Sempre (Forever)

by JM Darhower

  “Then why am I sitting in that damn cell?”

  “Because the law states they can detain you for a reasonable amount of time,” he said. “They claim to be holding you for obstruction of justice, but the reality is you're sitting in that cell because you're the son of Vincenzo Roman DeMarco, the nephew of Corrado Alphonse Moretti, and the godson of Salvatore Gerardo Capozzi. You don’t get much more notorious than that.”

  “That's fucked up,” Carmine said. “I have nothing to do with their business.”

  “Guilty by association,” he said. “Having you released is my number one priority right now. It shouldn't be more than a few days.”

  “Days? I'm supposed to stay in this place for days?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I'll request a hearing to have your release ordered, but it may take some time to get in front of a judge. They typically don't detain for more than forty-eight hours, but Illinois law gives them a bit of leeway on the matter. So just hang tight, and I'll be in touch.”

  Mr. Borza stood up and reached into his pocket. He hesitated before pulling out a little slip of paper and holding it out to Carmine. “I’m not supposed to do this, but your father seemed desperate. He asked me to give you this.”

  Carmine took the paper and looked at it, seeing it was just a bunch of numbers. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Borza said. “He said you’d figure it out.”

  Mr. Borza left after Carmine concealed the paper in his sock. The corrections officer patted Carmine down before escorting him back to his cell, where a tray of food awaited him. He conceded in hunger, grabbing the container of pudding and sitting down on the lumpy bed.

  The second day of incarceration passed similar to the first for Carmine. Sometime in the evening, an officer came by to tell him he had a visitor again. Relief washed through him, figuring Mr. Borza had news, but the familiar man waiting was clearly not his lawyer.

  “Carmine DeMarco,” Special Agent Cerone said. “Have a seat.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “But you don't even know why I'm here.”

  He laughed dryly. “It doesn't matter why you're here. I have nothing to say about anything.”

  “Fair enough. You know your rights and can go back to your cell.” Carmine turned to leave when the agent sighed exaggeratedly. “I just wanted to talk about a girl named Haven.”

  Carmine’s heart pounded rapidly at the mention of her, the ache in his chest intensifying. “Why?”

  “Her name has come up a few times during the investigation,” he said. “I tried locating her, but it seems she's a mystery to everyone. There's barely any evidence that she even exists. It's almost as if she's a ghost.”

  Carmine balked at the word. “Why are you asking me? I have nothing to do with my father's business.”

  “That may be true, but I figure if you help me, I can help you.”

  “I don't need your help,” he said. “There's nothing I can tell you.”

  “You can't even tell me who she is?”

  “No.” He desperately fucking wished he could.

  “Strange. We made a trip to your hometown yesterday, and it seems the people there are under the impression that she’s your girlfriend. I even came across this while I was there.” He reached into his briefcase for a piece of paper, and Carmine’s knees went weak when he saw it was the picture Haven had drawn for him. Her name was neatly written in the corner. “Did that jog your memory?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Where is she?” he asked. “She's not in Durante, and she wasn't with you in Chicago. One of the only other people this girl seems to talk to is a boy named Nicholas Barlow, who coincidentally also seems to be missing.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Agent Cerone was undeterred. “Did something happen to your girlfriend? You can tell me. I'm here to help—”

  “You aren't here to help. You don't give a shit about me.”

  “Did she run off with Nicholas?” he asked, undeterred. “Did she choose him over you?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is she dead?”

  He recoiled from his statement. “No.”

  “Is Nicholas dead?”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  He shook his head. “As I said, I just want to help.”

  “There's nothing you can do for me.”

  “If she’s missing or has been hurt—”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “Fine.”Agent Cerone stuck the drawing back into his briefcase. “You know, the truth always prevails. At the end of the day, the truth is what sets you free.”

  Chapter 48

  Time drifted by in a haze, like curls of smoky air obstructing Haven’s surroundings. The dense fog muted everything, sights and sounds disorienting.

  She’d come to the surface to find food waiting, and she’d eat what she could stomach before slipping back under. Jen appeared a few times with Nunzio by her side, and she’d check her vitals but never spoke a word.

  In fact, people were always in-and-out of the building, but no one acknowledged her anymore except for Natalia. She’d bring her fresh clothes and offer words of encouragement, helping her up whenever she needed to use the bathroom.

  Each day grew progressively worse. Haven’s strength diminished as her body began to reject everything. She’d vomit profusely whenever she tried to eat, her skin clammy and pale as she started having tremors. A pounding in her head made it hard to focus, everything becoming a blur of nothingness.

  It was about then that she started hallucinating, hearing voices and seeing faces she couldn’t be sure were truly there. The nightmares were extreme, filled with flashbacks in an inconsistent loop. Dr. DeMarco haunted her, with the piercing glare of hatred she’d seen that day in his room. She could feel the gun pressed into her throat as she gasped for air. She screamed in the darkness, her chest vibrating with the high-pitched shrieks.

  The moments of lucidity were few and far between, and even when awake she couldn’t be sure anything was real. Unfamiliar people stood over her, having strange conversations that made little sense. Her monster even appeared, his mangled face appearing as if it were melting away. He said nothing, just stared as the fire engulfed her from the inside out.

  * * * *

  The Metropolitan Correctional Center is a three-sided triangular sky-scraper in the middle of downtown Chicago. There’s no barbed wire or electric fence surrounding it, no armed guards standing in towers along the edge of the property. With its flat surface and narrow vertical windows, the front of the building resembles an old punch card.

  While on the surface it seems unsafe to hold federal offenders in such location, the facility itself is one of the most secure. Prisoners aren’t housed below the tenth floor, and the roof of the 27-story building doubles as their recreation yard. Escaping the place is impossible. No one has ever tried.

  Vincent sat in his small cell on the twentieth floor, just a few yards from where Corrado was being housed. The window was frosted, obstructing Vincent’s view of outside, so all he’d had to look at for days were the drab gray walls surrounding him.

  Every day was the same: three meals, frequent head counts, occasional sirens, and little conversation. He slept, ate, and showered, foregoing shaving without a decent razor. The guards watched his every move, all calls and visits monitored so none of them could risk communicating.

  He was sitting there early one day, right after morning roll call, when a few corrections officers approached. They placed him in restraints and led him to a room, where Special Agent Donald Cerone waited for him at a small table.

  “Vincenzo DeMarco,” he said, motioning toward the chair across from him that was bolted to the floor. “Have a seat.”

  Vincent sat down, grateful to have a moment out of that dreary cell. They tried to secure him to the table, but the agent stopped them. “That's unnecessary, gentlemen. We're both civil
ized human beings here.”

  The officers looked at him with disbelief but walked out, leaving Vincent unsecured. The agent folded his hands on the table and smiled. “You're probably wondering who—”

  Vincent cut him off. “Doctor.”

  Agent Cerone’s smile faltered. “Doctor?”

  “Yes. And unless you’re my mother or my priest, you don’t call me Vincenzo. It’s Dr. Vincent DeMarco.”

  The agent stared at him for a moment before nodding. “That's right. Dr. Vincent DeMarco, I’m Special Agent Donald Cerone with the Justice Department.”

  Vincent sighed exasperatedly. “I have nothing to say.”

  “I figured you wouldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn't have made it as far as you have if you weren't cunning. But truthfully, I'm not here about your case. I was just hoping we could discuss something I found.”

  Reaching into his briefcase, Agent Cerone pulled out a black notebook. “Do you know what this is?”

  Vincent didn't respond, having no intention of saying another word to the man.

  “I'll take the lack of reaction as a no,” he said. “We found this in a bedroom on the third floor of your residence.”

  He flipped it open, and Vincent saw the page was covered in barely legible juvenile scrawl. Realization hit him that it belonged to Haven. He tensed, concerned as to what information those pages might contain.

  “The entire thing is engaging, but there were some passages I found to be particularly interesting. I thought I’d share them with you today.” He stopped on a page that had been bookmarked and scanned the lines of writing with his finger before reading a passage out loud.

  “Katrina sometimes said she would kill me in my sleep. She told me to keep one eye open if I wanted to live. I stayed awake those nights in case she meant it. I wasn't afraid to die, but I didn't want to leave Mama alone. I didn't want Master Michael to hurt her more, and I thought Katrina would kill her next.”

  The agent flipped to a different page and read another one.

  “I called Master Michael ‘daddy’ once when he visited the ranch. I heard someone say that was what he was to me, but he got angry and beat me. Mama begged him not to kill me. He stopped because Frankie made him. Frankie hit Michael for it and I remember thinking we weren’t the only people that got punished like that. I should’ve been scared, but it made me feel like maybe Frankie didn’t hate me. He hit his son, but he still loved him, right?”

  Agent Cerone glanced at him when he was finished. “The Antonelli’s? So unfortunate about their deaths.”

  Vincent sat still, not giving any indication that he was panicking inside. Things were unraveling quickly.

  “How about one more?” Agent Cerone asked, flipping to another page. “I think you'll personally find this one fascinating.”

  “I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. I was only trying to do what he told me to do, because I didn't want to get in trouble for not listening. I thought he was going to kill me, but he did something worse. He left me alone in the dark. He was nice to me, and I didn't want to disappoint him. I dream about the look on his face when he turned into a monster. I wish I could forget. I wish Dr. DeMarco liked me.”

  Vincent kept his expression blank, but the words hit him hard. The agent closed the notebook, shaking his head. “What did you do to the poor girl? Why don't you like her?”

  “Reading that is an invasion of privacy,” Vincent said. “You had no right to take it. I know the law, and I’m well aware of what you can and cannot confiscate during a search and seizure. A young girl’s diary is off limits.”

  Agent Cerone slipped the notebook back into his briefcase. “Like I said, cunning. I'd love to return it. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

  He nodded, pushing his chair back. “I’m sure you would, Vincenzo. It's nice to officially meet you after spending so many months monitoring you from afar. If you decide you want to talk after all, I think you can figure out how to get a hold of me.”

  * * * *

  The orange jumpsuit was particularly bright under the florescent lights of the busy courtroom. Carmine listened to his lawyer argue that there was no probable cause to keep him incarcerated. The judge seemed bored, and as soon as Mr. Borza stopped speaking, he ordered Carmine released and the charges dropped for the inconvenience.

  They started the release process, asking him just as many questions on the way out as they had on his way in. He was aggravated by the time he walked out the doors, finding Celia waiting for him. “Thanks for springing me.”

  She smiled. “You shouldn't have been in there in the first place. Let's just hope Mr. Borza has as much luck with Vincent and Corrado.”

  “How are they? Fuck, where are they?”

  “They’re being detained downtown at MCC with no bail. They have hearings next week, though, and the lawyers are confident they can get that changed.”

  Carmine shook his head. “Another week?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  A tense silence lingered in the car during the drive to the Moretti’s house as that sunk in. Carmine knew it wasn't going to be easy, and he would have to take some big risks if he was going to save Haven. He always said he’d sacrifice for her, and it seemed that was exactly what he’d have to do.

  Celia pulled up to the house, and they both climbed out, but Carmine remained in the driveway. She realized he wasn't following her and glanced at him apprehensively. “You coming inside, kiddo?”

  He could feel tears building up. “I can't.”

  “I understand,” she said. “What do you need?”

  “I, uh... there’s somewhere I have to go.”

  “Carmine...”

  “Look, I've made mistakes, but I'd never do anything to get any of you hurt.”

  “Okay,” she said, handing him the car keys. “Just be careful.”

  Carmine drove straight to the Lincoln Park neighborhood, pulling up in front of the five-bedroom mansion that sat alone on a hill. He took a deep breath as he made his way onto the porch, his nerves on edge.

  He pressed the doorbell, hearing the chimes inside the house. The door was opened swiftly. Standing in front of him was a vaguely familiar woman, and it took him a moment to place her as Clara. She’d been in the Antonelli’s kitchen the day he made sandwiches, the same woman whose screams had haunted him since that visit.

  Recognition flashed in her eyes. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I need to see Salvatore.”

  She opened her mouth to speak again but was cut off by Teresa. “Is that Carmine DeMarco?” she asked, pulling the door open further as she shoved herself between Carmine and Clara. “What a surprise! I thought you were locked up with the rest of them.”

  “They released me.”

  She brought her glass of wine up to her lips and gulped the contents. “Well, then. I'm sure Salvatore will be ecstatic to see you. He’s upstairs with Carlo. Second door on the right.” She thrust the empty glass at Clara. “Fix me a drink.”

  Clara grabbed the glass and disappeared, while Carmine headed upstairs. He hesitated in front of the closed door, hearing arguing going on inside. He couldn’t make out their words, but Sal sounded irate. Carmine briefly reconsidered, unsure of how he was going to do what he’d come to do, but after a moment, he forced himself to knock. He knew, deep down inside, there was no other way. He had no time to waste.

  He knocked, and the bickering silenced immediately. There was a loud groan as the door was pulled open, an annoyed Salvatore standing in the doorway. He froze, surprise flashing across his face. “Principe! I thought you were my dreadful wife coming to nag me some more. Come in.”

  Carmine stepped past him into the vast room, seeing a man sitting in a chair off to the side. The guy stood up and turned toward him, and Carmine balked when he saw his disfigured face.

  A strange sensation hit Carmine, a rush of bitter cold running from his head down to his toes. The man le
ft without a word, and Salvatore shut the door.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Sal asked, sitting down behind his desk as Carmine slipped into an empty chair.

  “I think you know why I'm here, so we can cut the bullshit.”

  Salvatore’s smile fell. “You always were a bold one. Most people wouldn't dare come to me like this, but you have guts. That kind of commitment is rare nowadays.”

  “I have to find her,” Carmine said. “No matter what.”

  “I respect that.” Salvatore opened a case and pulled out a cigar. He offered Carmine one, but he shook his head. Salvatore lit his, taking a deep puff before continuing. “I wish I could help you.”

  “You wish you could help? What does that mean? You can help!”

  Salvatore shook his head. “You're wrong. I can't. As unfortunate as this entire thing is, I have much more pressing matters to deal with right now. Men are turning on me quicker than I can keep track of. I have people being arrested, their houses invaded and property seized. Every day it's something new, someone new I need to hunt down or try to get out of trouble. I just can't take on anything else.”

  Carmine stared at him. “But this is my girlfriend. She's been kidnapped by your people, and you're telling me you can't help?”

  “I assure you, if anyone wants to locate Squint, it's me,” Sal said. “I have people on the lookout for him, and when he's found he'll face the consequences. But I don't have the resources or the justification to focus on him when my entire organization is being attacked. I sympathize with you, Principe, because I’ve lost many loved ones, but Haven means nothing to me.”

  His words hit Carmine hard, the callous, nonchalant tone sending his temper flaring. “She's not nothing. She's fucking family!”

  Sal laughed. “How did you come to that conclusion?”