It had been two weeks since the kids had returned from Blackburn, and the days had proven to be some of the longest of Vincent’s life. The atmosphere in the house was tense, the silence that followed both of them unsettling. He sat behind his desk every night and watched his son pace the hallway just feet from the office door, his hands assaulting his hair as he berated himself. Vincent couldn’t hear him, but he knew where his thoughts were.
Vincent pressed a few buttons on the computer and the screen changed to a view of the library. He spotted the girl, curled up in the chair by the window with a book on her lap. It was the same place she had been every night while his son paced—sitting in the darkness and staring out into the yard. She withdrew further and further as time went on, but Vincent was too exhausted to mediate.
He was in deep with la famiglia. He lied, cheated, plundered, and slaughtered for them, but one thing he had prided himself on was his loyalty. He may have been a criminal, but at least he could think himself an honorable one. That had fallen to the wayside as of late, and they weren’t ignorant to his behavior. They made that obvious during their recent visit. Every one of them was trained to spot deception . . . and Vincent was weary of being dishonest.
Maura had once told him that while not everyone lived, everyone did die, and with death came release. Death meant freedom—freedom from the things that hold us back. Vincent used to tease her when she said such things, but he understood now. He understood what it was like to wish you could find peace, but you couldn’t because your work wasn’t done. You hadn’t served your purpose, and until you did, you were damned to keep going. Vincent envied those who could rest in peace. What he wouldn’t give to have the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
He switched cameras once more and went back to the hallway. Carmine still paced, his eyes darting between the office and the stairs to the third floor. Vincent glanced at the time: after eleven in the evening. Carmine usually made his decision before now and stomped up the stairs. The girl would scurry out of the library, darting to her bedroom before he made it there.
Tonight things changed, though. When Carmine headed toward the office door, Vincent felt nothing but relief. Judgment Day had come. One step closer to peace.
The knob turned and Carmine stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. Vincent refrained from chastising him for not knocking, thankful he had actually made it inside. “Sit down,” he said, switching the view back to the library.
Carmine flopped down in the chair with a huff. Vincent met his gaze, seeing the curiosity and confusion. Resentment lurked underneath, but Vincent couldn’t blame him.
“You look like you haven’t fucking slept in years,” Carmine said. “And Christ, have you eaten?”
Vincent leaned back in his chair. “You want to discuss my health, Carmine?”
His expression was sober. “Yeah, you look fucked up.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment, but something tells me you haven’t spent the past week loitering outside my office gathering the courage to hold an intervention.”
“How . . . ?” Carmine paused. “You’ve been watching the cameras.”
“Yes,” he said, “and I was beginning to wonder if you ever planned to come in.”
Carmine sighed. “I didn’t know what to say. No sense barging in just to look at you, since you look like shit and all.”
“Considering you’re here now, does that mean you’ve figured it out?”
“No, I just got tired of standing in the hall.”
“Ah, I’m better to look at than the white walls, at least?”
Carmine cracked a smile. “No, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one around here who remembers how to joke.”
“Tale il padre, tale il figlio,” Vincent said, regretting his choice of words the moment they escaped his lips. Carmine’s smile fell, and Vincent knew exactly what he wanted to know. He’d been dreading this day for years.
“When we were in Blackburn, Katrina said something,” Carmine started. “She said just because we were doing the same thing didn’t mean we were the same . . . that Haven wasn’t her. And it’s not only that—there’s other shit, too. So I’m wondering, you know . . .”
“You want to know how I met your mother.”
“The truth.”
The truth. Vincent couldn’t avoid it anymore.
It had been a scorching afternoon as he stood in the yard of the Moretti mansion in Las Vegas. He brought his hand up to block out the blinding sun as he walked around the side of the house, searching for shade. As soon as he turned the corner, he crashed into someone there. Dropping his hand, he blinked rapidly at the girl in front of him. Pale skin glowed in the sunshine, a stark contrast from her fiery red hair. Deep green eyes watched him cautiously as he stared into them in a trance. Her mouth moved, but the words were lost on him. His stomach twisted, his heart unexpectedly gripped in a vice.
Colpo di fulmine. He was done for.
“Is there a problem?” she asked when he pulled her into the shade.
“The only problem is I don’t know your name.”
She smiled. “I’m Maura.”
Maura. Her hair flowed past her shoulders and freckles dotted her nose. She wasn’t Italian—not even close. No Italian he had ever met had eyes that color.
Those eyes . . . Vincent could never get enough of them. And as he looked across the desk at his youngest child, he saw the same eyes watching him suspiciously.
“We met at Celia’s engagement party,” he said, looking away. Sometimes it was still hard for Vincent to take.
“And what was an Irish girl doing at a party for two Italians?”
Vincent wondered the same thing that day.
He and Maura had sat against the side of the house, his legs spread out in front of him as he fanned his sweaty skin. Maura’s knees were pulled up to her chest as she plucked the dry grass around them.
“You’re not hot?” he asked. They had been sitting there for at least an hour.
“No, but you can go inside. The cool air will make you feel better.”
“Will you go with me?”
“No way,” she said. “That wouldn’t be good at all.”
He laughed. “Then I’m not going, either. They haven’t noticed I’m gone, and until they do, I’m staying right where I am.”
“Will they notice you’re gone?”
“No, I doubt they remember I’m alive,” he said. “What about you?”
Before she could answer, her eyes darted past him. Vincent turned around and groaned when he saw Katrina at the corner of the house, watching them.
“Go away, loon,” Vincent said. “I’m not in the mood for you.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Katrina spat.
Maura jumped to her feet, looking away as she trembled. “Sorry, Mistress.”
Mistress. The moment she said it, he knew the truth.
“Well?” Carmine asked impatiently, pulling Vincent from his thoughts. “Why was she there?”
“She was the help.”
“The help?” Carmine’s tone was clipped. “Like a maid? Was she a waitress? Because the two of you were fifteen, and that’s not old enough to be employed. Not like you people follow laws or anything . . .”
Vincent sighed. “She wasn’t paid.”
Carmine sprung forward, raising his voice. “It’s true? Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Carmine shoved the front of the desk as he stood, thrusting it into Vincent. He grabbed the laptop before it hit the floor as his son rambled. “How could I have been so fucking stupid? Never would I have imagined she had been . . . you’d have . . . Christ!”
Vincent shifted his desk back into place. “You can say the word.”
“I know,” he snapped, “but can you?”
“Of course. It’s just a word.”
“Then say it. Drop the ‘she was the help’ bullshit and say it.”
“Slave,” Vincent said. “Trafficking victim. Call it what you will, it’s all the same.”
Carmine’s anger flared. “And the Morettis had her? Is that why Corrado says he owes her?”
“You’d have to ask him. That’s not my story to tell.”
“Of course it’s not your story to tell,” Carmine said, slamming his hands down on the desk. “The cop-out answer of the year. Nobody wants to tell me anything, so they pawn it off on everyone else. I can’t believe you kept this from me! After everything, how could you not tell me?”
Vincent pushed Carmine’s hands away. “It’s in your best interest to settle down. If you want an explanation, take a seat. If not, get out of my office. The choice is yours, but I’m not going to sit here and let you scold me like a child.”
Carmine glowered at him, clenching his jaw. Vincent could tell his son wanted to say something, but Carmine was smart enough to know that to get answers, he’d have to do things Vincent’s way.
Sighing, Carmine flopped down in the chair. Vincent straightened some papers that had been disturbed, giving the computer a quick glance before addressing his son. “When do you suppose I should’ve told you? When you were two and didn’t know what slavery was? When you were eight and thought your mother was infallible? After she was gone, when you were already hurting? The time was never right.”
“But don’t you think I had a right to know who my mother really was?”
The question sent Vincent’s temper flaring. “That’s not who your mother was! How many times have I overheard you telling the girl that that doesn’t define her? How many times, Carmine? And yet you have the audacity to turn it around and use it against me, against your mother?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Vincent said. “This is why I never wanted you to know. Maura wanted people to see a wife and a mother—a woman—not a victim. I let her leave the past behind, and maybe it was unfair to you, but it was her life. It was her decision. I loved your mother, and we went through hell fighting to be together. I’ve tried to make it as easy as possible on you, so maybe you’d learn from my mistakes. I had to learn through trial and error. I lost my patience with her so many times because I didn’t understand.”
Carmine covered his face with his hands as he attempted to rein in his emotions. “She always seemed well adjusted.”
“That was our intention,” he said. “We didn’t want to taint your perception of the things she did. If you knew the truth, you’d question everything.”
Tears pooled in his eyes. “And this is why she was desperate to help Haven?”
Vincent was rocking Carmine’s foundation, so he purposely treaded carefully. “Maura wasn’t born into it, but she knew what the child had to look forward to. Your mother wanted to save her before reality hit. The older they are when you pull them out, the less likely they are to adapt.”
