She smiled when she realized it was a joke.

“Ah, a smile!” he said, playfully squeezing her arm.

Haven’s smile fell when he touched her, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Murderous rage shook Carmine. He’d been looking for Haven, seeking her out in the crowd, but his vision narrowed in on Nicholas Barlow instead. Carmine’s feet moved on their own as he dropped his helmet on the field, running as fast as his fatigued legs would carry him. Shouts rang out as someone chased behind, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

He leaped over the chain-link fence and landed on his feet as Nicholas and Haven heard the commotion. Confusion played in Haven’s expression, while Nicholas narrowed his eyes.

For as much as Carmine didn’t like the boy—and Carmine fucking despised him—Nicholas hated Carmine, too.

Nicholas backed up a few steps, but it was too late. Carmine rammed into him, tackling him to the ground. His knee landed in Nicholas’s crotch and he drew back his fist to punch him, but someone snatched the back of his jersey before he could, yanking Carmine to his feet.

Vincent jumped between them, shoving his son farther away.

Nicholas looked shell-shocked as he got to his feet, hesitating for a fraction of a second before running off. Carmine would have laughed at his cowardice if it weren’t for the look on his father’s face. “Do you know what I went through to get you out of trouble last year?” Vincent asked, fuming. “I’m not going to do it again!”

His father stormed away, grabbing Haven’s wrist and yanking her in front of him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as they disappeared into the crowd, and Carmine’s gut twisted.

He’d fucked up. Again.

Homecoming the year before had been significantly different. Only a sophomore at the time, Carmine was just a spectator at the varsity football game. He’d sat in the bleachers, surrounded by his classmates, with his best friend—Nicholas Barlow—at his side.

Best friend. The words felt venomous to Carmine now.

While the circumstances had changed this year, Carmine had every intention of ending the night in precisely the same way: fucked up beyond belief. Only this time, he was alone.

People packed the after-party when Carmine arrived, dozens of bodies crammed in the small house. He slipped through the crowd, grabbing some vodka from the kitchen before heading down the hallway. The den was dark except for a small, dim lamp in the corner, the stereo playing mellow rock music.

Everyone looked up when he entered, and a boy named Max nodded in greeting.

“You got any blow?” Carmine asked him, sitting down on the couch. With the week he’d had, he needed a major lift.

Max left the room, returning a few minutes later with a small baggie of cocaine. Carmine poured some of the powder out onto the table in front of them, enough for two lines. He snorted one straightaway, his nose numbing as his heart raced. After inhaling the second line, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch. Euphoria coursed through his body, warmth starting in his chest and radiating out through his limbs. He felt lightweight, invincible, without a care in the world.

A little while later, Lisa plopped down on his lap. Carmine’s euphoria took an instant hit. “If you’re gonna sit on me, you ought to at least get naked first.”

Pushing her aside, he made two more lines and snorted them, desperate for the sensation back. Wiping his congested nose, he dumped the rest of the power onto the table and offered it to Lisa. She inhaled it like a vacuum.

“I got you a tie,” she said, leaning back on the couch beside him. “It matches my dress.”

“A tie?”

“Yeah, for the dance.”

The dance. Carmine didn’t even remember asking her to go with him. “What color is it?”

“Fandango.”

He glanced at her. “What the hell is fandango?”

“It’s kind of like fuchsia but darker.”

“So, what, purple or something?”

“Yeah, purple.”

He shrugged as he looked away. He didn’t care as long as it wasn’t pink.

The night was a haze of alcohol and drugs, like a movie in fast-forward that he couldn’t slow down. He drank, he smoked, and he snorted, and then he popped a few pills before doing it all over again. The cycle continued, round and round, until he finally passed out where he lay.

The next morning, Carmine suffered the worst hangover of his life. His head pounded so hard his eyes pulsated. Wincing, he staggered out of the house into the sunshine, putting on his sunglasses as he climbed into his car.

The moment he pulled up in front of the house, a warm trickle streamed from his nose. Snatching down the visor, he looked in the mirror to see the blood. He pulled off his shirt and held it up to pinch his nose as he walked into the foyer, spotting his father holding a black duffel bag.

“Going away?” Carmine asked, heading for the stairs, but Vincent stepped in his path.

“To Chicago, yes.” He pulled Carmine’s hand away to survey his bloody nose. “If you keep snorting that stuff, you’re going to damage your septum.”

Carmine moved away. “How do you know I didn’t get punched?”

“Because if someone had punched you in the nose, you would’ve broken theirs.” Vincent started toward the door with his bag. “Lay off the coke. It’ll get you killed.”

Carmine fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and was woken up by a knock on his door. He pulled himself out of bed, groaning, and swung it open to see Dominic. He thrust a bag at Carmine. “Your date’s here.”

Fuck. He’d already forgotten about the dance.

He showered, trying to wake up, and dressed in a black suit and black shoes before grabbing the bag. Pulling out the tie, he held it up and glared at it. It was shockingly pink. Fandango, my ass.

He slipped it on, knowing he didn’t have time to argue. After unlocking his bottom desk drawer, he filled a flask with vodka and slipped it into his pocket. He headed out, but paused in the library when Haven came up the stairs.

Carmine tried to think of something profound to say, something to make it all right again. “This tie makes me look fruity, doesn’t it?”

That isn’t it.

Haven burst into laughter. “Like the cake.”

He shook his head when she disappeared into her room. She didn’t even know what he meant.

. . . Or did she?

When they reached the school, Lisa ventured off with her friends while Carmine stood along the side, drinking heavily. They danced a bit, but by the time his flask was empty, he was drunk and ready to leave. Lisa smiled seductively, and the two of them went straight to her house. Her parents were out of town for the weekend, and Lisa hit up the liquor cabinet, handing him a bottle of Southern Comfort.

She took him to her bedroom, where he drank even more.

She kissed his neck and snatched the bottle away before pushing him down on the bed. He lay there and let her strip him, watching as she slipped off her dress. Climbing on the bed, she hovered over him and leaned in for a kiss.

Turning his head, he muttered, “I’m not that drunk.”

Her touch was uncomfortable, too intimate. She went too slowly, her hands gentle. Nothing felt right about it, her body wrong. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling himself softening, Carmine wished he could enjoy it. He’d compromised and worn a pink tie, and now his body rejected a guaranteed lay. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. It was driving him nuts.

As soon as that thought ran through his mind, laughter erupted from him. Lisa moved away, startled. “What’s wrong with you, Carmine? You’re crazy!”

“I know.” He stood and grabbed his clothes. “Nutty like a fucking fruitcake.”

She stared with disbelief. “Wait, you’re leaving? Why?”

“I don’t love you,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m never gonna love you, Lisa.”

Saint Mary’s Catholic Church looked like a medieval castle tucked into the heart of bustling Chicago, with its pointy towers and strong tan bricks. The grass surrounding it was withered, the sidewalk cracked, but the church was still immaculate. High arches and golden walls accented the wooden décor, the ivory marble floor sparkling from the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. When Vincent was young, he felt like he had stepped inside a treasure chest. Every Sunday, without fail, Saint Mary’s made him believe he truly belonged.

Today, however, as he strolled through the vacant pews, he felt like an outcast in the place of worship. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the walls, alerting the priest to his arrival. He headed straight to the confessional and sat down as Father Alberto took a seat on the other side.

Vincent pushed the screen out of the way, knowing it was senseless to shield himself from the priest. He would know it was him—he always did. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”

Father Alberto made the sign of the cross before he spoke, his Sicilian accent still present even though he had lived in America for decades. “What sins have you committed, my child?”

Since his last confession, Vincent had lied, stolen, and been an accessory to murder in the name of la famiglia, but one sin weighed heavily on his mind. “I hurt someone . . . a girl.”

“Did you intend to cause the girl harm?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Are you remorseful?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Have you told her of your regret?”

He ran his hands down his face in frustration. “No.”

Father Alberto was quiet for a moment. “Was it her?”

Vincent needn’t answer. They both knew it was . . . and they both knew it wasn’t the first time.

“I was angry,” Vincent said. “The pain that morning was the worst it’s been in years. I wanted someone else to hurt for once. I wanted someone else to feel what I felt. I had to get it out of me before I exploded. I needed to feel better.”

“And did you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m still angry—so angry, Father—but on top of it, now I’m ashamed. I want to stop feeling this way, but I don’t know how to make it go away.”

“Ah, but I think you do,” Father Alberto said. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Release, and ye shall be released.”

“Luke 6:37.” Vincent recognized the Scripture. “But what if I can’t stop? What if I can’t let go? What if I can’t forgive?”

“But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

“Matthew 6:15.”

Father Alberto smiled. “Your hate is poison, Vincenzo. It eats you from the inside out. You must find it in your heart to let go. Then, and only then, will you be forgiven.”

11

Haven stared at the alarm clock as the numbers rolled past midnight. Her broken hours of slumber had been interrupted by nightmares for days, and the thought of closing her eyes terrified her. She desperately wanted some peace, but she’d only been offered deafening silence.