Sempre: Redemption (29 page)

Christmas Eve. Tomorrow was Christmas day. And the next day, well . . . she didn’t like to think about what December 26 marked.

Opening the book, she pulled out the piece of paper she had tucked inside and unfolded it, staring at the sloppy writing, haphazardly scribbled in the middle of the night last Christmas. She had read it so many times she could recite it word for word.

She got to the end, her fingers tracing the three simple words:
I love you
.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

A year later, she still did.

Carmine’s brow furrowed as Corrado drove past the street that led to home. He cleared his throat. “Uh, I think you missed the turn.”

Corrado’s eyes remained on the road in front of him. He offered no reply as he reached for the radio, pressing the button to turn the music up. Frank Sinatra loudly vibrated the speakers, the song making Carmine’s skin prickle. His heart banged against his ribcage, echoing in his ears.

Frank Sinatra tended to trigger something in Corrado.

Panicking inside, his paranoia spiked as Corrado drove onto some vacant roads, deep into a neighborhood Carmine hadn’t been to in more than a decade. He had definitely fucked up and he knew there would be consequences, but he never thought it would be this. He never considered the fact that his uncle might get fed up. He never thought he might actually
end
him.

Carmine, until that moment, still believed he was invincible.

After driving for a few more minutes, Corrado slowed and pulled the car along the curb. Reaching over, he grasped the passenger side handle and flung open the door. “Get out.”

Carmine’s eyes darted around for some sign of life. Corrado wouldn’t kill him if there were witnesses. “What?”

“I said get out!”

Carmine obeyed at the sound of his uncle’s raised voice. He jumped out of the car and slammed the door, his frantic mind working fast. He thought about running, debating if he could evade him in the nearby alleys in the night, but he didn’t have to act. Tires squealed and a cloud of smoke filtered into the air as Corrado hastily sped away, leaving him standing there alone.

Carmine stared at the red taillights as they faded into the night, partially relieved but even more baffled. “What the fuck?”

“Now, now,” a voice said behind him, so close the hair on the back of Carmine’s neck stood on end. “That’s no way to talk here.”

Turning around, Carmine instinctively reached in his waistband for his weapon but unsurprisingly came up empty. He had nothing, to be precise—no ID, no wallet, not even a penny in his pocket.

He stood frozen at that realization, his panic dissipating as he took in the cloaked form a few feet away. The first thing he noticed was the Roman collar, the bright white sliver of fabric shining brightly in the darkness.

Confused, Carmine glanced past the man and surveyed the massive brown building, taking in the ornamental front door and massive steps leading to it. Corrado had dropped him off in front of an old church.

“Sorry, sir,” he muttered. “Or, I mean . . . your holiness?”

The priest smiled. “You may call me Father Alberto. What seems to be your trouble tonight?”

“Nothing. No trouble. I just . . .” Carmine wasn’t sure what to say.
I just really kinda sorta fucked up my life and thought my uncle was about to kill me for it
? “. . . I need a phone. You wouldn’t know where I could borrow one, would you? I mean, I know you wouldn’t have one, but maybe you know someone who does?”

Father Alberto raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I have one?”

“I don’t know. I guess because you’re one of those old school religious guys.”

The priest let out a hearty laugh. “I’m Catholic, son, not Amish. I have no aversion to technology. Come, you can use my phone.”

Motioning for him to follow, Father Alberto headed inside. Carmine hesitated before stepping into the church, his eyes darting around cautiously. The place was dim with a golden glow that was strangely warm and inviting. Carmine’s nerves instantly eased a bit. At least, he thought, his uncle wouldn’t kill him there.

He followed the priest to a small office in the back with a wooden desk taking up most of the space. An old white telephone sat on the corner, the twisty cord tangled. Picking it up, Carmine dialed Celia’s number as the priest took a seat behind the desk. Carmine leaned against it, waiting as the phone rang.

The answering machine picked up on the fifth ring, and her cell phone went straight to voicemail. He tried them both twice before giving up.

“No answer?” the priest asked.

“No.”

“Well, take a seat then.” Father Alberto motioned toward a chair in front of his desk. “We’ll chat while you wait. You can try your calls again later.”

Carmine debated for a moment before plopping down in the chair. It wasn’t as if he really had another option. With no money and no friends, it was either wait or start walking, and he was too damn exhausted for the second choice.

“Thanks,” Carmine said. “For the phone and the seat.”

“You’re welcome. It is what we old school religious guys do, after all.”

His voice was lighthearted and Carmine chuckled. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know. I’ve never been into the whole church thing.”

“Why not?”

Carmine shrugged. “Not really my scene.”

Father Alberto stared at him peculiarly. “Do you believe in God?”

A question Carmine dreaded, especially coming from a priest. He briefly considered lying to placate the man but thought better of it, considering he was sitting in the middle of a church. He had evaded death twice that week. Something told him he wouldn’t be so lucky the third time if lightning struck. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe? But I’ve seen some bad shi—uh, stuff, in my life that makes me doubt anyone gives a fu—uh, damn, about us.” Carmine’s eyes widened when he realized, despite his best effort, he still cursed. “Shit. Sorry, Father. It’s been a bad night.”

Carmine was half expecting to be kicked out, but Father Alberto merely smiled. “You aren’t the first to utter those words within these walls, and I’m certain you won’t be the last. I’m more concerned by your negativity than your profanity.”

“Well, you have a better chance of getting me to stop cursing than you do of changing the way I see things. It’s hard to believe there’s someone watching over us when so many good people get fucked over every day.”

“Ah, that’s an argument I hear often,” Father Alberto said. “How can a God exist when it seems so many have been forsaken? But you fail to realize, son, without the bad we can’t truly appreciate the good. Suffering teaches us to be better people. What we do in bad times measures how good of a person we really are.”

Carmine let out a bitter laugh, slouching in the chair as he thought about how he had adapted. “I must not be a very good man, then.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.”

“That’s because you don’t know me. You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“Then tell me,” the priest challenged. “Change my mind.”

Carmine scoffed. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Are you ashamed?”

“No.” Carmine hesitated. “Well, yes, but that’s not the point.”

“That
is
the point,” the priest said. “This is a safe place. Anything you say within these walls stays within these walls. The only thing keeping you from confessing your sins is your own reluctance to admit them.”

“Because I’m screwed up. Who would
want
to admit that?”

“Someone without morals,” he said, “which brings me back to you being a good man. The truly bad don’t have a conscience, son.”

Carmine pondered those words. The old man had somehow twisted things to his liking.

“If you don’t want to discuss your past, why don’t we talk about the future?” the priest suggested. “Maybe we can figure out why God brought you here tonight.”

“God didn’t bring me here,” Carmine said.

“No?”

“No, the devil dropped me off.”

Surprisingly, the priest smiled at that. “Is there a reason he did that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m starting to think he might actually have a sense of humor.”

Time passed as the two of them sat in the cramped office, going round in conversation about religion and life. Neither wavered, Carmine refusing to budge from his line of thinking, but he found himself feeling better the more the priest spoke. Something about the man’s voice, the compassion in his words, put Carmine at ease. He started making small concessions, offering tidbits of truth as he skimmed the surface of his reality and shared the tiny shavings that came off the top.

The sun had already started to rise when Carmine tried his calls again, each one just as unsuccessful as before. He hung up the phone with a frown, realizing nobody would be coming to his aide.

“No answer again?” the priest asked.

“No,” he replied. “I should get going. I have a long walk ahead of me.”

“Walk?” The priest shook his head. “Nonsense. I’ll give you a ride.”

Carmine blinked a few times, surprised. “You have a car?”

“Of course,” the priest said. “A telephone, a car . . . I even have a microwave, if you ever need to borrow one. What’s mine is yours.”

Carmine stared at the priest with disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Carmine stood, stretching his tired body as he ran his hands down his face. “We wasted a whole night here when you could’ve driven me home hours ago.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say we wasted the night,” Father Alberto said. “I rather enjoyed speaking with you. It was quite illuminating.”

Carmine followed the priest out of the church and around the corner, where an old model Cadillac Deville was parked along the curb. He smiled when he saw it, eyeing the light blue paint and tan interior.

“This is yours?” Carmine asked.

“Technically it belongs to Saint Mary’s, but yes,” he replied. “A former parishioner donated it to the church ages ago. I want to say it’s been nearly thirteen years.”

“Christ,” Carmine said, surprised it still ran, and smiled sheepishly when the priest gave him a peculiar look. “I’m just saying, you know . . . wow. My grandfather had one of these. He used to pick me up from school sometimes when I was a kid and drive me around. Pretty much the only memory I have of the man.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. He died when I was a kid, probably about . . .” Carmine paused as he did the math in his head. “. . . Thirteen years ago.”

The priest smiled at him before climbing into the car and starting it. It hesitated, the engine roaring and car trembling as it sprung to life. Sighing, Carmine climbed into the passenger seat and rattled off his address, staring out the side window as they silently drove through town.

Father Alberto pulled the car into the driveway when they arrived. Carmine turned to the man, about to thank him, and noticed the look of awe on his face. Before Carmine could say anything, the priest burst into a loud, boisterous laughing fit. He laughed so hard tears sprung to his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his hand as Carmine stared at him with confusion. “What’s so funny?”

“The door is blue.”

“Yeah, so?”

The priest shook his head. “I thought Vincenzo was joking.”

Carmine’s expression fell at the sound of his father’s name. He could only gape at the man in shock.

“He truly did a terrible job painting it,” Father Alberto continued, “but I commend him for doing it, nonetheless.”

“You know my father?”

“Of course I do,” the priest said. “It’s no coincidence you ended up on my front steps tonight, son.”

Carmine shook his head. What was this, a goddamn intervention?

“Merry Christmas.” The priest smiled, waving good-bye. “And for the record, I’ve always suspected Corrado had a sense of humor, too.”

C
hristmas on the Upper East Side turned out to be a more formal affair than Haven anticipated. No gifts were exchanged in the morning, no stories shared in the afternoon. At precisely three o’clock they all gathered in the large dining room, the four of them sitting at a table fit for a dozen. The staff served the meal, quietly and swiftly fixing each of them a plate before disappearing from the room.

Haven stared down at her food as the others started eating, her stomach in tight knots. Those people, the servants—didn’t they have families? Why were they working there on Christmas?

Thoughts of the worst kind infiltrated her mind. They couldn’t be, could they? A senator, a man of the law, wouldn’t keep slaves in his home.

Would he?

The possible answer to that terrified Haven.

“So, Hayden . . .”

Haven looked up from her plate, turning to Kelsey’s mother, Anita, down the table from her. Anita wore her dark hair in a tight bun on top of her head, a long string of pearls draped around her neck. She sipped from a glass of white wine that she had already refilled twice since they sat down.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Tell me about your family.”

Haven stared at her. “My family?”

“Yes, your family. I’d like to know why you’re not with them on Christmas.”

“Mother . . .” Kelsey hissed through clenched teeth at the same time her father muttered, “Anita, please.”

“Relax, I’m merely curious,” she said, waving them both off as she eyed Haven. “So, your family?”

“Well, uh . . . I don’t really have one,” she replied. “My parents are both gone.”

“An orphan?” Anita gasped loudly, leaning closer to the table. “How tragic! How did they die?”

“Car accident,” she answered right away, swallowing back the harsh truth that the only parent she really ever had took her own life to free herself from restraints . . . restraints put on her by the man who was supposed to be her father.

“So sad,” Anita said. “What about your other family members? Brothers? Cousins? Uncles? Aunts? Do you have anybody?”

“That’s enough, Anita,” Cain said, his voice firm. “Drop it.”

“Oh, get off it,” Anita said as she took a sip of her drink. “You can’t tell me you’re not curious why a young girl has no place to go on Christmas.”