Sempre: Redemption (39 page)

“Are you even listening to me?” Kelsey asked, pointing her fork at Haven.

“Sure,” Haven said, absently rubbing her neck. “What did you say again?”

“Let’s take a road trip.”

Brow furrowed, Haven stared at her friend. “What?”

“Let’s take a road trip,” Kelsey repeated for what was likely the third time. “We don’t have anything else to do this summer, right?”

“Uh, well . . .” Haven hesitated.
Road trip?
“I kind of thought I’d just stay around here this summer and take a few extra classes. You know, get ahead.”

Kelsey dramatically rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. School will be here when we get back. It’s been a long year, and we deserve a break.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Well, think about it.” Kelsey threw her fork down and stood up, tossing some cash down on the table. “We can leave after the Novak Gala.”

“Okay,” Haven said, drinking the rest of her coffee before setting the cup aside. “I’ll think about it.”

She had no intention of thinking about it, no intention of leaving New York.

The two of them left the diner, Kelsey once again babbling as they walked side by side toward the school. Haven was tense, her eyes darting around as they passed through crowds, surveying faces, analyzing looks. She kept peering over her shoulder, but she wasn’t sure why.

What she was sure of, though, was the twisting in her gut, her intuition telling her that someone—or something—was there that shouldn’t be.

“Explain it to me again.”

Haven ignored Kelsey, acting as if her friend hadn’t spoken as she studied the canvas in front of her. The fresh paint glistened under the fluorescent lights of the art studio, the vast array of colors weaving together like a tangled rainbow.

Abstract art—Haven was still trying to get the hang of it.

“Does this look okay?” she asked anxiously.

“It looks fine,” Kelsey said. “Now explain it to me again.”

Haven sighed. “We went out, it was nice, but it didn’t work.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Haven confirmed, still staring at the canvas. “Are you sure this is okay? Does it make sense?”

“It’s abstract. It’s not supposed to make sense.” Kelsey snorted. “I don’t get why you and Gavin can’t be friends. So there’s no spark, but you were totally friends before, right? What changed?”

Haven sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. They had been talking about it for weeks. “I guess it was all or nothing with him.”

“Nonsense,” Kelsey argued. “He’s not that kind of man.”

Haven rolled her eyes. “You hardly knew him.”

“But you did.”

Silence permeated the studio. Did she know him? He worked at the construction site. Family business, he had said, but Haven knew nothing about his family. In fact, she knew little more than his name: Gavin something-or-other. She had heard his last name before, but she couldn’t recall it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Haven said finally. “It wasn’t meant to happen. People come into our lives for a reason, so I have to believe there was a point to it somewhere, but it wasn’t for us to be friends, I guess.”

Setting down her paintbrush, Haven stepped back from the canvas. The spring Novak Gala was fast approaching, their submissions due by the end of the week, and Haven was struggling to create something she felt worthy of turning in.

“I’m going to miss seeing his face around,” Kelsey said. “Talk about good looking!”

Haven laughed. “If you like him so much, go ask him out.”

Eyes wide, Kelsey fervently shook her head. “No way. I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because of you, duh,” she said. “It’s breaking the friendship code.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s a really great guy. Funny. Nice. You could definitely do worse. Actually, you
have
done worse.”

“You really liked him.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Then why? Really?”

Haven half shrugged, half shook her head. “There was nothing there.”

Kelsey’s expression softened. “Your ex.”

Carmine.
“What about him?”

“That’s why you felt no spark with Gavin. You had it with someone else.”

Haven thought that over, remembering the chemistry she had felt with Carmine. There had been electricity, so much he made her glow. The thought of never having that again, having to live her life with nothing but the memory of the way she had felt, troubled her. “Do you think it’s possible to feel it more than once?”

“Absolutely,” Kelsey said. “I feel it every time a guy so much as looks at me these days.”

Haven laughed.

“Or . . .” Kelsey took a few steps toward her, scanning the colorful painting. “Or maybe I’ve never really felt it at all, and you’re just one of the lucky ones.”

“Corrado Moretti is notorious. They call him the Kevlar Killer on the streets, insinuating he’s bulletproof, untouchable, and maybe out there he is, but not in here. Here we seek the truth. Here we get justice. And justice, today, would be a guilty verdict. The defendant is a murderer, a liar, and a thief. Nobody is safe with him roaming free. We have proven he belongs to an organization that prides itself on killing, an organization that advances people for hurting others. What kind of organization does that? An immoral one. An illegal one. A dangerous one.”

The prosecutor babbled on and on as Corrado sat still in the hard chair, waiting. The eight-week trial was finally coming to an end with closing statements. It would soon be over and time to move on.

Or so he hoped.

When it was their turn, Mr. Borza stood and let out a bitter laugh. “The Kevlar Killer. It should be noted the media invented that nickname to sell papers. Sensationalized, to make money off an innocent man. The only reputation my client really has is for being a savvy businessman, a family man. His criminal record is clean. The government spent millions of dollars and thousands of man hours digging into every aspect of his life for
years,
trying to find something big, something scandalous, and the most they got was a bunch of heresy from convicted criminals looking for a way out of jail and a potentially unpaid tax bill, for which—if it makes them feel better—Mr. Moretti will write a check today. That’s it.”

Corrado tuned his lawyer out as he glanced around the courtroom, still banking on juror number six to come through for him. Mr. Borza kept it short and sweet, and the judge instructed the jury, sending them to the back to deliberate.

“How long do you expect it to take?” Corrado asked after court was in recess.

“There’s no way to tell,” he replied. “If they come back today, I’d say it’s good news. But honestly, Mr. Moretti? If they’re out more than forty-eight hours, I’d start praying for a hung jury.”

Forty-eight hours came and went with nothing. Three days passed, then four. Corrado remained locked away at MCC, outfitted once again in an oversize orange jumpsuit. Warm weather had somehow crept up on them, the prison sweltering as the faulty air conditioner kept breaking down. The stench of stale sweat hung in the sticky air, clinging to everything its vileness could touch.

Corrado’s patience dwindled. Every time footsteps approached his tiny cell, he stood at attention, waiting for them to deliver some news.

None came.

After a week, the jury sent a note claiming they were deadlocked and couldn’t agree, but the judge sent them back to deliberations, ordering them to give it a few more days. While a hung jury was certainly better than a guilty verdict, he wasn’t as excited at the prospect as his lawyer. A mistrial meant another trial. Another jury. More time away from his life . . . his
wife
.

Twenty-four hours later, Corrado was lying on the bunk in his cell when heavy footsteps slowly approached the door. He got up and eyed the door, hoping against hope it was finally over.

“Mail call,” the guy hollered, opening the slot in the door and dropping in an envelope. Corrado snatched it off the floor. Another false alarm.

Sighing, he eyed the ripped open envelope with the sketchy address, surprised yet again that it passed security. He pulled out the greeting card, eyeing the photo on the front. Corrado knew little to nothing about art, but even he could recognize the painting
The Scream
.

Hope your day is a scream
the card read, sloppy handwriting under the typed message:
I scream, you scream, we all scream . . . until somebody hears.

Corrado stared at the message, reading it again and again. He was so busy deciphering the short message that someone managed to sneak up on him.

“Moretti.”

Corrado looked over, eyeing the correctional officer. “What?”

“Show time.” He smirked. “The jury came back with a verdict.”

Haven darted across the busy New York street, long wavy hair flowing behind her as her feet zealously carried her down the block. Despite her best effort, she repeatedly knocked into others, elbows jabbing and shoulders bumping as she flew past.

“Sorry,” she muttered, breathing heavily as she ran along the sidewalk, heading straight for her brownstone apartment. The white envelope crumpled in her hand as she fisted it, making sure not to lose her grip.

Once she made it home, she bolted inside, no hesitation in her steps as she bypassed her door. She frantically took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for Kelsey’s apartment on the second floor.

She didn’t bother to knock in her haste. Grabbing the knob, she shoved open Kelsey’s front door. “Kelsey, you won’t belie—Oh, God!”

Startled yelps echoed through the living room. Haven shielded her eyes and quickly swung around as Kelsey and a male friend fumbled for their clothes.

“I’m so sorry!” Haven’s cheeks turned scarlet and warm from embarrassment. “I didn’t realize, well, you know . . .”

“It’s okay,” Kelsey said. “We’re dressed now.”

Slowly, Haven turned back around, tentatively peeking through her hands at them. “I should’ve knocked.”

“You think?” Kelsey stood as she motioned toward the guy. “You remember Fred, right? The architect?”

Haven eyed the tall man peculiarly, taking in his short blond hair and blue eyes. She didn’t remember him at all, but Haven politely smiled and nodded anyway. “Sure. It’s nice to see you again, Fred.”

“You, too,” he said. “Well, I should be going.”

He kissed Kelsey’s cheek before strolling past and disappearing downstairs. Haven stood there for a moment, watching her friend as she stared at the now empty doorway. “He’s hot, right?” Kelsey asked. “I think he might actually be the one.”

Haven’s eyes widened. “Did you feel it? The spark?”

“Oh, I felt it all right.” Kelsey laughed, turning her attention to Haven. “Anyway, what’s up? Why the speedy entrance?”

All thoughts of the awkward incident evaporated as Haven’s face lit up with excitement. She held up the crinkled white envelope, waving it frantically at her friend. “I did it! I got in!”

Kelsey’s brow furrowed. “Got in where?”

“The Novak Gala,” Haven declared. “Miss Michaels pulled me aside in the hallway. I came in thirteenth! They’re going to display my painting!”

Kelsey let out a sudden shriek. “No way! That’s amazing!”

The two of them jumped around and squealed, hugging as they celebrated the news. Tears sprung to Haven’s eyes, overwhelming elation running through her veins. She had done it. Out of three thousand entries, she had made the cut.

“This is so crazy,” Kelsey said, pulling away. “We have so much to do now! We need to get you a dress and shoes. You’ll need hair and makeup.”

She blanched. A dress? High heels? A
makeover
?

“Oh, oh oh! And a date! We have to get you a date!”

Haven blinked rapidly. “A date?”

“Yes! You get to bring guests, right? You can’t go alone!”

Reaching into the envelope, Haven pulled out the letter and unfolded it, eyeing the three wrinkly tickets tucked inside. She put hers back into the envelope and held the other two out to her friend. “I want you to come with me.”

“Me? But—”

“Take them,” Haven insisted. “You’ve been so great to me. You took me home on Christmas and introduced me to your family.”

“I should be making that up to you, not the other way around.”

Haven laughed. “Come with me. And if Fred’s the one, bring him, too.”

Kelsey hesitated before taking the two tickets. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Smiling, Haven took a step back toward the door. “Invite whoever you want. My thanks to you for being such a great friend.”

Haven started out of the apartment, hearing Kelsey yell after her as she descended the stairs. “Fine, but you’re still getting a dress! Don’t think you’re getting out of that one!”

“As to count one, participating in the conduct of the affairs of an enterprise through a pattern of racketeering activity, we the jury find the defendant, Corrado Alphonse Moretti . . .” There was a pause, one that seemed to stretch for eternity, before the fateful words were read. “. . . Not guilty.”

The packed courtroom erupted in noise, a few elated cheers mixing with the horrified shouts of disbelief from onlookers. Cameras flashed from the media, recording the moment, as the judge feverishly banged his gavel for silence.

Count after count was read, all of them with the same result: not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. Corrado remained still as he stood at the defendant’s table, the only one in the room not reacting emotionally. He felt it, though, churning in the pit of his heavy stomach, evident in the cold sweat formed along his back. It was the only time he had ever been unsure of a verdict before it was read. For the first time in his life, he had had a moment where he actually wondered if it could be the end for him.

And that moment to Corrado, as he contemplated his uncertain future, was worse than facing death. Death he could accept . . . being a caged animal he couldn’t. He would never let it show, though. He exuded nothing but total confidence, bordering on callous conceit.

When the jury finished, the judge ruled for Corrado’s immediate release. Corrado stood after the final bang of the gavel, ignoring the incessant shouting and name-calling from the gallery as he shook Mr. Borza’s hand. He turned then, seeking out his wife in the crowd, and found her in the back, standing all alone and smiling.