Sempre (Forever Series #1)(33)

“To Chicago, yes.” He pulled Carmine’s hand away to survey his bloody nose. “If you keep snorting that stuff, you’re going to damage your septum.”

Carmine moved away. “How do you know I didn’t get punched?”

“Because if someone had punched you in the nose, you would’ve broken theirs.” Vincent started toward the door with his bag. “Lay off the coke. It’ll get you killed.”

* * *

Carmine fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and was woken up by a knock on his door. He pulled himself out of bed, groaning, and swung it open to see Dominic. He thrust a bag at Carmine. “Your date’s here.”

Fuck. He’d already forgotten about the dance.

He showered, trying to wake up, and dressed in a black suit and black shoes before grabbing the bag. Pulling out the tie, he held it up and glared at it. It was shockingly pink. Fandango, my ass.

He slipped it on, knowing he didn’t have time to argue. After unlocking his bottom desk drawer, he filled a flask with vodka and slipped it into his pocket. He headed out, but paused in the library when Haven came up the stairs.

Carmine tried to think of something profound to say, something to make it all right again. “This tie makes me look fruity, doesn’t it?”

That isn’t it.

Haven burst into laughter. “Like the cake.”

He shook his head when she disappeared into her room. She didn’t even know what he meant.

. . . Or did she?

* * *

When they reached the school, Lisa ventured off with her friends while Carmine stood along the side, drinking heavily. They danced a bit, but by the time his flask was empty, he was drunk and ready to leave. Lisa smiled seductively, and the two of them went straight to her house. Her parents were out of town for the weekend, and Lisa hit up the liquor cabinet, handing him a bottle of Southern Comfort.

She took him to her bedroom, where he drank even more.

She kissed his neck and snatched the bottle away before pushing him down on the bed. He lay there and let her strip him, watching as she slipped off her dress. Climbing on the bed, she hovered over him and leaned in for a kiss.

Turning his head, he muttered, “I’m not that drunk.”

Her touch was uncomfortable, too intimate. She went too slowly, her hands gentle. Nothing felt right about it, her body wrong. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling himself softening, Carmine wished he could enjoy it. He’d compromised and worn a pink tie, and now his body rejected a guaranteed lay. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. It was driving him nuts.

As soon as that thought ran through his mind, laughter erupted from him. Lisa moved away, startled. “What’s wrong with you, Carmine? You’re crazy!”

“I know.” He stood and grabbed his clothes. “Nutty like a f**king fruitcake.”

She stared with disbelief. “Wait, you’re leaving? Why?”

“I don’t love you,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m never gonna love you, Lisa.”

* * *

Saint Mary’s Catholic Church looked like a medieval castle tucked into the heart of bustling Chicago, with its pointy towers and strong tan bricks. The grass surrounding it was withered, the sidewalk cracked, but the church was still immaculate. High arches and golden walls accented the wooden décor, the ivory marble floor sparkling from the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. When Vincent was young, he felt like he had stepped inside a treasure chest. Every Sunday, without fail, Saint Mary’s made him believe he truly belonged.

Today, however, as he strolled through the vacant pews, he felt like an outcast in the place of worship. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the walls, alerting the priest to his arrival. He headed straight to the confessional and sat down as Father Alberto took a seat on the other side.

Vincent pushed the screen out of the way, knowing it was senseless to shield himself from the priest. He would know it was him—he always did. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”

Father Alberto made the sign of the cross before he spoke, his Sicilian accent still present even though he had lived in America for decades. “What sins have you committed, my child?”

Since his last confession, Vincent had lied, stolen, and been an accessory to murder in the name of la famiglia, but one sin weighed heavily on his mind. “I hurt someone . . . a girl.”

“Did you intend to cause the girl harm?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Are you remorseful?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Have you told her of your regret?”

He ran his hands down his face in frustration. “No.”

Father Alberto was quiet for a moment. “Was it her?”

Vincent needn’t answer. They both knew it was . . . and they both knew it wasn’t the first time.

“I was angry,” Vincent said. “The pain that morning was the worst it’s been in years. I wanted someone else to hurt for once. I wanted someone else to feel what I felt. I had to get it out of me before I exploded. I needed to feel better.”

“And did you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m still angry—so angry, Father—but on top of it, now I’m ashamed. I want to stop feeling this way, but I don’t know how to make it go away.”