Sempre: Redemption (Forever Series #2)(85)

“So I’ll drop Drawing II and pick up Writing and Literature with you,” Kelsey said, reading over her schedule.

Haven glanced through hers. “I have that at eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Kelsey grimaced. “Ugh, forget about it. How about Survey of World Art?”

“Nine-thirty, same days.”

“Still too early.”

“Sculpture?”

“Gross.”

Haven laughed. “Well, all I have left is Painting II.”

“When’s that?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at noon.”

A smile curved Kelsey’s lips. “Bingo!”

Kelsey scribbled it down on a piece of paper as Haven put her schedule away, placing the registration folder back on the table. She settled back into the couch, crossing her legs once more, when a loud ringing ricocheted through the apartment.

“Phone’s ringing,” Kelsey said, picking a pillow up off the chair and tossing it at Haven. She caught it, tensing as her blood ran cold. Her eyes darted over to the bookcase where the small black cell phone lay, glowing and vibrating as it rang.

Besides Kelsey, there was only one person who had that number.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kelsey asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Haven walked over to the phone, glancing at the caller ID even though it was senseless. Corrado’s name shone brightly on the screen. Her hand shook as she picked it up, but before she could answer it, the ringing stopped.

Thirty seconds, then forty-five, then a minute passed until her phone chimed again, this time with a text message. Haven opened it, reading the simple message:

Call me.

* * *

The club on Ninth Street was packed, the sound of an old Frank Sinatra song booming from the massive speakers situated in the corners. Cigar smoke permeated the air, making Carmine’s eyes water the moment he stepped inside.

Corrado had called him and told him to come down right away. He wouldn’t elaborate as to why on the phone and that put Carmine on edge. Was it his father? Haven? Had something happened to her?

The last time he had been there, things hadn’t gone over very well.

Slowly, he walked over to the bar. “Vodka, please.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Do you have ID?”

Carmine hesitated. What the f*ck? “You know me, man.”

“You’re right,” the bartender said, not sounding impressed in the least. “I do.”

“Yeah, so are you gonna give me a shot?”

“Sure,” the man said. “Just as soon as you show me some ID.”

Carmine stared at him, stunned. “Are you f**king with me?”

The bartender sighed. “Look, I feel for you, but you know your uncle . . . I ain’t losing my life just so you can drink. He said you were cut off permanently.”

“This is f**ked up,” Carmine muttered, wishing he had something to soothe his frazzled nerves before he had to face Corrado. “Where is my uncle, anyway? He told me to meet him here.”

“He’s in his office,” the bartender said, motioning toward the hallway. “You know which one it is.”

Frustrated, Carmine pushed away from the bar and slowly made his way to the back. He knocked on the door and waited. The last thing he wanted was another fight with Corrado.

“It’s open,” Corrado yelled.

Carmine stepped inside. Corrado sat in his leather chair, nonchalantly flipping through paperwork. Not wanting to interrupt, Carmine wordlessly plopped down in a chair in front of his desk.

Corrado glanced up at him and stilled his movements. “Did I tell you to sit?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then I think a man of reasonable intelligence can conclude you should still be standing. You’re by no means a genius, but even a two year old can follow simple commands.”

Carmine’s mouth drew into a thin line as he tightly pressed his lips together, fighting hard not to respond to the insult. He should be used to it by now, but his temper still often got the best of him.

He stood back up.

“Now you can sit.”

Motherf*cker.

Carmine plopped back down, fidgeting as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow, the lights in the room feeling too bright and uncomfortable. His heart hammered in his chest as he waited for Corrado to tell him why he had been called there, but the silence lingered on. Corrado returned to his paperwork, ignoring his presence.

Nearly twenty minutes passed—excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes—before his uncle looked up at him again. “Are you on something, Carmine?”

“No,” he said, his eyes narrowing defensively. “I haven’t. Not since . . .”

“And you better not,” Corrado said. “It’s unacceptable. Disrespectful. I’ve put a bullet in men for less than what you did, and . . .”

Sighing, Carmine slouched in the chair as his uncle went on and on, the same shit he had heard more than a dozen times the past few weeks. He knew it all—in fact, he knew it before the incident even happened—and he was getting tired of constantly being berated for his mistake.

He had paid enough, he thought, the aftermath something he would never forget.

His mind wandered then, drifting, until the sound of a phone ringing shattered his train of thought. Corrado immediately stopped talking as he glanced at it, his eyes darting straight to him, his expression severe. “If you say a single word, I’ll make you suffer. Understand?”