He laughed. “Yes, that kind, but you probably shouldn’t have done that. You fucked up your painting.”

  She shook her head with frustration, sticking her paintbrush in a container of murky water. “It doesn’t matter, Carmine. It was already fucked up.”

  He gaped at her. “What did you just say?”

  “I said that it was already—”

  “Christ, tesoro, you can’t say that shit!” He cut her off before she could repeat herself. “Do you know what it does to me?”

  She smiled, blushing, and her eyes darted directly to his crotch. Yeah, she knew exactly what it did to Carmine. Closing his eyes, he let out a groan.

  “I’d apologize, but I can’t honestly say I’m sorry,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t apologize then,” he muttered. “You should always mean what you say and say what you mean.”

  “But you never say anything mean,” she added.

  His brow furrowed. “That’s not a part of the saying.”

  “It fits.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s bullshit. Sometimes you have to say something mean.”

  She looked at Carmine incredulously. “There’s never a time when you have to say something mean.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “When?”

  “Plenty of times.”

  “Name one.”

  He didn’t balk at a challenge, not even one that came from her. “When someone says something mean to you first.”

  “Then you just walk away,” she said. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “Well, what if you can’t walk away? What if they won’t let you?”

  “And you think saying something mean is going to help you if that’s the case?”

  She had Carmine there. “Well, what if you got something on you, like in your teeth. Shouldn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes, but that’s not mean. That’s helpful.”

  “What if it’s something permanent though, like your nose? What if you have a crooked, fucked-up nose?”

  Her hand immediately went to her face, her fingers running down the ridge of her nose as she eyed Carmine hesitantly. He groaned, realizing it sounded like he was telling her that. He recalled how self-conscious she had been years before and felt like an asshole. Way to go, DeMarco. Insult her next time . . .

  “Not you, tesoro,” he said. “I didn’t mean you. Your nose is fine. Fucking great, even. I’m just saying, you know, hypothetically . . .”

  “Well, hypothetically, why would it be necessary to tell me? It wouldn’t be hurting you, so why hurt me?”

  She had Carmine again. “Well, what if your painting sucked? Like this tree—what if it was honestly the worst tree ever painted?”

  “It probably is.”

  “But what if it was for a grade, and I had to tell you so you wouldn’t fail?”

  “It is for a grade.”

  He looked at her with disbelief before glancing back at the canvas. “You painted a marijuana leaf on schoolwork?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Her nonchalance stunned him. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  She laughed. She fucking laughed. If she were ever going to prove Carmine right, it was then. There was seriously something wrong with her.

  “I can start over,” she said. “Maybe I’ll paint something else.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he said. “I like this one.”

  “Why?” she asked, eyeing the painting peculiarly again. “It’s just a tree.”

  “But it’s our tree,” he said. Hadn’t they just been through that? “We climbed that motherfucker together twice. Fell out of it once. That makes it special.”

  The smile that curved her lips warmed Carmine from the inside. He loved that smile. It meant she was happy—that he had made her happy. There was no better feeling than that. After spending so many years doing nothing but disappointing everyone who came into contact with him, it was nice to do some good for once.

  “Okay, then. Maybe I’ll paint over it.”

  “Yeah, make some happy clouds to go with your happy little magical tree,” he joked.

  They stood there for a moment, engulfed in a serious silence as she mused over her painting, before Carmine grabbed her and pulled her to him again. She spun around with a laugh, wrapping her arms around him in a hug, but froze after a second when her hands slid down his back, reaching his waistband.

  “Oh God, please tell me that’s not . . .” She trailed off, pulling out of the hug. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Depends on what you think it is.”

  She gripped his waistband, her eyes narrowing. “You brought a gun in here, Carmine? You can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  She gaped at him. “Because there’s a sign on the door that says so! You can’t bring concealed weapons in this place!”

  “Tesoro, relax. I carry it everywhere—you know that.”

  “Yes, but here?” she asked. “It’s unlawful!”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “We live in Chicago. Me just breathing in the direction of a gun is illegal. Would you rather I get rid of it completely?”

  “Yes.”

  Her answer was quick and firm, catching him off guard. She looked at Carmine with certainty and he shook his head. “So you’d prefer me defenseless?”

  She blanched. “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t want you to get caught.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “But I do,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “All right, but—”

  “No buts.”

  She huffed at the interruption and completely ignored him. “But why do you bring it places like here? I get that you need it for work, but why when you’re with me?”

  He shrugged. “You never know when something might happen.”

  “So? You never know when it might rain, but I don’t see you carrying an umbrella everywhere just in case.”

  He chuckled at the absurdity of the comparison, even though she was completely serious. “The weatherman usually warns me when that’s gonna happen.”

  “And you don’t get warnings? Corrado doesn’t tell you when something’s going to happen? What happened to intuition?”

  “Well, yeah, but I can’t always plan. Sometimes I only have time to react.”

  She thought he was paranoid. Christ, he probably was paranoid, but rightfully so. He knew how ruthless the streets could be and if she were thinking clearly, she would see it too. He understood, though. His life still scared her. Hell, it scared Carmine just as much, but the best way to deal was to always be prepared.

  And regardless of what she insisted, sometimes you had to be mean to make it. It was how the game was played. If you aren’t the predator, you end up the prey.

  “Besides,” he added, “last I checked, a little rain couldn’t kill you.”

  “But lightning can if it’s a storm.”

  “And you think an umbrella would help you in that case?” he asked, throwing one of her earlier arguments back at her.

  He waited for her to respond, figuring she would have something to say, but all he got was silence—completely tense, unnerving, motherfucking silence.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked after a moment, knowing they were at an impasse and getting nowhere fast.

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust me about this, okay? We can argue about trees and phrases and any other thing you feel passionate about, but just give me this.”

  She sighed, frustrated, but he knew that sound meant she was giving in. “Fine, but I get to pick where we go tonight.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, about that . . .”

  It was a Friday, which had become their day. Their schedules conflicted a lot, with her in school and Carmine out doing whatever he was told to do, but Friday nights were the exception. It was when the two of them got to be together and do the things normal couples did, like seeing movies and going to fairs. It was the one night a week when they put everything aside, when they didn’t have to think about the chaos in their lives, and they could finally just be.

  Corrado seemed to understand, so he usually left Carmine alone that day. Usually being the key word. Sometimes he threw a wrench in their plans.

  “There’s this thing tonight. Everyone’s supposed to be there.”

  “What kind of thing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Just a thing,” he said, shrugging. “The new underboss’s son is getting married or whatever so they’re having a get together at Sicillitas.”

  Typically those kinds of events took place at the Boss’s house, but Corrado wasn’t like the guys who used to run things. He tried to keep the Mafia out of his home, so special occasions were often spent in someone’s business now. Sicillitas was an upscale Italian restaurant owned by one of the Capos.

  “So you have to go,” she said quietly.

  “We,” he corrected her. “Corrado specifically said ‘You and Haven.’”

  She frowned. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t want to go either, but Corrado was all about showing a strong front. He had gone out on a limb and vouched for her, something that made a few of the guys question his judgment. Haven integrating smoothly into their world was important to him.

  Plus, even if Corrado would never admit it, Carmine was pretty sure he actually liked her being around.

  “We won’t stay long,” he assured her. “The first chance we get, we’ll get the fuck out of there and do whatever you want.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled.

  He watched as she gathered her stuff, cleaning up paints and throwing away the discarded papers. He felt bad for not helping, but he knew he would do more harm than good. This was her sanctuary, and you just don’t go fucking with someone else’s safe place.

  She put on her coat and grabbed the painting of the tree before turning back to Carmine. “You ready?” he asked. She nodded and smiled softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. No, they were filled with dread, the happiness he had given her moments earlier forgotten.

  It made his chest ache. He needed a drink. Or two. Or ten. Something—anything—to dull the bitter ache of disappointing her.

  Carmine led her out of the studio and she got into the passenger seat of the Mazda, clicking her seat belt in place as he climbed in beside her. The drive home was silent, awkwardness surrounding them, seeping through Carmine’s skin and twisting his insides. He hated when things got like that between them, because he never knew what to say to her. Sorry you’re annoyed, tesoro. I can’t help I’m a loser and Get used to it, since I’ll probably keep disappointing you just didn’t seem to cut it, even though it was how it usually made Carmine feel.

  She said not a single word when they arrived home, grabbing her things and getting out of the car before he could even shut off the engine. She used her key and disappeared inside without waiting for Carmine. He took his time and she was nowhere to be found when he finally made his way into the house. He went straight for the refrigerator, opening the freezer and grabbing the chilled bottle of Grey Goose. He pulled the top off, tipping the bottle back and taking a long swig.

  He leaned against the counter and sipped on the vodka. His chest still ached, the alcohol doing nothing to ease his guilt, as he listened to the shower turn on and back off again on the second floor.

  He heard her footsteps in the hallway eventually and replaced the top on the bottle, slipping it back in the freezer as Haven made her way downstairs. The moment he saw her, his heart skipped a beat. Her damp hair was slightly wavy, the dark locks nearly identical in color to her plain black dress. Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor, exposing strikingly red painted toenails, but her skin, while scarred, remained untainted by makeup.

  Simple, but beautiful. That was her.

  Haven eyed Carmine peculiarly when she saw him lingering in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes drifting to the freezer before settling back on him. He didn’t blame her for her suspicions. She knew him well.

  “Nothing.” It was true. Sort of. He wasn’t doing a thing but standing there.

  “What were you doing?” she clarified.

  “Nothing,” he said again. Not so true that time.

  “Uh, okay,” she mumbled, still watching Carmine as she walked to the sink. “Are you going to change before we go?”

  He glanced at his clothes. He had on a tie, at least—seemed good enough to him. “Do I need to?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think Corrado would be happy about the shoes.”

  His gaze shifted to his Nike’s. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, pushing away from the counter. He started to walk away but Haven grabbed his arm to stop him. He turned around, looking at her curiously, and she yanked Carmine toward her as she stood up on her tiptoes.

  He froze, dumbfounded, as she smashed her lips to his. When he finally got his wits about him, he parted his lips to kiss her back, but she abruptly pulled away, letting go completely. She took a step back. “You were drinking.”

  There was no anger, not an ounce of hate in her voice. She wasn’t accusing Carmine—it was a simple statement. He had been drinking.

  “A little,” he replied. She nodded and turned away to look out of the window. He stood there for a moment, but she didn’t speak again. The subject was closed, nothing else to say.

  He headed upstairs to the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, surveying his reflection after splashing water on his face. He hardly recognized himself some days. Dark, heavy bags aligned his bloodshot eyes, his skin dry from the fickle Chicago weather. He had slicked his hair back that morning with pomade so it appeared a shade darker, making him seem paler than usual.

  He went into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of black shoes from the closet, sitting down on the edge of the bed to put them on. Haven walked in while he was tying them and scrunched up her nose. “Your shoes are scuffed.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like the military where I need to shine the sons of bitches.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied as he glanced at his watch. It was already fast approaching eight o’clock, when Corrado had told Carmine to be there. “Are you ready?”

  Carmine waited as she slipped on a pair of black heels, and they both grabbed their coats before heading out again. Haven was quiet as she got in the car, not speaking as he pulled away from the house. He fiddled with the radio anxiously, needing a distraction, and Haven just stared at him with a frown.

  “What now?” Carmine asked, annoyed.

  “Nothing.” She stressed the word, her answer speaking volumes. She was sending a message with that motherfucker. It was a You asshole, who do you take me for? I can’t believe you thought you could fucking fool me kind of nothing.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  He looked at her, knowing what she wanted to hear. She wanted him to apologize for drinking, but he couldn’t do it. “I’m sorry for disappointing you,” he said. “I hate that shit.”

  “I know,” she replied, reaching over and stroking his cheek before running her fingers through the hair near his neckline. She hit a snag and he grimaced. “What I hate is when you do your hair like this.”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror at himself. Corrado preferred them to look clean-cut, but he hated it, too. “I kinda look like my fath—”

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly, unable to even get the entire thing out. It had been four months . . . about sixteen weeks . . . one hundred and twenty-something days . . . and the wound was just as raw as it had been that fateful night. He still saw it sometimes when he closed his eyes, reliving the moment his father had taken his last breath.

  Sometimes it was so hard he could barely breathe, in so much pain he felt like he was the one with the bullets lodged in his chest.

  Haven massaged Carmine’s neck as he focused on the road, trying to get himself back under control.

  “So since someone’s getting married, does that mean I can have whatever I want?” she asked offhandedly, distracting him from his thoughts.

  His brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Isn’t it true when someone gets married, you can ask a Mafia boss for something and he can’t refuse?”

  It took a moment for what she had said to register. He laughed. “Have you been watching The Godfather?”

  She blushed. “No.”

  “Well, it’s not true, anyway,” he said, shaking his head. “They say the day of the Boss’s daughter’s wedding he won’t refuse anyone a favor, but it’s bullshit.”

  “Oh,” she mumbled.

  “What would you want, though?” he asked curiously. “If you could have one wish granted, what would you ask for?”

  “I don’t know. What about you?”

  “I’m happy,” he replied. “There isn’t really anything anyone could give me.”

  She looked at Carmine incredulously. “There is something someone could give you. Actually, it’s what I’d ask for.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your freedom.”

  Carmine wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, too bad it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Yeah, too bad.”

  They arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes. He led Haven inside and saw his uncle right away, sitting at a table in the back with Celia. A slew of men gathered around them like a massive human shield of protection, but Celia managed to spot them through the crowd. She waved, the movement catching Corrado’s attention. He looked over as they approached, his expression blank, but Carmine could see the annoyance in his eyes.