Sempre (Forever Series #1)(51)

She lost her breath, his words striking her hurt. Had she been that much of a disappointment?

“But speaking as a businessman,” Dr. DeMarco continued, shrugging, “she’s a hard worker.”

“So she wasn’t a bad investment?” the other guy asked. Haven looked at him. Investment? Their eyes met, his the cold drab shade of a knife’s blade. Her skin crawled at their interest in her. She had to look away.

“You could say that.” Dr. DeMarco shifted position and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you start dinner, child? My guests will be joining us tonight.”

* * *

Haven’s heart raced as she fled into the kitchen, leaning against the counter to take a few deep breaths. Dominic arrived home while she stood there, and he greeted the men in the family room before joining her. “You look worried,” he said, grabbing a soda from the refrigerator.

“Nervous,” she admitted.

Dominic sighed, opening his drink as he leaned against the counter. “Does it help to know they make me uncomfortable, too?”

It did help a bit, but not enough to eliminate her fears. “Do you know why they’re here?”

“Business, I guess. Like I said, I don’t get involved.” He took a drink, shaking his head. “I do know the man in the gray suit, Salvatore, is in charge.”

“And the other?”

“His name’s Nunzio. We used to hang out when we were kids, but he’s no friend of mine now.”

* * *

Footsteps approached an hour later as Haven cooked dinner, and the man named Nunzio appeared in the doorway. His eyes lingered on her as she deliberately concentrated on the food, ignoring the crawling of her skin, hoping he’d go away after he saw what he came to see.

He strolled toward her as she stirred the pasta. The tension in her body made her muscles ache, her hands trembling more with each calculated step. Repulsed shudders tore through her when she felt his breath on her skin. “You’re prettier than I expected you to be,” he said, running the back of his fingers lightly down her exposed arm. “I think we could have some fun together.”

His hand came to rest on her hip. Haven squeezed her eyes shut, wanting him to remove it.

At that moment, something struck her from the side, a shove hurling her into the stove. Her hand slammed against the pot of boiling water. Blistering pain made her eyes snap back open, and she grabbed her burned palm as Dr. DeMarco pinned Nunzio against the counter beside her, the serrated edge of a kitchen knife pressed to his neck.

His voice was hard. “Don’t touch my property, Squint.”

Nunzio scowled at him. “I hear you, Doc.”

The blade of the knife came close to piercing the skin where Nunzio’s neck pulsated, his heart pounding. Dr. DeMarco took a step back, and Nunzio glared at Haven before storming from the room.

The knife dropped onto the counter with a clang as Dr. DeMarco marched in her direction. She recoiled from him. “I’m sorry.”

Ignoring her flinching, he snatched her hand and barked a few orders on how to care for her burn. He turned then to leave the room but hesitated, eyeing the pot of boiling water. “You’ll be eating dinner with us tonight, so be sure to set yourself a place at the table, too.”

* * *

Carmine pulled in the driveway after football practice, seeing the black rental sedan parked out front. The sight of it put him on edge. His father hadn’t come back from Chicago alone.

He heard Salvatore’s voice the moment he hit the foyer. Carmine gave Haven a quick glance in the kitchen before making his way to the family room.

Salvatore smiled as he entered. “Ah, Principe!”

Carmine kissed the back of Salvatore’s hand when he held it out, fighting off a cringe. If ever there was a custom that made his stomach turn, it was that one. “Great to see you, Sal.”

“You too, dear boy. We were just talking about you.”

“Good things?” Carmine asked.

“Your father was telling me what you’ve been up to.”

He chuckled. “So not good things, then.”

Vincent stood, shaking his head as the others laughed. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my son.”

Sal waved them away, and the color drained from Carmine’s face at his father’s rattled expression.

16

Carmine slumped in the leather chair in his father’s office, trying to act nonchalant while inside anarchy reigned. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as Vincent took a seat at his desk with his laptop. “Do you like the number thirteen, Carmine?”

Carmine’s brow furrowed at the question. “Uh, it’s just a number.”

“I never understood the fascination,” Vincent said, typing away at the keys without looking up. “There’s even a psychological disorder over the fear of the number, triskaidekaphobia. In southern Italy, tredici—the number thirteen—is slang meaning someone’s luck has turned bad.”

He stopped speaking, and the room grew silent. Carmine drummed his fingers some more. “I appreciate the random trivia, and I’m sure if I ever go on Jeopardy! it’ll come in handy, but I don’t understand what the f**k it has to do with me.”

Vincent’s typing stopped. “Lasciare in tredici.”

“Are you telling me my luck ran out?”