sure you didn’t intend it, but I would’ve thought you, of all people, would understand. You lost your wife to this, and now you’re putting me in the same situation! For someone who grieved so wholly, you surely didn’t hesitate to set me up to endure the same. I want nothing more than to refuse your request right now, but I can’t. I have no choice but to help you attempt to salvage some lives, even though it goes against everything I’ve sworn myself to, because it’s the only way to protect Celia.” He stared at him pointedly. “This girl better be worth it to you.”

  “She was to Maura.”

  Corrado rubbed his face with frustration. “The things we do for women. What possessed you to even run her DNA in the first place? You know who her parents are.”

  Vincent sighed. “I wanted to get her a green card.”

  “A green card?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. I knew it was too risky to try to get her a birth certificate, so I thought I could get a green card to legally establish her here. With her father being a citizen, she’d be approved as long as the relationship could be established. I knew Michael wouldn’t agree willingly, so I thought a DNA test could strong-arm him.”

  “And you couldn’t just ask me to get him to do it?”

  “I told you—I didn’t want to involve you.”

  Corrado shook his head. “You didn’t want to involve me, yet you’d involve my wife, a gambling addict we barely know, and a dirty cop to get into CODIS to run the sample. It makes perfect sense, Vincent.”

  Vincent said nothing. When he put it that way, it seemed like the most illogical thing he’d ever done.

  “The dirty cop will be easy to deal with, but I need the doctor’s name that drew the blood for you.”

  He eyed him warily. “Why?”

  “I’m helping you, and you’re questioning my motives? The Vincent I used to know would’ve put a bullet into the guy without a second thought, and now you’re hesitating about even giving me his name?”

  Vincent sighed. “The doctor doesn’t know much. Besides, I've been paying him off.”

  Corrado looked at him with disbelief. “Money will only get you so far. At some point, what you o
ffer won’t be enough. The only way to ensure he keeps his mouth shut is to make certain he doesn’t have the ability to ever open his mouth again. You know that.”

  He did know it, but he hated it was true. “Dr. Kevin Morte.”

  “Seriously?” Corrado cracked a smile. ”Vincent, I do believe your wife would’ve declared this ‘fate’. I couldn’t think of a more fitting name for the man.”

  Morte, an Italian word for death. Vincent probably should’ve been disturbed that, out of everything, he’d find this humorous, but he couldn’t seem to feel anything at that moment but relief.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Corrado said.

  Vincent felt a twinge of guilt. “I’ll give you his address.”

  “Good. Is there anyone else who may know?”

  He considered the answer briefly. “Carmine.”

  Corrado raised his eyebrows. “You told him?”

  “No, but he’s too curious for his own good.”

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best,” he said. “If something goes wrong, Carmine should understand what he’s up against.”

  “What should I do about the girl’s mother? Miranda, or Carla? Whatever you want to call her.” The fact that she was still with the Antonelli’s weighed heavily on his mind. He couldn’t just demand Michael give her to him. Sal would want to know why he was suddenly so interested.

  “Nothing for now,” he said. “Do you think Antonelli knows?”

  “I doubt it. He wouldn’t have given up the girl so easily if he knew her identity. He would’ve bartered for more. And I’m sure he didn’t know anything back when… it happened.”

  Corrado watched him intently for a moment. “It’s been almost five years now, huh?”

  “Today,” he said. “Today makes five years.”

  June first, the anniversary of the day Vincent hit rock bottom. Most would assume bottom was when his wife had died, or the year after when he’d been unable to face his own children, but it wasn’t. Rock bottom came years later… and Vincent still remembered it like it was yesterday.

  Closing his eyes, he could still feel the hot air blowing into his face as he sped down the desolate highway. His hands shook, his body desperate for rest, but there was no way he could’ve stopped. He’d gone too far to give in.

  His cell phone chimed loudly from the passenger seat, the harsh green light illuminating the darkness. His heart pounded vigorously at the sound, adrenaline surging through him. He ignored it like he had the last dozen times it rang and cranked up the stereo, hoping the loud rock music would be enough to keep him from drifting off to sleep.

  For twenty-six hours he’d been driving, stopping only when necessary. He knew he was disobeying orders, but he wasn’t thinking of the future at all. He wanted vengeance—he needed payback. He couldn’t rest until he settled the score.

  He’d walked inside that house in Lincoln Park the day before and stood in front of the man who controlled his life, hearing the four words that echoed through his mind and pushed him forward. “Frankie Antonelli did it.”

  Frankie Antonelli did it.

  The closer Vincent got to the secluded ranch, the more frenzied he grew. On the verge of a breakdown, he couldn’t get a hold of his thoughts anymore. A few miles away from the turn off to the property, the headlights of a car flashed in his direction. Vincent swerved back into his lane and slowed down, watching as the car whizzed by. Rage consumed him when he realized it was them.

  Frankie Antonelli did it.

  Vincent slammed the brakes and the car skidded to a stop with a loud screech. He nearly lost control when he made a u-turn, but he managed to get it straightened back out. The car accelerated rapidly to catch up to them. Red lights in front of him came on as Frankie hit his brakes, noticing Vincent’s approach. He could’ve easily outrun him, but Frankie wasn’t logical.

  Frankie seemed to realize what was happening at the last minute, but it was too late. Vincent rammed straight into him, turning the wheel and clipping the back corner of the car. His chest slammed into the steering wheel on impact and pain shot through him, his vision blurring as he gasped for air. The force caused both cars to skid sideways. Vincent gripped the wheel as he let off the gas.

  Tires squealed, a loud crash following as Frankie’s car flew into some large boulders jutting out of the desert sand. Vincent’s car swerved before coming to stop facing the opposite direction on the highway, but it was still intact and on all four wheels.

  Smoke and dust lingered from the collision, making Vincent’s eyes water. He rubbed his face, his vision blurring, and he took a deep breath as he grabbed his pistol from the floorboard. Stepping out onto the road, his weak legs threatened to give out as he put weight on them.

  Frankie Antonelli did it.

  Frankie’s car was totaled, the front end crushed from the impact. There was no movement as Vincent approached, but he heard a sputtering as he neared the driver's side. The window was busted, glass shattered and crunching under his feet.

  Frankie was wheezing, his legs crushed under the front of the car. Vincent could tell by his breathing that he had a collapsed lung. Frankie’s wife, Monica, was slumped over in the passenger seat. Blood poured from her ears. She was already dead.

  Glancing back at Frankie, Vincent could see tears streaming down his face. He couldn’t hear his words anymore, though, and in that moment, he didn’t take time to wonder why. Those four words echoed through his mind. “Frankie Antonelli did it,” he said, his voice oddly calm as he repeated them out loud.

  Frankie tried to shield himself as Vincent brought up the gun, slamming it in the man’s face. He blacked out in rage, and by the time he resurfaced, the body in the driver’s seat was unrecognizable. Vincent’s hands were coated in blood and it was splattered all over the front of him, covering his shirt.

  He took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he stepped back from the wreckage. Gas pooled underneath the car, the odor of it strong. Vincent scoured through his pockets and pulled out the beat up pack of Marlboros. There was one cigarette left. He lit it, feeling the burn as the smoke scorched his lungs. The nicotine soothed his nerves.

  After a few drags of the cigarette, he flicked it toward the car. It landed in the small puddle of gas and ignited immediately.

  Vincent climbed into his car then and drove to the Antonelli’s ranch, pulling down the driveway cautiously. The place appeared uninhabited, but he knew that wasn’t true. He knew people were there, and he knew where to find them.

  Without thinking it through, Vincent stepped inside the stables. He was going to take the girl. He’d do it for Maura. He’d make it all better. He’d rescue her from filth. He’d give her a life.

  He paused when he saw both her and her mother asleep on a tattered old mattress in the corner stall. It was hot and stifling, the stench of manure horrid. He took a few steps toward her to get a better look and saw she was clutching a book in her arms. She was so small and frail, and she looked so helpless, but Vincent wasn’t fooled. She wasn’t weak at all. She was a danger to his world.

  He felt the bloodlust rising back up, desperation hitting him hard. He raised the gun and pointed it at her head, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger. Confusion hit him when nothing happened—no loud bang, no piercing scream, no blood.

  His Smith & Wesson had never failed him before.

  The sound of Corrado’s voice pulled him from his memories. “Is that the last time you killed someone?”

  Vincent sighed. “Yes.”

  “As long as you realize you’ll have to kill again, we shouldn’t have a problem,” he said, standing up. “I’m going upstairs. I’m not sure I can handle much more of this right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Corrado shook his head. “Don’t thank me. You still might die.”

  Chapter 34

  Carmine spotted his uncle the moment they stepped through the front door of the house. Corrado’s surveyed them quickly, assessing like he alw
ays did, and Haven’s head went down, her gaze focusing on the wood floor. Carmine reached for her instinctively, pulling her back to him.

  He considered just taking her upstairs, but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. She couldn’t avoid Corrado forever, and he couldn’t shield her from everything that came along. It wouldn’t always be sunshine; she’d have to navigate storms.

  “Corrado,” Carmine said, nodding at him.

  He returned the greeting. “Carmine.”

  Haven was still looking down, and Carmine could feel her trembling, every exhale coming out as a shudder. Sighing, he leaned toward her and frantically searched for the right words to say. What could destroy the fear built up from being tortured for so many years and having the man in front of them refuse to do anything to help?

  “He’s a decent guy,” Carmine said. “Minus the whole murdering in cold-blood thing.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t it.

  Haven gripped Carmine’s arm that was around her, her nails digging into his skin. He cupped her chin with his free hand and pushed her head up, not wanting anything to hold her back anymore.

  “This is my girlfriend, Haven,” Carmine said. “I don’t know if you’ve ever actually met her before.”

  Everyone just stared at him, but Carmine felt Haven relax a bit in his arms. Her grip on him loosened as Corrado turned to her. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Haven remained silent for a moment before she spoke, her voice restrained. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  She held out her hand to Corrado. Carmine stared at it, stunned. She was extending her hand to the man she knew had never even considered extending his to her.

  Corrado looked just as surprised as he shook it lightly. “As it is you. If you'll excuse me, I’m going to get settled in.”