Sempre (Forever)

by JM Darhower

  Carmine hesitated for a split second, but he knew he needed to cover his tracks. “I love her, so how can she be nothing to you? I thought we were all family. You talk about all of this loyalty and commitment shit, but where's yours? Am I nothing to you too?”

  “You chose not to be a part of my family,” Salvatore said. “I’ll always have a soft spot for you, but you need to understand that this organization, la famiglia, is my family. I respect your choice not to be involved, but it's all I have left. Just as you’ll sacrifice to save what matters to you, I'll do whatever it takes to save what matters to me. We have the same type of loyalty, Principe, just for different things.”

  “So that's it?”

  “That's it.”

  “And that's what it's gonna take. You're gonna make me—”

  “I'm not making you do anything,” he said. “You can walk out that door, and I wish you all the luck in the world, but if you're requesting my assistance—if you're demanding my loyalty—then it's only fair you give me yours in return. Without it, we have nothing.”

  Carmine’s anger and heartbreak came together in that moment. It didn't take him long to respond, because deep down he already knew the answer. Part of him knew it the moment he laid eyes on her that first day in the kitchen.

  “You got it,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

  Salvatore stared at him. “Are you sure?”

  “She's the only thing I've ever been sure of.”

  “Great,” Salvatore said, holding out his hand. Carmine hesitated before kissing the back of it obediently. The act made him feel sick, but Salvatore smiled smugly. “I'll make a few calls and see what I can do for you, Principe.”

  * * * *

  Vivid dreams turned into hallucinations, memories morphing back into nightmares. It all ravaged Haven as if it were made of flames, melting everything into molten lava of pain. She continued to hold on through it all, clinging to the surface and fighting to survive. But no matter what she did, the blackness just took her deeper… and deeper… and deeper… until one afternoon, it swallowed her whole.

  Haven was certain she was dead then.

  Because standing in front of her, wearing a flowing white dress, was an angel.

  Maura took Haven’s hand and helped her to her feet in the grimy abandoned warehouse. The two of them started strolling away, the walls crumbling as they stepped into a vast field of flowers. Haven glanced around as sunlight streamed down upon them, realizing it was the one in Durante.

  “Carmine brought me here once,” she said. “He said he came here when he was sad.”

  “I know,” Maura said. “I’m always with him.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course I am. I’m his mother, and mothers never leave their children. We live in them, deep down in their hearts. While Carmine can’t see me, I know he feels me all the time.”

  The thought of that comforted to Haven. “Do you think he’s okay?”

  Maura smiled. “I’m sure he will be.”

  Haven wandered through the field and picked a dandelion puff, blowing on it. The fluffy seeds flew off and suddenly multiplied, exploding into hundreds of them surrounding her in the air. It was so surreal, but something about it just felt right to her.

  “Is my mama with me, too?”

  “Yes,” Maura said. “Don’t you feel her? She’s right there.”

  Haven spun around, her movement so quick that everything blurred. When it came back into focus, the dandelion seeds had morphed into snowflakes, falling from the sky like puffs of cotton. They coated everything in a layer of white, nearly blocking her view of her mama a few feet away. She was twirling, the sound of her laughter encasing Haven in a blanket of love. For a brief moment, as she watched her mama dance, she forgot it wasn’t real. She forgot her mama was dead. She forgot she must be, too.

  But in a flash it all came back, as when she blinked, her mama started to fade.

  Panicked, Haven ran toward her, but the snow was coming down heavier, blinding her with whiteness. Haven ran long and hard, her chest burning and legs weak, but she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Exhausted, she collapsed to the ground and started to sob, suddenly back in Blackburn again. The desert ground burned her, scorching the soles of her feet.

  After a moment, a voice rang out behind her. The smooth familiarity silenced her cries as goose bumps spread across her skin.

  “She’s gone,” Carmine said. “I’m sorry, hummingbird, but she isn’t coming back.”

  Haven looked behind her, desperate to see him, but instead of deep green eyes, all she saw was icy blue. Haven’s stomach twisted as Number 33 stared through her, the paper still pinned to her shirt. “Never stop fighting,” she said. “Never give in. I didn't.”

  “But you died,” Haven said. “You’re gone, too.”

  “Some things in life are worse than death,” Number 33 said, “and had I lived, those things would've happened to me.”

  “I saw it,” she said. “Frankie killed you right in front of me.”

  “He might've taken my life, but he didn't break my spirit. No one did, and no one ever will. Don't let them break you. Don’t let them win. You fight the fight. It’s the only way to be free.”

  Haven was jolted roughly from behind then, everything going black. Someone shook her as pain swept through her body, and she forced her eyes open, seeing Ivan. His voice was muffled as if her ears were clogged. “What is the code at the DeMarco house?”

  “What?” she mouthed, no sound carrying out that she could hear. It burned, stabbing her throat.

  “The code for the house,” he repeated. “If you do not want to die from dehydration, you will tell me what I want to know.”

  She turned her head, wishing he would disappear. “Go away.”

  Her disobedience sent him into a rage. He pulled out a knife as he grabbed her hand, twisting it violently. “Tell me the code, or I’ll cut off your finger.”

  Every inch of her begged for relief. She squeezed her eyes shut, Dr. DeMarco flashing in her mind again. She could see the anger in his expression, but she couldn’t feel the fear anymore as he pressed the gun to her throat. She understood how he felt, and as she lay there in agony, she almost wished he’d really pull the trigger.

  * * * *

  Carmine pounded on the front door of the townhouse a few miles away from the University of Notre Dame. Night had fallen hours ago, but he no longer had any sense of time. He thought it was ten o'clock, maybe midnight, but it was nothing but a number to him now. He'd simply go until he felt like he couldn't go anymore, and then he'd push himself a little more. He'd moved past exhaustion and teetered on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Sleep only happened when his body gave out, periods of blackouts tucked into the frantic spells.

  He hadn't had a drop of liquor, yet he felt like he had a perpetual hangover. His head pounded, his eyes stung, and he always felt like he was a second away from being sick. It burned his chest and made it impossible to take a deep breath.

  He’d had to pull over a few times on the drive to Indiana, certain he was going to pass out behind the wheel.

  Carmine gave up pounding and moved on to obsessively pressing the doorbell. A light flipped on inside, and a weary Dominic appeared at the door. “Hey, bro. Did something happen? Do you have news?”

  “I need your help,” Carmine said, forcing his way into the living room. He felt guilty to be involving his brother even more, but he didn’t know where else to turn.

  Dominic hesitated before shutting the door. “Whatever you need.”

  Carmine pulled out the burned CD he’d gotten from Salvatore, the words Galaxy Corp written on the front of it. “This is the software they use to keep up with the microchips. Sal says they’ve been experimenting on stray animals, seeing how accurate they are or if they’re harmful, but that they haven’t put many in people. One of his sick fucking investments. Giovanni says it’s all because of his sister and how she’s never been found. He thinks these chi
ps are the answer, that someday that shit won’t happen anymore, and he’ll never lose anyone again. But whatever, I don’t know… all I know is this is how they track them.”

  The words spilled out of his mouth on their own.

  Dominic took the CD. “Do you have an ID number or something so we know which one is her?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Carmine dug into his pockets, pulling out the small piece of paper he’d gotten from the lawyer. The numbers meant little to him, so he hoped his brother knew enough to decipher it. “Dad gave this to the lawyer to give to me. I had no idea what the fuck it was, but I think now it’s the serial number to her chip.”

  “All right, good. I’ll see if I can get it working.”

  “Thanks,” Carmine said, glancing at his bare wrist and realizing he didn’t have on a watch. He cursed and looked around for a clock, his vision so hazy he couldn’t make out the numbers when he found one. “I have to get back. Call me if you get anything.”

  Carmine started to walk out, but Dominic grabbed his arm to stop him. “Call you where? Your cell phone’s been broken for weeks.”

  That confused him. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Shit, yeah. I have this prepaid one. They can’t be traced as easily.”

  “What’s the number?”

  Carmine shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Sighing, Dominic took the phone from him and used it to call his own. Once it started ringing, he hung up and handed the disposable one back to Carmine. “There, the number’s on my phone now.”

  Carmine turn around, in a rush to get back, but Dominic stopped him yet again. “Are you okay, bro? You seem out of it.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not okay, at all.”

  * * * *

  Carmine knew nothing about Giovanni, besides the fact that he was Sicilian and he broke the law. They’d only met a handful of times, and Giovanni was never friendly, but Carmine had a newfound respect for the man.

  Four in the morning, and the two of them stood in the small office at Giovanni’s modest brick house, pouring over a map of Chicago. They’d been at it for so long that Carmine couldn’t read the small print anymore and was counting on Giovanni to keep everything straight.

  “Are you sure it’s this guy?” Carmine asked, picking up the small photograph. “He looks like someone’s grandfather.”

  “I am certain,” Giovanni said. “Do not be fooled by his looks. Ivan Volkov is dangerous.”

  Carmine stared at the photo for a moment, trying to force himself to focus. He remembered his father mentioning problems with the Russians months ago, but Carmine still didn’t quite understand what any of it had to do with them. Giovanni had tried to explain it more than once, but the point was lost somewhere between the man’s accent and Carmine’s exhausted mind.

  He set the picture down and glanced at the map. Giovanni was on his laptop researching addresses that were associated with the Volkov family and his associates. The map was littered with writing, random circles splattered on it like polka dots.

  Carmine stared at it, overwhelmed, and was pulled out of his trance when Giovanni smacked him in the arm. He blinked a few times as he turned to the man. “What was that for?”

  “Answer your phone,” he said. “They will not stop calling.”

  It wasn’t until then that Carmine actually heard the ringing. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he pulled the phone from his pocket and answered it. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Dominic said. “I thought you broke another phone.”

  “No, I just… whatever. Did you find out anything?”

  Dominic sighed. “No matter what I do, it gives me an error. It just says ‘searching’ and then ‘chip cannot be located’ before it tells me to try again. I try again later and same thing.”

  Carmine stood there as those words sunk in. “Keep trying.”

  “I will, bro.”

  He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket as Giovanni went back over to the map. “Does your brother have any news?”

  “No, the chip isn’t working.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Carmine turned to look at Giovanni. “It means she’s probably underwater or in a windowless room.”

  Giovanni nodded. “So we should circle Lake Michigan also?”

  Carmine felt like he’d been punched at those words. “No. I refuse to even think that.”

  “I would not believe it, either,” Giovanni said. “Volkov would not take her just to kill her. And in good news, we can cross out everywhere that has a lot of windows.”

  “That’ll still leave over a dozen properties,” Carmine said, staring at the map. “How do we know which one to go to?”

  “We start at the top,” Giovanni said, pointing at a location in the north side of the city. “Work our way down until we find her.”

  Sighing, Carmine sat down and ran his hands down his face in frustration. “Why are you helping me, anyway? No one else would. They all said it was a waste of time, that it was a suicide mission.”

  “They do not understand,” Giovanni said, his voice quiet as he sat down near Carmine. “I have warned them that the Russians would make a move, but they did not listen to me. And they still are not listening. The Russians invade our streets, and Sal does nothing. They harass our people, and Sal does nothing. They turn our people against us, and Sal does nothing. Now they kidnap a girl, steal her from your father’s home, and what does Sal do?”

  “Nothing,” Carmine said. “He doesn’t do a damn thing.”

  Giovanni nodded. “If somebody does not do something, they will kill our people next. I, for one, cannot sit back and allow them to.”

  * * * *

  The day of the hearing with the appeals court, Vincent’s stress levels were at an all-time high. The US Marshals drove him and Corrado in separate cars to the Dirksen Federal Building a few blocks away. Their team of lawyers was waiting when they walked into the courtroom, taking seats at the defendant’s table. Corrado appeared calm and confident in his black Armani suit, the complete opposite of how Vincent felt. While it was a relief to be out of the prison attire, his button up shirt was choking him.

  The government representatives seemed confident, their lackadaisical attitudes making Vincent even more nervous. A prosecutor stood up, casually fixing his tie as he addressed the court. “Your honor, we’re talking about racketeering, gambling, extortion, fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. Each defendant is facing thirty-five counts. Releasing them would be potentially unleashing even more of this onto the community. The evidence clearly suggests that neither man intends to stop.”

  Their lawyers argued their cases to the judge when the government was done, citing fourth amendment violations and unreasonable searches. They said the evidence was flimsy at best—no eyewitnesses, no surveillance footage, no confessions, no DNA. The most they had were rumors and infamous names, and that wasn’t enough to take a man away from his life. Rocco Borza went on a passionate tirade about how the RICO Acts were being used to railroad innocent individuals, and how much of an injustice it was that they weren’t free. It took everything Vincent had not to laugh. He was guilty as charged, and the man beside him certainly was no saint.

  The judge let out a long sigh when both sides were done. “While the government makes a good point, the Fifth Amendment guarantees no one should be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. We’re innocent until proven guilty in this country, and the defendants have yet to be convicted of any crimes. They can’t be remanded without bail simply because you believe they may commit a crime in the future. Also, the Eighth Amendment states excessive bail is unconstitutional. Therefore, the previous ruling is overturned, and the defendants’ petition for bail is granted. $50,000 cash bond.”

  “Your honor,” the prosecutor said, standing up. “We ask that both of the defendants surrender their passports, as both have the means to flee the country. We also ask that they not be allowed to leave th
e state.”

  Mr. Borza interjected right away. “My client is a well-known doctor in North Carolina, where his permanent residence is located. Demanding he stay in Illinois isn’t fair.”

  The judge sighed again. “Both defendants will surrender their passports. If Dr. DeMarco chooses to return to North Carolina, he’ll have to submit to electronic monitoring.”

  Celia gathered the money for bail as the two men were processed out of the system. It was later that evening when Vincent walked out the front doors of the jail to come face-to-face with his sister, leaning against the side of her car with a solemn expression on her face. She appeared exhausted, her face lined with worry, as if she'd aged a decade over night.

  “Hey, little brother,” she said, forcing a smile. “You look like hell.”

  “Look who's talking,” he said. “You're starting to look like Ma.”

  She laughed awkwardly. “Ouch, low blow. Speaking of Mom, she saw your arrest on the news. You should call her. She’s worried about her baby boy.”

  “Worried?” Vincent asked. “That woman hates me. She’s probably just worried I’ll publically disgrace the DeMarco name even further.”

  “She doesn’t hate you. She just has a strange way of showing her love. I had to talk her out of calling the Department of Corrections to ask if the foot of your bed faced the door, since it’s bad luck. She was worried your soul would slip out of the door while you slept.”

  Despite his stress, he managed to smile. “Must be why I got lucky enough to be released today. The bed faced the other way.”

  Celia returned his smile, and things grew tense as they drove toward Portage Park in silence. “Did Corrado get released?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He went straight home a few minutes ago.”

  Vincent nodded, turning to look out of the window. He wanted to ask about Carmine, but it was an answer he wasn’t ready to hear. It had been two weeks since the girl was kidnapped, and Vincent couldn’t imagine what his son was going through.