He laughed. “It’s nature. They can’t help themselves.”

She stared at the jar, having no idea what to make of it.

Carmine stood after a few minutes, brushing the grass from his pants. “We should head inside before we get caught. You can bring the bugs with you.”

Shaking her head, she unscrewed the lid. “They should be free,” she said quietly, watching as the fireflies flew away.

Carmine grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet, and her fingertips tingled from his touch. The sensation alarmed her. It was like electricity under her skin, running through her veins and jolting her heart. Her pulse raced as she averted her gaze, not daring to look him in the eyes.

His eyes—green, like the grass and the trees.

Haven felt like she, too, was suddenly glowing.

6

Evasion became a way of life for Haven again during the next few weeks, but deep down she knew it couldn’t last. As she headed downstairs one Friday to do her work, she heard the television playing in the family room, although everyone should have been gone for the day. Her pulse quickened. Every weekday she had been left alone until three o’clock. She didn’t like her routine being disrupted.

Quietly, she walked to the family room and saw Dr. DeMarco sitting on the couch. He addressed her without even looking up. “Good morning, child.”

Bewildered, she mumbled, “Good morning, Master.”

Dr. DeMarco shook his head. “Calling me that is unnecessary. It makes me feel like you place me on the same level as Antonelli, and I like to think of myself as a better man than that.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“No need to apologize. Call me Vincent, if you’d like.”

She was shocked he would ask her to use his first name. “Can I get you something?”

“No, I was waiting for you. I’ve been putting it off, but your checkup needs to be done today.”

Her eyes widened.

“It shouldn’t take long,” he said, finally looking at her. “And on the bright side, you get to leave the house for a bit. You haven’t been outside since you’ve gotten here.”

Not true, but she didn’t dare correct him.

* * *

He drove her to a small brick building about ten minutes away, a white sign reading DURANTE CLINIC adorning the front above the main entrance. Unlike the busy hospital, which could be seen from the parking lot, the clinic was dark and vacant, not a soul anywhere.

“They’re closed today, so we shouldn’t have any interruptions,” Dr. DeMarco said as he unlocked the front door.

“What will we be doing?” she asked.

“Just the basics.”

Haven didn’t know what the basics were, and Dr. DeMarco didn’t take the time to explain.

He ushered her into the building, her nerves growing with each step. They went straight to an exam room with a brown cushioned table, and Dr. DeMarco flicked on a single light. She stood in place as he explored the room, pulling out supplies and turning on machines. He grabbed her arm, wordlessly stabbing a needle into her vein. She continued to stand still while he filled vial after vial with her blood, every second that passed making her woozier.

She grew so light-headed she nearly fainted.

Dr. DeMarco weighed and measured her next before leading her to the exam table. “You’re going to have to take off your clothes.” She stared at him, fear coursing through her, and he sighed with frustration at her terrified expression. “It’s going to happen whether you cooperate or not, and I’d prefer it be on good terms than from me forcing you.”

Dr. DeMarco strolled over to the window as Haven carefully stripped and climbed up on the table. Her feet hung off the side, nowhere close to reaching the floor as she shielded herself with a flimsy paper gown, clinging to it as if it could protect her.

Dr. DeMarco spoke without turning around. “Lie back and scoot to the end of the table. Place your feet in the metal stirrups and try to relax.”

She did as she was told, closing her eyes as the sound of his footsteps slowly neared.

“You’re going to feel something cold down below,” he explained, pulling a stool closer and sitting down as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll be over quick.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter when he touched her, a tear slipping through and falling down her nose. She counted in her head, trying to distract herself, and as soon as she reached ten he let go.

“You appear fine, as far as I can tell,” he said, disposing of his gloves. Her vision blurred from the tears when she opened her eyes, but she could see Dr. DeMarco beside her. He injected her with a few syringes, some stinging worse than others, before he headed for the door. “Put your clothes on so we can leave. I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

Standing, she held on to the table as her legs shook, and redressed.

* * *

Haven lay in bed that night, listening to the soft music drifting in from the library. It was the same melody as every other time, one that usually lulled her to sleep, but tonight she couldn’t relax. Her skin felt taut, her muscles strained and tensed as anger and disgust crept through her. Despite scrubbing and scrubbing in the shower, she still felt dirty.

She’d never been so confused before.

She’d kept her distance from Carmine, wanting the strange feelings for him to stop. She didn’t get why her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke, why her skin got prickly whenever he came near, or why she felt dizzy when she heard his light laughter. She barely knew him—she’d made a point not to—but it didn’t make a difference, because the feelings came anyway.

Grabbing some paper, Haven sketched a picture of Carmine, every detail of his face etched in her memory: the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and the angle of his nose. She remembered his eyes, the way they sparkled in the light. He had some freckles on his nose and cheeks, and a small blemish on the right side of his bottom lip.

As she lay there, she found herself wondering how she’d noticed all of those things.

After she finished, she held the drawing up to look at it in the light. Something was off, the sketch flat and colorless. It didn’t hold a fraction of the emotion the music carried.

Frustrated, she balled up the paper and tossed it aside.

* * *

Haven was avoiding him again . . . Carmine just couldn’t figure out why.

He tried to wait it out, giving her time to relax, but he was low on patience. Insomnia plagued him, and as Carmine strolled downstairs the next afternoon, still exhausted and sore from his football game, he was determined it wasn’t going to happen anymore.

Groggy, he hesitated in the foyer when Haven stepped into the doorway from the kitchen. He ran his hand through his messy hair, having not bothered to brush it. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” She glanced around. “Should I be doing something?”

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Are you hungry? I could make you some food.”

“No.”

“Do you need laundry done?”

“No.”

“I’ve cleaned,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.”

“I wasn’t implying you did. I was making conversation.”

“Oh.”

She continued to stand there, looking at him with apprehension. As the tension mounted, he regretted getting out of bed. “Look, let’s watch a movie or something.”

She seemed startled by his suggestion. “Okay.”

“Is that an, ‘Okay, I wanna watch a movie with you, Carmine,’ or is it an, ‘Okay, I’ll do whatever the fuck you say because I think I have to?’ Because you can disagree with me, you know. You can even yell at me if it’ll make you feel better, but don’t say ‘okay,’ because I don’t know what you mean by it.”

“Okay.”

They were getting nowhere. “Look, I’m gonna sit my ass down on the couch. Whether or not you join me is up to you.”

He turned away when she spoke again. “Do you want something to drink?”

His footsteps stalled. “Uh, sure.”

“What do you want?”

“Just a Cherry Coke will be fine.”

“Cherry Coke?”

Sighing, he ran his hands down his face. It was too early for this. “Yeah, you know, it’s cherry-flavored Coke. Hence the name, Cherry Coke.”

She slipped into the kitchen as Carmine went to the family room and turned on a movie. He saw movement from the corner of his eye after a few minutes, and Haven stopped in front of him, purposely avoiding his gaze as she held out a glass of soda. He took it as she sat down beside him, keeping a bit of distance between them on the couch.

He surveyed the drink with confusion, wondering why she hadn’t brought him the can, when he caught sight of the cherries floating in the glass. He took a sip of it, realizing she had made him a cherry Coke.

Dazed, he couldn’t find the words to thank her. His mom had made them for him when he was a kid.

Haven watched the movie intently, pulling her feet up on the couch with her head cocked to the side. “Have you seen this?” Carmine asked.

She looked at him like it was a dumb question. “I haven’t seen anything. This is the first time I’ve ever been invited to watch television.”

His brow furrowed. “You don’t watch TV?”

“I wasn’t allowed.”

“How the hell did you pass the time? Reading?”

“I wasn’t allowed to do that, either. They didn’t think it was appropriate.”

He gaped at her. “Teachers constantly shove books down my throat, and you had people telling you reading was inappropriate?”

She smiled sadly. “They didn’t want me to get any ideas.”

“Ideas? How much harm could a book do?”

“A lot. They thought I’d get it in my head that the outside world was somewhere I belonged.”

“The outside world? You make it sound like you were living in a different universe.”

She shrugged, her gaze still fixed on the television. “It feels like it sometimes.”

* * *

The forty-five-foot white Riviera yacht floated on Lake Michigan, just east of the Navy Pier. The glow from the moon reflecting off the calm waters gave Vincent just enough light to see. Nothing but blackness was visible below the surface, but he’d been around long enough to know what was down there. Algae. Fish. Shipwrecks. Sunken cars. Bodies.

Yes, he was aware of four people who lay at the bottom of the lake . . . or what was left of them, anyway. They’d been tossed in from where he stood, the back of the hull of The Federica. The words were etched in black on the stern, named after the Don’s long-dead sister. The half-million-dollar yacht was Sal’s, although as far as the government knew it belonged to Galaxy Corp., a company out of Chicago that manufactured GPS chips. It was a cover for his more shady business practices, most of his extravagant possessions written off as company property. That way, if the IRS came knocking, he wouldn’t have to explain how he could afford such things. He’d simply borrowed them.