* * *
Haven spent the morning cleaning and finished near three o’clock when she heard cars outside. The alarm beeped and the front door opened as she stepped into the doorway to the kitchen, a few voices carrying through the house. Dr. DeMarco walked in with two men behind him. The hair on the back of Haven’s neck stood up at the sight of them.
Dr. DeMarco’s eyes met hers. She realized these men were probably like Master Michael—uncaring and cold, with no regard for people like her. They were like that part of Dr. DeMarco she’d seen in his bedroom. They were dangerous. More monsters.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward to gauge his reaction. The corner of his lips turned up, and she took his reaction to mean she should stay. Her legs trembled as she walked into the family room, where they gathered, the men taking notice of her right away.
“Bring us a bottle of scotch and some glasses,” Dr. DeMarco told her with a flippant wave. Haven scuttled to the kitchen. She searched the cabinets until she located the alcohol, and she scoured through the bottles, finding a brown one in the back with GLENFIDDICH SINGLE MALT SCOTCH WHISKEY written on it. She wiped off the unopened dusty bottle and juggled three glasses on her way back to the family room. She delivered the drinks, too nervous to make eye contact with any of them.
“So this is the girl.”
Haven chanced a peek at the man who spoke, his voice grating like metal scraping against glass. An air of authority surrounded him as he sat in the center, the others flanking him. He was clearly older than them.
“Yes,” Dr. DeMarco said. “It’s her.”
“I’m curious, Vincent,” the man said. “Do you think she was worth it?”
Dr. DeMarco’s bitter laughter sent chills down Haven’s spine, putting her more on edge. “Personally or as business?”
“Personally.”
“Of course she wasn’t worth it.”
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?”
“Not just yours.” Vincent turned back to his laptop. “I need another favor.”
“Of course you do.”
“I need someone to keep an eye on the girl.”
Carmine looked at him incredulously. “You want me to spy on her?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I need to make sure she stays safe. I caught Squint touching her.”
Carmine’s rage boiled over. He stood so quickly his chair flew back. “He touched her?”
“He didn’t harm her, although she did burn her hand,” Vincent said casually, ignoring Carmine’s outburst. “I handled it.”
“You handled it?” Carmine clenched his hands into fists as he fought back the urge to pummel something.
“Yes, I handled it,” Vincent said again. “What’s gotten into you?”
Carmine glared at his father as he flopped back down in the chair. “I don’t like that shit.”
“I know, but you need to control your temper. I’d get rid of Squint if I could, but Sal’s blinded by the fact that he’s technically family. Sal has no blood relatives left, since his brother’s and sister’s families were all murdered. That’s why he’s always been fixated on you. You are the closest thing to a son he had—his godson. Getting him to believe Squint’s untrustworthy won’t be easy.”
“Do you think he could be a danger?”
Vincent sighed. “Trouble’s brewing, so there’s little focus on things going on within the walls of the fortress, so to speak. I think Squint’s more than happy to take advantage of that.”
“Why’s he interested in Haven, though?”
“Probably because it’s wrong for him to be.”
Carmine’s heartbeat thrashed in his ears. Wrong? “You mean it’s wrong for someone like her to be with one of you?”
“I was referring to him having no right to touch what isn’t his,” Vincent said. “Although, that is a good point.”
“So you do think that’s wrong?”
“Of course it is,” Vincent said. “Rape is always wrong.”
“I mean consensual.”
Vincent shook his head. “Do you really think a girl in her position has the right frame of mind to consent? It would take a strong woman to look at him as a man and not a master, to see him for who he is and not what he is. But just because it could happen, doesn’t mean it should. It’s asking for heartache for everyone involved.”
Carmine sat quietly. He’d never given any of that much thought. To him, she was just a girl.
“Regardless, Squint’s advances were unwanted,” Vincent said. “I should’ve figured this would happen, but I couldn’t have done anything differently. I couldn’t have kept her hidden. Sal would’ve asked about her because of who she is.”
Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Who is she?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is her father important or something? Michael Antonelli?”
Vincent gaped at him. “I don’t recall telling you Michael was her father.”
He shrugged. “Haven may have mentioned it.”
“I’m surprised,” he said. “He didn’t claim her, so not many people know that information. His own wife only just recently found out. She wasn’t very happy.”
Carmine laughed dryly. “Haven mentioned that, too.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Have you told her you know them?”
Carmine stared at his father. “I don’t.”
“You do,” Vincent insisted. “Or, well, you know Katrina’s brother. We’re related to him.”
Silence permeated the office. It took a minute for that to click with Carmine. “Katrina Moretti? Are you telling me the bitch who tortured Haven is Corrado’s sister?”