“Anything’s possible,” Corrado said. “FBI, DOJ, CIA . . .”

Vincent shook his head. “What did you do to have the CIA working on a Saturday night?”

“You never know,” Corrado said. “Maybe they’re looking to recruit me.”

Vincent laughed, although he wouldn’t put it past them. Wouldn’t be the first time the government showed up, wanting to exchange services.

“They were parked near the club this morning,” Corrado said. “Then at the restaurant tonight.”

“And you’re just now pointing them out to me?”

“You should’ve spotted them yourself.”

“You don’t think it’s someone like the Irish, do you? Russians?”

“No, it’s law enforcement.”

“Must be a rookie on his first stakeout,” Vincent said. “Or else they’re intentionally letting themselves be seen.”

“Either way, I’m offended. What do they take me for? An idiot who wouldn’t notice or a coward who would be intimidated?”

“Maybe they aren’t here for you,” Vincent said. “Maybe they’re watching me.”

Corrado shrugged. “It would make more sense.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the idiot who wouldn’t notice.”

If Vincent weren’t a mature man, and if his brother-in-law wouldn’t punch him for it, he would have certainly rolled his eyes then.

“I’ll tell Sal,” Corrado said. “If they’re lurking, we’ll want to take precautions.”

Corrado headed inside his house with a nod while Vincent strolled down the block. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket as he stepped onto the porch of the white two-story house, using the worn copper key to unlock the front door. The smell of mothballs was strong, dust tickling his nose when he stepped into the corridor. Heat wafted around him, the place muggy from being closed up for so long.

Vincent strolled through the empty downstairs, the sound of his feet on the wood echoing off the barren walls. An ache in his chest made it hard to breathe, and although Vincent blamed it on the thick air, he knew it was emotional torment eating him up instead.

In the front room, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He could see it then, the sunlight streaming through the open windows, air blowing in and stirring the blue curtains. The house was cluttered with furniture and knickknacks, family photos covering every inch of space.

And he could hear it, footsteps running in the hall upstairs, the squeals of excited children as they played hide-and-seek. Music streamed from a small radio, the sounds of Mozart and Beethoven.

And Vincent could feel it, the warmth and love, the happiness he craved. It was pure chaos, but it was his peace. It was his home. There was nothing else like it.

And there she was, like always, fluttering around the house in her flowing summer dress, bare feet on hard wood, toenails painted soft pink. She smiled at him, green eyes twinkling.

But when Vincent opened his eyes again, it all faded away. He was left with nothing but darkness, silent except for his strangled breaths in the vacant room. He still slept there sometimes when he visited, even though there was no electricity or furniture. He would lie on the bare floor and stare at the white ceiling, time wasting away as he wallowed in memories.

Not tonight, though. He couldn’t stay.

The black Chevy Suburban was gone when he went back outside.

* * *

Haven lay awake that night, unable to sleep. She had spent her life belonging to other people, but for the first time she felt like she actually belonged. It wasn’t about being a possession—it was being a part of something. People never cared what she thought before, but Carmine did. He asked, and Haven found she wanted to tell.

She gave up trying to sleep around dawn and headed downstairs, surprised to hear noises in the family room. Dominic lay on the couch in his pajamas, the lights off but television playing. He sat up when he spotted her, patting the cushion beside him. “Join me.”

She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m surprised you’re awake so early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Why are you up?”

“Same,” she said. “I thought I’d come downstairs and make sure the house was clean.”

“No rush,” he said. “It’ll probably be a few days before my father shows up again.”

She eyed Dominic curiously. “He’s gone a lot.”

“Yeah, been that way for as long as I can remember,” he said. “There’s always something for him to do somewhere that isn’t here.”

“What does he do when he’s gone?”

He laughed wryly. “Don’t know, and don’t want to know. Dad moved us here years ago so we wouldn’t be a part of that. Said he wanted us to have a normal life, so we could live like normal kids, but there’s nothing normal about raising yourself, you know? Nothing normal about the situation with you. We’ve all suffered because of the things he’s done, and I hate to think how much more we’d suffer if we knew the shit we don’t know.”

She stared at him, confused, and he smiled at her expression.

“In other words, Twinkle Toes, ignorance is bliss.”

* * *

Vincent slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the collection plate and sighed as his mother waved it on. She hadn’t donated to the church in years, convinced the altar boys were stealing the money for drugs and prostitutes, even though most of them were still in grammar school.

Celia and Corrado put in their share, and the four of them sat silently as the collection plates made their way through the crowd. Corrado remained standoffish as usual, while Vincent’s sister was her typical poised, smiling self. Celia was a tall, slender woman, her face with a soft, round look. She had sleek black hair, the color of night, and dark eyes to match.

The pews were packed. Vincent scanned the congregation. Most of the ranking members of la famiglia were there, dressed in their best suits in the front of the church. It was a big production for them, the one day of the week where they could flaunt their money and pretend to do good. It made the honest men—the galantuomini—feel protected, men who respected them, who trusted them, who were less likely to rat them out.

After donations were collected, people made their way into the aisle. A long line formed for communion, but Vincent stayed in his seat. Corrado eyed him peculiarly, but didn’t say a word as he got in line.

The rest of the service passed quickly, everyone standing as the final prayer was spoken. Father Alberto made the sign of the cross when he finished. “May you go in peace.”

They were headed to the exit when Father Alberto called Vincent’s name. The hair on the back of his neck bristled like a child being reprimanded. “Yes, Father?”

“You didn’t take communion,” Father Alberto said, his face etched with genuine concern. “You haven’t taken it in weeks.”

It had really been months, but Vincent didn’t correct the priest. “I keep forgetting to fast before service.”

Father Alberto knew he was lying. “The church never closes. You don’t need an appointment. God is always here for you.”

“I know, Father. Thank you.”

Vincent left before Father Alberto could press the matter and joined his family on the front steps of the cathedral. Corrado and Celia stood along the side as Gia infused herself into the crowd. Mafiosi surrounded her, listening as she rambled away about the past. They smiled and laughed, urging her on, but not a single person mocked her. She was a former Don’s widow, the mother of a consigliere, and an in-law to another made man. The men respected her, bat-shit crazy or not.

And while she lived in Sunny Oaks, respected was something Gia didn’t feel.

Vincent waited as his mother finished telling a story about Antonio and one of their adventures back when Vincent and Celia were young. He found himself smiling as he thought about those days. It was before tragedy had struck. Before Maura and the kids. Before the Antonellis and the girl. Before Salvatore’s family had been murdered. Before the world had imploded around them.

Gia turned to him when she finished, the crowd disbursing and saying their good-byes.

“Ma, are you ready to—?”

“You didn’t take communion.”

He sighed. He’d planned to ask if she was ready to head back to Sunny Oaks, but it was senseless now. She wouldn’t go until she had said everything she wanted to say. “I couldn’t.”

Gia smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

He stood frozen as those words sunk through his thickened skin. Never in his life had he heard them from her. She must be demented. “You’re proud of me?”

She nodded. “You see it now, don’t you? After all these years, you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That you were living in sin. Your marriage wasn’t recognized by the church.”

Vincent’s smile fell. Not demented, just evil. “It was recognized.”

“You were young, Vincenzo. And she was Irish! She wasn’t even like us!”

Celia responded before Vincent could. “Maura was Catholic, Mom. It was sanctified. Father Alberto was the one to marry them.”

Gia glared at her daughter before waving her hand dismissively. “How was I supposed to know? I didn’t even get invited.”

She’d been invited, of course, but she had shunned the service. Antonio had shown up out of respect for his son, but Gia refused. In her mind, if she didn’t see the wedding, she could go on acting as if the marriage didn’t exist.

“You were invited,” Vincent said. “You chose not to come.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gia said. “I didn’t know anything about it until it was over.”

“If that’s true, Ma, how did Dad know to come?”

“What does that have to do with anything? Your father always snuck around, never told me anything. What makes this any different?”

Vincent tried to keep his anger at bay. “Because I handed you the invitation. You took one look at it and tossed it in the trash.”

Gia scoffed. “And the quacks say I have memory problems. That never happened.”

Corrado strolled over, his hands in his pockets. “What are we arguing about now?”

“Vincent marrying Maura,” Celia said. “Again.”

“Ah,” Corrado said. “I regret I wasn’t there.”

Gia laughed. “They didn’t invite you, either?”

“Oh, I was invited. I just didn’t think it was appropriate for me to attend.”

“See!” Gia looked at Vincent. “I told you it wasn’t a real marriage. Corrado agrees!”

Corrado started to correct her, but Vincent shook his head. Although it stung that his brother-in-law had skipped the wedding, sending Celia to the ceremony alone, Vincent understood. Unlike Gia, Corrado meant well.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,” Vincent said. “I know it was real.”