But another part, deep down inside, rendered him immobile. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe instinct, but something forced him to keep watching the tape.

For the next thirty minutes, Corrado stared at the screen, stunned speechless as a man he once considered a mentor, a friend, a brother, who turned into a traitor, a coward, a rat, spilled a secret that shocked even him. He had seen it all, he had done it all, but the words Frankie spoke, the horrific truth that spilled from his lips, was something Corrado couldn’t begin to fathom.

Unimaginable. Appalling. He felt sick.

Corrado’s disgust only grew with each word, his contempt now unwavering. Everything he believed, everything he knew, had been put into question by a shaky half hour of spineless confession.

“So, yeah, that’s the truth,” Frankie said quietly, shaking his head as if in disbelief at his own words. “I have to live with what I did . . . what I helped do. I ain’t gonna apologize for it, or like I said, ask forgiveness. I had to do what I had to do. But I carried it with me for a long time, and I couldn’t carry it anymore.

“If someone’s watching this, I’m probably long dead. I won’t be surprised if it’s this that gets me killed. I’ve been feeling it lately, the feeling that something’s going down that I don’t know about, so maybe it’s only a matter of time before this comes out. And maybe I deserve to die for this, but I ain’t the only one. No, if this is how it ends, if this is how I escape from this Hell to go to the next, I hope the devil goes down with me, too. It’s only fair, since he controlled it all.”

Frankie leaned forward and shut off the camera. Corrado stared at the black screen, the office swallowed in uncomfortable silence.

Shell-shocked. It was the only word to describe how Corrado felt.

Getting his bearings straight, he ejected the tape and locked it in a desk drawer. He unhooked the VCR and grabbed the cartoon, meeting the security guard in the hallway once more. “Where’d you get this?”

“Stole it,” he said. “Broke into a few houses down the block until I found one.”

Corrado shoved it back to him. “Return it.”

The guard blanched. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said. “What kind of jackass steals from a little girl?”

17

Time heals all wounds. Il tempo guarisce tutti i mali. It’s been said time and time again, but what they don’t talk about are the jagged scars left behind. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes, when ignored, the wounds fester.

What started as a scratch, barely scraping the surface, will turn into a gaping gash, ripping and tearing at the flesh, until all that is left is a jumbled mess of frayed nerves and broken organs. The pain demands to be felt, and you don’t even notice until it is too late. Until it cripples you, bringing you to your knees.

Carmine drank every night as the heartache lingered, sometimes consuming so much that he blacked out. His days were full of agony, his nights no better as he relived everything in his dreams. The only time he escaped was when he got lost in the blackness. Every night as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed that if he did wake up, he would finally forget everything. He just wanted to fucking forget.

It never worked, though. Every morning he would awaken and feel even worse than the night before, the cycle starting all over again. He was spiraling out of control, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter what happened to him anymore . . . all he wanted was some peace, no matter the cost.

He went out almost every night to Luna Rossa with Remy, the loud music and crowds distracting him from his thoughts long enough for the alcohol to take hold. He met others, some that might have been good friends under other circumstances, but none of them could get past that wall he had built. And seeing Remy with his girlfriend, a thin redhead with blue-green eyes, didn’t help Carmine ward off his grief. It reminded him of what he had lost, what he had left, what he needed, but what he could no longer have.

Carmine kept it together in public, playing that part expected of him, but when he was alone the crack in his façade deepened.

It was early evening when Carmine staggered out of his bedroom, bare chested with his baggy jeans hanging loosely from his hips. He tightened his belt, moving it down another notch, as he made his way downstairs. He stepped over some clothes laying in the hallway as he headed to the kitchen. The air-conditioner wasn’t working, the house stifling and air hazy. It burned his chest to take a deep breath, his head pounding as he poured sweat.

His stomach growled loudly, pangs of hunger striking his sides. Opening the fridge door, he pulled out a carton of leftover Chinese food. He eyed it suspiciously, trying to remember when he had ordered it, before shrugging it off and grabbing a fork.

He grabbed a stack of mail from the counter as he ate and sorted through it: bills, notices, junk, shit that wasn’t even addressed to him. He picked up a cream-colored envelope, seeing his name written neatly in cursive on the front. Tearing it open, he pulled out the card, reading the gold inscription on the front.

Dominic DeMarco and Tess Harper request the honor of your presence at their wedding on October 27 . . .

There was a knock on the front door, fierce pounding that echoed through the silent house. Carmine didn’t bother to investigate. Instead, he leaned against the counter as he stared at the invitation, hardly tasting the cold noodles he forced down. A wedding. His brother was getting married.

The pounding continued, harder and louder, before the front door thrust open. Sunlight streamed through the foyer briefly and then the door slammed.

“Carmine?” Celia shouted.

“In here,” he mumbled, his mouth full of food. Footsteps veered in the direction of the kitchen, Celia appearing in the doorway within a matter of seconds.

She paused, staring at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Eating.” He held out the carton. “Want some?”

Celia let out a frustrated groan as she reached for the switch on the wall. The bright light was harsh and Carmine squinted, trying to shield his eyes. “Christ, is that necessary?”

“Necessary?” Celia’s voice was laced with bitterness and disbelief. “It’s called electricity, Carmine. It’s a part of civilization. Of course it’s necessary! But honestly, I’m surprised the lights work around here. The telephone certainly doesn’t seem to.”

Carmine sighed but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“Look at this place,” she said, crinkling her nose. “It’s disgusting! It reeks!”

Again, Carmine said nothing. He watched as his aunt started tearing apart the kitchen, throwing away trash and gathering dirty dishes. His feet stayed planted in one spot as she cleaned, muttering under her breath in frustration.

After the kitchen was decent, she turned to him with a glare. “I can’t believe you have nothing to say. When did you stop caring?”

“Is that what I did?” he asked quietly. “Stopped caring?”

“That’s how it seems.”

He stared back at her. The ache in his chest, dull when he had woken up, grew stronger as they stood there. “I wish that were true.”

She scoffed, but the sound of a cell phone going off in another part of the house silenced her. Carmine pushed past her and strolled to the living room, snatching it off the couch cushion where it lay.

“So the phone does work,” Celia said. “I’m shocked.”

“Not now.” Carmine shook his head. “Just . . . not now.”

“Is the whole house destroyed?” she continued, ignoring him. “If the downstairs in this bad, I’d hate to see upstairs. Do you at least have clean clothes? Are you doing laundry? Are you bathing?”

“Of course I am,” he snapped, unable to take her questioning on top of everything else. “Why don’t you go nag someone else? I’ve had more than enough of you interrogating me.”

“I’m not interrogating you,” she replied. “It’s just that this place is a disaster! It feels like an oven in here.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to pick up after yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Too busy to open a window?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him, not satisfied with his answers. “What’s really going on, Carmine? What’s happening with you?”

He laughed dryly. “I have things to do, Celia. I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “This conversation isn’t over, though.”

After Celia left, Carmine threw on a shirt and shoes before heading back into the kitchen. He glanced in the freezer, frowning when he saw it was empty—no food, not even any ice, and more importantly, no vodka. He entertained the thought of stopping by the store to grab a bottle when his phone beeped, reminding him he had an unread message.

Hit Sycamore Circle tonight.

Carmine stared at it with dread. Sycamore Circle was in the north side of the city, an area he knew vaguely but only by name because it was well-known Irish territory. La Cosa Nostra respected the boundaries in Chicago, imaginary or not.

Carmine grabbed his gun before heading out of the house. He hopped in his car and started on the road to the north side of the city when his phone rang, Remy calling and telling him to pick him up along the way. Carmine detoured a few blocks to Remy’s house, honking the horn as he pulled into the driveway of the modest sky-blue house with the large porch and flimsy chain-link fence. A pit bull puppy ran in circles in the grass, yapping frantically at the intruding car.