Sempre: Redemption (Forever Series #2)(53)

“In your seats,” she declared. They started to oblige and Haven jumped into action, helping hand out the art supplies.

The Rainbow Art Center was attached to the local community center, where they taught free art classes for underprivileged children. The name struck Haven as ironic, because there was nothing bright or colorful about the place. The walls were a drab gray color and the paint was chipping, the building falling apart.

Most of the kids who came to the center had no families, every one of them deemed at-risk by the state. So young and innocent, Haven knew they were all only one step away from living the life she had once lived.

They spent two hours painting and drawing with the kids. By the time class was over, Haven was worn out. Their caregivers trickled in to pick them up, and Emma met Haven at the door, smiling brightly as she held her paintings.

“I made you!” she exclaimed.

Haven laughed and took it, gazing at the distorted stick figure with the abnormally large head and big brown hair. There was a large red mouth on the face and a big yellow sun taking up half of the sky.

Haven smiled. “Beautiful.”

“You can keep it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s really good.”

Emma’s eyes lit up. “Can I be an artist like you?”

“Absolutely,” Haven said. “You can be anything you want to be.”

19

Carmine stuck a screwdriver in a delivery truck’s ignition and tried to turn it, but nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge.

Groaning, he yanked it back out as another truck sped from the lot, spraying his windshield with loose gravel. He used the screwdriver to jimmy open the ignition, cracking the plastic cover as he forced it off, and pulled the red power wires from the cylinder. He stripped them quickly before tightly twisting the two of them together. The lights on the dash immediately turned on as the radio came to life, a heavy rock song rattling from the cheap speakers. Carmine grabbed the brown starter wires next and stripped them, immediately striking them hard against the red ones.

Mistake.

It sparked, a strong jolt of electricity burning his glove-clad fingers. He dropped the wires and cursed loudly as someone banged on the side of the truck.

“Come on, man!” Remy yelled. “Get that shit started!”

Frustrated, Carmine grabbed the brown wires again and held his breath as he touched them to the others. It sparked once more, but the engine roared to life before Carmine was forced to let go. He shook his hand, trying to wave off the pain as the truck idled. He had had to resort to hot-wiring a few times when the old screwdriver-in-the-ignition trick failed, but he had yet to figure out how to do it without damn near electrocuting himself.

Remy jumped up on the side of the cab and looked in. Even though his face was concealed by a black ski mask, Carmine could tell he was grinning with pride. “That’s how you f**king do it, man,” he said, reaching through the window to punch him on the shoulder. It was playful, but Carmine winced at the blow. “Drive it to the spot, will you? I’ll meet you there.”

Before he could object, Remy snatched Carmine’s keys from his lap and ran off. Carmine put the truck in gear, knowing he had no other choice, and sped from the lot near the docks by Lake Michigan. His heart pounded ferociously as he pulled into the busy Chicago streets behind his Mercedes, his eyes surveying the other cars for signs of trouble. Distracted, he lost track of Remy as he hastily weaved through traffic, squeezing into tight spots where the delivery truck wouldn’t fit.

It took nearly a half hour for Carmine to reach the secluded warehouse on the outskirts of town. The other delivery truck was already parked behind the building when he arrived and was being unloaded by a few associates of La Cosa Nostra. Carmine pulled in beside it and climbed out from behind the wheel, standing along the side to watch as the men wordlessly went to work.

It fascinated him how the drop-off ran fluidly like a well-oiled machine. Everyone had a job and everyone did their part, like runners in a relay race. It was habitual, a routine he had fallen into as he slowly submerged himself into life as a member of a street crew. Every week it was the same thing, the same schemes with the same guys, but in different locations around the city. And while it hadn’t gotten better, and Carmine ventured to guess it never would, he had learned the art of detachment—being able to step out of himself for a moment and look the other way.

He was fractured, one half of him the still slightly na?ve boy who drank himself unconscious to try to forget, the other half the man, numb to everything, who just went through the motions day after day. It was that man who went out at night and did the things that were expected of him—the theft, the violence, the deception—but it was the boy, heartbroken and disgusted, who woke up in the morning to face the aftermath.

It took about an hour for the trucks to be unloaded. Afterward, the owner of the warehouse handed Carmine an envelope of cash. He glanced inside, stealthily counting the bills, before slipping it in his pocket with a nod. He strolled away, the transaction complete, and hesitated outside the warehouse. His eyes scanned the dark property and he was about to start panicking when his Mercedes sped up, coming to a halt a few feet from him.

“What the hell took you so long?” Carmine asked when Remy climbed out. “It’s been over an hour.”

“Had something I needed to take care of,” he replied, tossing Carmine’s keys to him. “The car’s nice, man. Runs smooth. You’re a lucky bastard.”