Sempre: Redemption (32 page)

Carmine ran his hand through his hair in a panic. “Me?”

“Yes, and make it fast,” Corrado said, starting up the stairs. “You know, in case I’m wrong and she opens her mouth.”

T
he long mahogany table filled the conference room, leaving hardly enough space for people to push out their chairs. It was cramped, the atmosphere stifling as Corrado breathed the same stale air as half a dozen other men.

He sat at the far end of the table with Mr. Borza to his right, the lone court reporter seated beside the lawyer. The federal prosecutor by the name of Markson sat on the left side with his two assistants, while a U.S. Marshal slumped half-asleep in a chair by the exit. Corrado wasn’t surprised they had enlisted security, given the nature of the case, but he was a bit offended they thought one pesky man would be enough to keep everyone safe.

The clock on the wall read 8:23 in the morning, nearly half an hour past the time the proceedings were scheduled to start. Tension choked the silent room as everyone stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open, for something to finally happen. No one seemed to know what to say, neither side wanting to be the first to verbalize what was becoming evident:

Vincent DeMarco was a no-show for his deposition.

The clock steadily ticked away, another ten minutes passing before Mr. Borza cleared his throat. “I think we can all agree this isn’t happening today.”

“Just give it a little longer,” the prosecutor said. “He’ll be here.”

“We’ve already given him thirty minutes,” Mr. Borza argued. “He’s clearly decided not to testify, after all.”

The prosecutor scoffed. “If he doesn’t show, it’s because something’s keeping him from being here.”

“Like what?” Mr. Borza asked. “Traffic? A flat tire? Those are hardly good excuses.”

“No, I mean something like your client.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Mr. Borza said, waving him off. “Mr. Moretti has been here with us all morning. You know that. He was here before even you.”

“Maybe so, but what about last night or the day before? What about last week?” The prosecutor turned his attention to Corrado, his eyes ablaze with anger and suspicion. “When was the last time you saw Vincent DeMarco?”

Corrado didn’t have a chance to consider responding. Mr. Borza shoved his chair back, slamming it against the wall as he stood. “You know very well my client is under no obligation to be here for this nonsense, much less entertain your absurd, paranoia-fueled questions! Contact me if your witness surfaces and we’ll reschedule this sideshow. Otherwise, we’re done.”

The lawyer stormed out of the room, all spitfire and rage, while Corrado stood, as calm as could be. “Gentlemen.”

“This has your name written all over it, Moretti,” the prosecutor muttered, slamming a notebook closed as he gathered his things. “You won’t get away with this. Mark my words. I’ll have you off the streets by the end of the day.”

Corrado wasn’t home for more than two hours before his phone started incessantly ringing. He ignored it, not in the mood to humor anyone with conversation, but realized they weren’t going to give up after the third consecutive call.

He answered with a sigh, hitting the speakerphone button. “Moretti speaking.”

“We have a problem.”

Corrado closed his eyes at the sound of his lawyer’s voice. He was tired of hearing Mr. Borza say those words. “What now?”

“The prosecution filed for an emergency hearing on a motion to revoke bond based on evidence that you’re a flight risk and a danger to society.”

Leaning back in his office chair, Corrado ran his hands down his face with frustration. “What evidence?”

“Well, they’re citing the fact that Vincent’s missing. They’ve issued a warrant for failing to appear, but so far there’s no sign of him here or at his home.”

There wouldn’t be, Corrado thought. They weren’t going to find Vincent.

“It seems he found a way to remove his monitoring device,” Mr. Borza continued. “They tracked it to a location here in Chicago, but it turned out to be a Dumpster. They searched it, just in case, but there’s no sign of a, uh . . . you know.”

“A body,” Corrado said, finishing the man’s thought.

“Yes.”

Nervousness seeped through the phone, clinging desperately to every word. It made Corrado tense. Even his lawyer doubted things.

“That’s hardly what I’d call evidence of wrongdoing on my part,” Corrado said. “They’re just looking for an excuse. Punishing me for my brother-in-law’s sins.”

“While that may be true, it doesn’t mean it won’t work,” Mr. Borza said. “You’re on trial for a statute they invented to be able to nail you for crimes you’re only somewhat linked to. The government isn’t above stretching things to suit them.”

“So you’re saying they’ll be successful.”

Mr. Borza hesitated. Corrado knew the answer before the man even said, “More than likely, yes.”

While he wasn’t surprised, given Mr. Markson’s words from that morning, Corrado’s stomach churned from the turn in events. “How long does that give me?”

“The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. They wanted to do it tonight, but I stalled a bit. It’s better if you aren’t present, I think, or they may detain you on site. Otherwise, they’ll give you about forty-eight hours to surrender.”

“So the weekend,” Corrado said.

“Something like that.”

Corrado was silent for a moment, mulling over the situation. Forty-eight hours wasn’t enough time for him to do everything he needed to do. If they detained him, he could be gone months, or even years. Too much relied on his ability to remain out on the streets.

“Just do what you can,” Corrado said finally. “I trust your abilities.”

“I’ll give it my all, but I can’t work miracles.”

Corrado let out a sharp laugh. “Are you insinuating only God can help me now?”

“Not at all. I’m just saying we may have to give them this battle and keep our eyes focused on winning the war.”

Corrado pressed the button again, ending the call without giving a response. He sat there for a moment, rubbing the tips of his fingers together deep in thought, before standing up and grabbing his cell phone. He slipped it in his pocket and headed out of his office, passing his wife on the way to the front door.

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

He kissed her cheek. “I have things to take care of. Don’t wait up for me.”

I think some people are born with tragedy in their blood. Mixed with the cells, the plasma, and the platelets are deeply hidden secrets they just can’t escape. It’s a part of them, passed down between generations, but it doesn’t define them. It doesn’t mean they’re doomed. Like a smart man once told me, the nastiest fertilizer makes the most beautiful flowers grow.

Haven ran her fingers along the yellowing paper, tracing the handwritten words as she read the paragraph for the second time. She sat in the middle of her couch, legs crossed, with the leather-bound journal on her lap. Kelsey lounged in a chair across the room, her legs kicked over the side, as she flipped through channels, seemingly uninterested in anything on television.

After a moment, the familiar voice of Alex Trebek resounded through the room. “The author of the twentieth-century work
The Secret Garden
.”

“Frances Hodgson Burnett,” Haven muttered, looking up from the journal at
Jeopardy
on the screen.

Kelsey glanced at her when she answered, shaking her head as she changed the channel. “You’re such a nerd.”

Haven shrugged. If she meant that as an insult, she didn’t take it as one.

Kelsey flipped through a few more before giving up, turning off the television and tossing the remote down. She grabbed a blue registration folder from the coffee table, eyeing Haven peculiarly as she sat back in the chair. “What are you reading, anyway?”

“Nothing.” Haven closed Maura’s journal. “It’s just a book.”

Kelsey stared at her for a moment, her eyebrow arched. “I gathered that much, Sherlock.”

Haven stood and returned the journal to the bookshelf before grabbing the second registration folder from the table. “Don’t worry about it.”

Rolling her eyes, Kelsey opened her folder and started sorting through the papers. Haven followed her lead, taking out her schedule for the spring semester. School started back up in the morning, giving Haven another fresh start. She hadn’t done too horribly in the fall, failing none of her classes, but some she had just passed by the skin of her teeth.

“So I’ll drop Drawing II and pick up Writing and Literature with you,” Kelsey said, reading over her schedule.

Haven glanced through hers. “I have that at eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Kelsey grimaced. “Ugh, forget about it. How about Survey of World Art?”

“Nine-thirty, same days.”

“Still too early.”

“Sculpture?”

“Gross.”

Haven laughed. “Well, all I have left is Painting II.”

“When’s that?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at noon.”

A smile curved Kelsey’s lips. “Bingo!”

Kelsey scribbled it down on a piece of paper as Haven put her schedule away, placing the registration folder back on the table. She settled back into the couch, crossing her legs once more, when a loud ringing ricocheted through the apartment.

“Phone’s ringing,” Kelsey said, picking a pillow up off the chair and tossing it at Haven. She caught it, tensing as her blood ran cold. Her eyes darted over to the bookcase where the small black cell phone lay, glowing and vibrating as it rang.

Besides Kelsey, there was only one person who had that number.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kelsey asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Haven walked over to the phone, glancing at the caller ID even though it was senseless. Corrado’s name shone brightly on the screen. Her hand shook as she picked it up, but before she could answer it, the ringing stopped.

Thirty seconds, then forty-five, then a minute passed until her phone chimed again, this time with a text message. Haven opened it, reading the simple message:

Call me.

The club on Ninth Street was packed, the sound of an old Frank Sinatra song booming from the massive speakers situated in the corners. Cigar smoke permeated the air, making Carmine’s eyes water the moment he stepped inside.

Corrado had called him and told him to come down right away. He wouldn’t elaborate as to why on the phone and that put Carmine on edge. Was it his father? Haven? Had something happened to her?

The last time he had been there, things hadn’t gone over very well.

Slowly, he walked over to the bar. “Vodka, please.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Do you have ID?”

Carmine hesitated.
What the fuck?
“You know me, man.”

“You’re right,” the bartender said, not sounding impressed in the least. “I do.”

“Yeah, so are you gonna give me a shot?”

“Sure,” the man said. “Just as soon as you show me some ID.”

Carmine stared at him, stunned. “Are you fucking with me?”

The bartender sighed. “Look, I feel for you, but you know your uncle . . . I ain’t losing my life just so you can drink. He said you were cut off permanently.”

“This is fucked up,” Carmine muttered, wishing he had
something
to soothe his frazzled nerves before he had to face Corrado. “Where is my uncle, anyway? He told me to meet him here.”

“He’s in his office,” the bartender said, motioning toward the hallway. “You know which one it is.”

Frustrated, Carmine pushed away from the bar and slowly made his way to the back. He knocked on the door and waited. The last thing he wanted was another fight with Corrado.

“It’s open,” Corrado yelled.

Carmine stepped inside. Corrado sat in his leather chair, nonchalantly flipping through paperwork. Not wanting to interrupt, Carmine wordlessly plopped down in a chair in front of his desk.

Corrado glanced up at him and stilled his movements. “Did I tell you to sit?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then I think a man of reasonable intelligence can conclude you should still be standing. You’re by no means a genius, but even a two year old can follow simple commands.”

Carmine’s mouth drew into a thin line as he tightly pressed his lips together, fighting hard not to respond to the insult. He should be used to it by now, but his temper still often got the best of him.

He stood back up.

“Now you can sit.”

Motherfucker
.

Carmine plopped back down, fidgeting as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow, the lights in the room feeling too bright and uncomfortable. His heart hammered in his chest as he waited for Corrado to tell him why he had been called there, but the silence lingered on. Corrado returned to his paperwork, ignoring his presence.

Nearly twenty minutes passed—excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes—before his uncle looked up at him again. “Are you on something, Carmine?”

“No,” he said, his eyes narrowing defensively. “I haven’t. Not since . . .”

“And you better not,” Corrado said. “It’s unacceptable. Disrespectful. I’ve put a bullet in men for less than what you did, and . . .”

Sighing, Carmine slouched in the chair as his uncle went on and on, the same shit he had heard more than a dozen times the past few weeks. He knew it all—in fact, he knew it before the incident even happened—and he was getting tired of constantly being berated for his mistake.

He had paid enough, he thought, the aftermath something he would never forget.

His mind wandered then, drifting, until the sound of a phone ringing shattered his train of thought. Corrado immediately stopped talking as he glanced at it, his eyes darting straight to him, his expression severe. “If you say a single word, I’ll make you suffer. Understand?”

He blanched, nodding, suddenly too terrified to reply.

“I mean it,” Corrado warned. “Don’t even breathe too loud.”

Reaching for his phone, Corrado answered it as he brought it to his ear. “Hello, Haven.”

And just like that, the air flew from Carmine’s lungs. Corrado narrowed his eyes at him as he let out a shuddering breath, but he couldn’t help it. The room felt smaller, stifling, suffocating.