J.M. Darhower
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.
Copyright 2014 by Jessica Mae Darhower
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
PART I: Lonely Town
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART II: The Impatient Years
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART III: The Impossible Dream
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
PART IV: A Long Night
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
PART V: That's Life
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Other Works
Acknowledgements
To everyone out there who read Sempre and wanted to know more about a certain mysterious hitman.
This is for you.
PROLOGUE
A drizzle fell from the overcast sky, the asphalt glistening from the spiteful evening rain. Barricades were set up around the Dirksen Federal Building in Chicago, leading from the front entrance, down the sidewalk and to the curb, a pseudo-red carpet of drab concrete. Hoards of people pressed against the flimsy metal railings, waiting with bated breath, as more gathered across the street. The overflow surrounded the 53-foot tall sculpture on the plaza, the blood red structure jutting into the gunmetal gray air.
Some of the onlookers carried notebooks, others with their finger on the button of old tape recorders, while black cameras hovered above the crowd. They all watched, and waited, and watched, and waited, for the man of the hour to show his face. Optimism shined from their vigilant eyes, but they’d be disappointed.
He’d give them nothing.
He saw them before they saw him. He’d expected the media to be circling like vultures, ready to pick him apart like dying prey, but the protestors and so-called ‘fans’ puzzled him. It seemed society suffered from a case of amnesia, desensitized to men like him. Even the high brought on from a 'not guilty' verdict in such a high-profile RICO case wasn’t enough to ease his tension when he saw how many had gathered for a glimpse of him.
Inhaling deeply to steel himself, Corrado Moretti opened the door and stepped out into the dreary evening to face their judgment.
Flashes of bright light blinded him as cameras went off in rapid succession. Bitter bystanders threw out insults while relentless reporters shouted questions… the same vexing questions asked every other time he found himself here.
“How do you feel?”
“Did you do it?”
“Are you innocent?”
“Can you tell me what really happened?”
Ignoring them as usual, Corrado kept his expression blank and head down. Flanked by armed security, his lawyer by his side, he led his wife, Celia, to a black Chevy Suburban idling along the curb. The trek took only a few seconds time, but an eternity dragged by with him stuck in the spotlight.
Corrado ushered Celia into the back of the awaiting vehicle when a female voice called out from the crowd. It was quiet, not as pushy as the others, but the words she spoke made him pause.
“What made you this way?”
He blinked away the light rain as it hit his long lashes, and after decades of no comment, he finally… finally… broke his silence.
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
1
Soft cries filled the dim kitchen, a light above the stove illuminating the woman's gray-streaked hair and tear stained cheeks. It was early morning hours—three, maybe four. A turkey already cooked in the oven, while can goods and half-made pies covered the vast counter space, the food temporarily forgotten as the woman sat at the bar, sobbing.
It was Christmas, and seven-year-old Corrado Moretti couldn't sleep. Not because he was anxious for presents or because he wanted to catch Santa in the act. Those things might've kept other kids awake, but they meant nothing to him. Christmas to the Morettis meant a long church service and an even longer family dinner, two things Corrado hated more than anything.
No, he couldn't sleep because his parents had been fighting all night, screaming down the hallway from his bedroom. He hadn’t even known his father had come home until he heard the unmistakable sound of his mother hurling things, shattering glass all over their room as she berated him for whatever he’d done while away.
Corrado stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the troubled woman. Had she heard the fighting, too? “Why are you crying, Zia?"
She startled, wiping her tears as she jumped to her feet. "I didn't hear you."
"Did you get hurt?" he asked. "People cry when they're hurt."
"No." She hesitated. "Well, yes. You could say I'm hurting."
"Do you need a Band-Aid?"
The sadness remained in her eyes, but her dimpled cheeks flickered with amusement. “A bandage won’t help. I'm hurt on the inside.”
“Why?”
“I miss my family."
“You should go see them.”
“It's not that easy.”
Seemed easy to him. “If you don't want to be here, go.”
“But leave you?”
Corrado shrugged. He didn’t want to be there either. “I’ll be okay.”
Zia offered him a small smile, a hint of brightness in the dark room. Wordlessly, she filled a small cup with tap water and handed it to Corrado before leading him upstairs, the two of them tiptoeing down the hallway. Whimpers filtered out from the crack under his parents' door, soft cries and whispered words. Zia covered Corrado’s ears as they passed, taking him straight to his back bedroom.
"They were fighting," Corrado said. "It was really bad."
"I know," she said. "I hoped you and your sister would sleep through it.”
“I think she did.” Corrado climbed into his bed. A small lamp lit up the space around him, illuminating a poster of the Chicago White Sox behind his head. “Katrina sleeps through everything.”
“Yeah, she usually does.” Zia pulled the blankets around him to tuck him in. “You two may be twins, but you’re nothing alike.”
"Mom says she’s the good one. She likes her more than me.”
“That’s because Miss Erika’s an idiot.”
Corrado’s eyes widened, an abrupt laugh bursting from him. He covered his mouth to muffle the sound, not wanting his parents to hear.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Zia said, shamefaced, “but you're a good kid. You have a heart of gold, Corrado.”
“If that were true, my mom would love me… or somebody would.” Corrado frowned, too upset to go to sleep. "Will you tell me a story? Please?"
&n
bsp; Zia hesitated before sitting down on the corner of the bed beside him. "Hmm, have you heard The Steadfast Tin Soldier?"
Corrado shook his head.
"Well, let's see… a little boy, around your age, got a set of toy tin soldiers for his birthday," she started. "One of the soldiers was different from all the others—he only had one leg. That flawed soldier noticed a pretty, paper ballerina. She stood on a single leg too, and the soldier instantly fell for her. He thought she must be like him and could understand his struggle. It was love at first sight."
Corrado grimaced. Zia chuckled at his childish reaction, pressing her pointer finger against his scrunched up nose as she continued.
"Although he loved her from the first time he saw her, he said nothing. He couldn't. It wasn't in his nature, you see. He's a soldier, and soldiers don't show their feelings. So he chose to watch her from afar. That first night, a goblin warned the soldier to keep his eyes off the ballerina, but the soldier ignored. Can you blame him? He was smitten! The next day, a gust of strong wind sent the soldier falling from a window and into the street below. Two little boys found the soldier, stuck him in a paper boat, and sailed him straight into the gutter."
"Why?"
Zia shrugged. "Why do you boys do anything you do? The boat washed right into a storm drain, where a filthy rat demanded the soldier pay a toll. The soldier ignored him."
"His nature again?"
"Of course," she said. "He was worn and tired by then, but he kept on going. He never gave up. The boat washed into a canal, where the tin soldier was swallowed by a fish."
"What kind of fish?"
"A big one? I don't know. All I know is that fish was eventually caught and cut open, and the tin soldier found himself once again standing on the table near that paper ballerina."
Corrado's expression lit up. "He made it back home!"
"Yes, but..." Zia eyed him peculiarly, as if contemplating whether or not to go on. "...the little boy threw the tin soldier straight into the stove."
Gasping, Corrado's eyes widened. "What?"
"The soldier thought he had lost the ballerina forever, but a gust of wind blew her into the fire with him... maybe the same wind that blew him over the ledge to begin with. She was consumed at once, burning to ash right beside him, as the tin soldier melted into the shape of a heart."
Corrado gaped at the woman as she finished the story, horrified at the ending. "They died? That makes no sense!"
"Oh, it makes plenty of sense," Zia said. "Maybe someday you'll understand it."
She softly kissed his forehead, ruffling his untidy dark curls, before heading for the door. She glanced back at him as he snuggled with his gray Batman comforter. “Get some sleep, okay? No more getting up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Corrado? I can’t speak for your mother, but I can say for sure that someone does love you.”
“Who?”
“Me, little man. I love you.”
She walked out, shutting the door behind her. Within a matter of minutes, the silence swept Corrado away. He slept hard, dreamlessly, but was startled awake hours later by an eruption of noise. Curses echoed through the house, footsteps running the hallways and all around downstairs. Corrado rubbed his tired eyes as his bedroom door flew open and slammed into the wall.
Erika Moretti appeared, eyes wild, breathing shallow. “Is she in here?”
“Kat?” Corrado guessed.
“No, not Katrina. That bitch of a slave!”
Corrado blinked rapidly. Zia?
Erika groaned at his prolonged silence and stormed away without demanding a response. Alarmed, Corrado climbed out of bed and made his way downstairs. His father, Vito, stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister as he puffed on a thick cigar, his favorite gray fedora slightly cockeyed on his head. Corrado paused beside him, eyeing the man warily. There were claw marks on his cheek.
“Hey, kid.” Vito's voice was steady, as cool as could be. “How long has it been? Two weeks? A month?”
“Since Thanksgiving.”
“That’s what I thought,” Vito said. “You look like you’ve grown a foot since then. You keep it up, you’ll be taller than me.”
Corrado stared at him, unsure of what to say. Wrinkles marked the man’s weary face, more than Corrado remembered there being. Maybe they both changed some while he was away.
His mother burst in the front door from outside then, her bare feet dirty, her eyes even wilder than before. “She’s gone! There’s no sign of her anywhere!”
“Zia?” Corrado asked.
The lone word set Erika off. She snatched Corrado’s arm and violently yanked him toward her, shaking him. “Zia? Aunt? That woman isn’t your goddamn family, boy. She’s nothing, you hear me? Nothing!”
Tears prickled his eyes. “Yes.”
“Calm down, Erika,” Vito said. “Leave him alone.”
“Calm down?” Letting go of Corrado, she turned her rage on her husband. She punched him in the chest, knocking him roughly back against the winding banister. “Are you deaf? The bitch is gone!”
Vito continued to puff on his cigar, his face a mask of indifference. “She won’t get very far.”
Erika stalked upstairs, her feet like steel against the wooden floor. Once she was gone, Vito pushed away from the stairs. “Merry Christmas, kid.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
“Maybe after this clears up, we’ll play a little ball later,” Vito said. “How about that? Just you and me.”
They didn’t go to church that day. Corrado stayed in his room, clad in his worn Batman pajamas all morning and afternoon, reading books and playing with his toys.
Best Christmas ever.
Around nightfall, another commotion rocked the house. Corrado made his way downstairs again, finding the front door wide open. Curiously, he crept onto the porch, his bare feet abruptly stopping at what was happening.
Zia crouched in the yard, filthy and bloody, struggling against a thick chain wrapped around her neck. Erika held the end of it, jerking her like a dog on a leash, before wrapping it around the porch railing, tethering her there. Without hesitation, Erika grabbed a baseball bat from the yard and wailed on the woman, viciously assaulting her. Screams shattered the night air, coupled with the sickening crunch of bones as blood splattered.
Corrado could only stare, his feet cemented to the porch in horror. Zia, he chanted in his head, unable to get his voice to work. Not Zia. Please don’t hurt Zia anymore.
Hearing the noises, Katrina stepped out on the porch, pausing beside her brother as she fiddled the ends of her long black hair. Her eyes widened as she watched, her lips twisting with a single breathy word: “Wow.”
Erika didn’t stop until the shrieking silenced, until the woman no longer fought back, her limp body a heap beside the porch. The bat was cracked down the middle, nearly split in two. Erika threw it in the grass, bypassing the kids without speaking as she stormed inside.
Vito approached from out in the yard, surveying the carnage before heading after his wife. His hand clamped down on Corrado’s shoulder as he passed. “Guess we’ll need to get you a new bat before we can play ball now, huh?”
Katrina and Corrado stood in silence, staring down at the motionless woman.
“Is she, uh…?” Katrina looked to Corrado with wide-eyes. “Is she alive?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
A riveted smile jerked the corner of her lips. “Wow.”
Katrina skipped inside while Corrado stepped off the porch, approaching Zia. He knelt down and reached for her, hesitating, his hand hovering mid-air, before pushing her matted hair out of the way. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. No grimace, no scowl, no tears. Except for the blood, she appeared fast asleep.
“Zia?” he whispered. “Are you dead now?”
Zia didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even breathe. She remained still and mute as Corrado tried to shake
the woman awake.
Traumatized, Corrado headed inside the house when she wouldn’t budge. The kitchen was hazy, the smoke detector blaring from the ceiling. Vito pulled the overcooked turkey from the oven, cursing as it burned his hand. He threw it on the counter, fanning the thick smoke.
“Guess we won’t be having dinner tonight,” he muttered to himself, startling when he spotted his son standing there, stoic, silent. Vito’s eyes scanned him, his gaze settling on Corrado’s balled-up fists. “You got blood on your hands.”
Vito pulled him over to the sink, using soap and water to scrub Corrado’s hands. Corrado fought back tears as he watched the red circle the drain. “Zia needs a Band-Aid.”
“A bandage ain’t gonna help her, kid.”
“But she's hurt on the outside now.”
“Look, it’s best you don’t get attached,” Vito said. “You don’t go crying that this turkey died, do you? No, you eat it… Well, not this one, but you know what I’m saying. The circle of life, it’s cruel, but it’s unavoidable. If the shark didn’t eat the man, the man would eat the shark. That’s just how it goes.”
The next evening, the family gathered together in the dining room for dinner at precisely eight o’clock. Erika took her usual seat at the head of the table, a chair nobody else ever occupied, while Vito chose to sit as far away from her as possible, on the opposite end. Corrado and Katrina sat across from each other somewhere in the middle, a few empty seats between them and both parents.
Corrado stared down at his food, eyeing the burnt grilled cheese and thick tomato soup with disgust. Katrina scraped the black from her sandwich, creating a mess of tiny charred breadcrumbs, the grating sound echoing through the otherwise stone silent room.
Hunger pangs pinched Corrado’s sides as he watched his sister nibble a bit, salvaging the meal. They hadn’t eaten at all the day before, but as starving as he was, he couldn’t force himself to eat any of it. His father wasn’t eating, either, instead swirling his spoon around in his tomato soup, pulling up a spoonful and tipping it over, watching as it poured back into his bowl. The soup splashed out, small splatters of red staining the white tablecloth.