"Yeah, well, it's not really a secret anymore," she declared.
"I know it isn't."
She groaned. "Then what, Corrado? What do you want?"
His strong hands cupped both of her cheeks as he leaned down toward her. He stared into her eyes, drinking in the devotion she—for some godforsaken reason—felt toward him. "I'm a greedy man, Celia. I want everything."
As soon as he spoke it, she wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him toward her as she lay back on the bed. He hovered over her, their lips meeting in a fiery kiss that lasted a lifetime but ended in no time at all. The second she brought her legs up, wrapping them around Corrado's waist as she pressed herself against him, he pulled away. A small whimper of protest escaped her lips as she clung to him. "I thought you wanted everything."
"I do," he said. "But I'd also like to live."
She smiled sheepishly, loosening her grip on him so he could stand back up straight. She remained laying back, propping herself up on her elbows, eyes never leaving him as he glanced around her bedroom. The walls were a pale peach, blending in with the tan carpet, whereas the furniture was all white. Splashes of color were thrown everywhere, reds and greens and yellows and blues, but there wasn't a speck of pink to be seen. Posters covered the walls, some even torn straight out of magazines, the edges ripped, typing spattering the images. He scanned them, bewildered at the sight of so many scrawny, shirtless movie stars, before his eyes fell upon a Chicago Cubs poster near her bed. Over a dozen signatures covered it in black marker, right over the players' photos from the previous years roster. He scowled at it.
"Hey, don't hate," she said, noticing his reaction. "That was a gift from Daddy."
"Terrible present."
"Hell of a lot better than the card you gave me."
Corrado laughed, focusing his attention to the turntable. The song had ended, but the record continued to spin. Picking up the needle, he set it back down at the groove for the last song. It crackled and hissed, the music notes streaming through the speakers. "Favorite of yours?"
"How'd you know?"
"You were engrossed in it when I interrupted."
"It's pure poetry," she said. "Literally. De Crescenzo is an Italian poet."
Celia leaned her head back, her long dark hair fanning against the soft comforter as she closed her eyes, body writhing along to the rhythm of the music. Lips once more mouthed the poetic words, never missing a beat. For six minutes, he stared at her, watching, captivated, lost in the sway of her slender body, the curve of her hips and swell of her chest, the exposed flawless skin of her bare midriff as she breathed steadily.
He'd never seen anything so downright beautiful. A sense of peace fell over him, calming him, pacifying the always-tense nerves inside of him, and soothing his very soul. He wanted to take that moment, to capture it, and keep it forever.
The song came to an end, and Celia opened her eyes, once again smiling at him, but he didn't return her smile this time. Instead, his lips parted, mouthing the lone word, "Bellissima."
17
Corrado bought a new suit.
Straight black and fitted, pants legs a hair's breadth above his polished shoes, shirt cuffs extending half an inch beyond his jacket. He had gone to Antonio's tailor and dropped a month's pay on the outfit. The heavy suit weighed him down as he fought to square his shoulders and sit up straight. The urge to fidget gnawed at him as anxiety crept through his bloodstream.
How was he going to survive the night if he could hardly make it through the first five minutes?
He sat across from Antonio in the dimly lit den at the DeMarco residence, as he waited for Celia to come downstairs. The man puffed on a cigar, the scent of smoke permeating the silent room as it wafted around them, making the air hazy. Corrado continually breathed it in, his lungs burning as it infiltrated his system. Even his eyes stung, but he said not a word.
He'd never been so nervous in the Boss's presence before.
The sound of footsteps reached his ears, and he was on his feet the second she stepped into the doorway. A dark blue strapless dress clung to her curvy figure, the bottom flaring out as it flowed down past her knees, a thick black belt looped around her waist. She'd curled her hair and pulled it up, exposing her neck.
She smiled sweetly at Corrado with gloss-coated lips before scrunching up her nose and waving her hand through the air. "Jesus, Daddy, did you have to smoke in here?"
"Watch your mouth, young lady," Antonio said. "It's my house... I'll smoke where I want to."
"You told me you were going to quit."
"I will," he said. "Someday."
Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Corrado. "Ready?"
He nodded, starting toward her, and glanced at the Boss briefly on his way out of the room. "Sir."
"Corrado."
He offered Celia his arm, and she took it.
"Curfew," Antonio hollered as they headed to the front door. "Midnight sharp, not a second later."
"Two o'clock," Celia shouted back.
"Eleven-Thirty."
"Fine. One."
"Make it eleven."
She sighed dramatically. "Midnight, then."
Corrado was unsurprised at her failure to negotiate. Antonio DeMarco didn't compromise. It was his way or no way.
Celia's strappy black heels clicked against the porch when they stepped outside. Corrado closed the front door behind them, shoulders relaxing with relief, but his respite didn't last long. The moment he faced Celia, seeing her attentiveness as she stood back, meticulously scanning him from head to toe, he started sweating.
Her gaze reached his, her eyes sparkling as she seductively bit down on her bottom lip. "So where are we going? Your house?"
"We're going to dinner."
"Dinner." She nodded thoughtfully. "Then your house?"
"We'll see."
Her smile grew. "I'll take it."
Chuckling, Corrado led her to his car, opening the passenger door for her to slip inside. He shut it, tugging at his tie out of nervousness, before climbing behind the wheel. Celia fiddled with the radio as he drove north, filling the air with chatter. She seemed so calm and collect, so at ease around him, when he felt antsy enough to claw his way out of his own skin.
Corrado headed outside of the Chicago city limits, parking near a quaint corner restaurant in Evanston. Celia climbed out of the car—much to Corrado's displeasure, not waiting for him to open her door—and eyed the place. "Rita's."
"Ever been?"
"No," she said. "Daddy comes all the time, though."
"I know." It was how he'd discovered the place. Antonio had sent a message, asking Corrado to meet him at Rita's one evening for dinner. Corrado had been surprised to find out it was a small Italian-American eatery in the middle of a working-class neighborhood—not somewhere he'd expected a classy man like Antonio to frequent.
But after tasting the food, Corrado understood.
They were seated as soon as they stepped inside, the small table waiting for them under his name. The interior of the restaurant was as quaint as the outside, with its wooden paneled walls and red-checkered tablecloths.
He ordered water and spaghetti with meat sauce, while Celia indulged in chicken and Coca-Cola. She chatted away as they waited for their food to arrive. He listened, having no idea most of which she spoke about, but he relished in the sound of her voice. Their plates were eventually set in front of them, and Celia dove right in, having no qualms picking her chicken apart with her fingers and popping pieces in her mouth. She let out a throaty moan with her first bite, theatrically rolling her eyes into the back of her head. "Amazing."
The sound ghosted across Corrado's body, prickling his skin. He picked up his fork, shifting the spaghetti around before taking a small bite. The succulent flavor of the sauce hit his taste buds, rousing a vague long-ago memory of a woman with steel-gray eyes who cut his spaghetti into itty-bitty pieces so he wouldn't slurp it. Nothing seemed to annoy Erika Moretti as
much as the way Corrado ate, and Zia did everything imaginable to shield him from his mother's wrath.
"So, out of curiosity, do you wear anything other than black?"
Corrado's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Every time I see you, you're wearing the same thing."
Instinctively, he glanced down at himself. "This is a new suit."
"Is it?" she asked with genuine curiosity. "It looks just like the rest of them. Always black, always fits you perfect. Don't you own anything else? Blue, maybe? Please tell me you own a blue suit."
His gaze shifted to her dress. "That wouldn't be your favorite color, would it?"
"Maybe."
Laughing, Corrado nodded. "I own one or two."
"Then why always black?"
He gave a slight shrug. "Frank Sinatra said a man should always wear black at night, and I don't often make it home before sundown."
"Hmmm." Picking up her glass, she swirled the drink around in contemplation. "So Ol' Blue Eyes, huh? What's your favorite song?"
"I like them all."
"Come on," she said, leaning closer. "You have to like one more than the others."
"Depends on my mood," he said. "Luck be a Lady when I'm having a good day. My Kind of Town when I'm feeling sentimental. My Way when I... well... work."
She stared at him peculiarly, taking a sip of her drink. "You didn't name any love songs."
He shrugged. "I like Summer Wind."
"Is that what you listen to when you, uh... entertain the ladies?"
The insinuation was clear in her voice.
"Couldn't say. It hasn't happened yet."
Surprise passed across her face. "Never?"
"Never."
"But... how?" She shook her head as she set her glass down. "You haven't, you know... with a girl?"
"No."
Her surprise turned to absolute astonishment. "You're a virgin?"
Corrado flinched at the word as she raised her voice, drawing the attention of some tables nearby. Couldn't she at least be discreet? "Celia, please..."
"Sorry, I just..." Her cheeks flushed as she dropped her voice low again. "How is that even possible? Girls had to have been throwing themselves at you."
"If they did, I never noticed."
"I don't believe that. Look at you, Corrado."
"What about me?"
"You're gorgeous."
Gorgeous. She'd called him cute once, months ago. Gorgeous was quite the step up.
"I just... unbelievable. Are you sure you've never...?"
"Positive." His expression fell. "You have."
She'd alluded to it before, but a part of Corrado remained in denial. It was clear, though, taking in her guilty expression, that she hadn't been kidding around.
She swallowed harshly, her throat muscles teasingly flexing as she nodded once, confirming it. "Does that bother you?"
Did it? Absolutely. The thought of another guy touching her, caressing her skin, kissing her soft lips, shoved him dangerously close to the brink. He dug his heels in, refusing to let it drag him over the edge. "Should it?"
She narrowed her eyes, wagging her finger at him. "You're not supposed to answer a question with a question."
He smiled lightly, remaining quiet.
"It wasn't a whole lot," she said. "Only happened twice."
"Same guy?"
Her silence answered that for him. Two different guys.
"The first was—"
"Stop," he said, holding up his hand. "I don't want to know."
"Are you sure? I'll tell you."
Not if you want them to live. "Your past is your past, and well… it's best if it stays there."
She shrugged, popping a piece of chicken in her mouth.
They finished dinner in comfortable silence, not as awkward as it could've been. Corrado ate a bit, his appetite vacant despite the delicious food, while Celia stuffed herself, eating all of hers before stealing bites straight off his plate. She ordered dessert, fresh tiramisu, and practically licked the plate clean. Corrado paid the bill while she excused herself to the washroom, leaving a sizable tip for the last-minute reservation.
He opened the door for Celia when they reached the car before climbing in beside her.
"Where to now?" she asked.
"Anywhere you want to go."
"Home."
The abrupt word was like a stab in the chest. She spoke with no hesitation. She wanted to go home?
"Home," he repeated quietly.
"Yes, home," she said, settling into the seat. "Yours, not mine."
The dim house stood still at ten o'clock at night. The faint sound of crickets chirping filtered in the open downstairs windows, a soft breeze flowing through, tempering the otherwise stuffy air.
"Would you like to sit down?" Corrado asked, motioning toward the living room. "I can get you something to drink. I don't have much besides water. Might have some orange juice or maybe some milk, but if that's not okay I can—"
"Corrado."
"Yes?"
"Stop rambling."
He blinked with surprise. "Yes, Miss DeMarco."
Celia laughed softly at his response and wrapped her arms around his neck. "You don't have to be nervous."
"I'm not."
She arched an eyebrow at him in challenge.
"Okay, maybe a little."
"Is it because you've never…? Because we don't have to if—"
"It's not sex that makes me nervous," he replied, shutting down that line of thought before she even ventured down that road.
"Then what is it?"
"You."
Her expression softened. "You don't have to try to impress me, you know. I'm already impressed. That day in North Carolina, when you stood up to my mother for Vincent, you won me over."
"It was the right thing to do."
"Yeah, but very few do that anymore. Everyone's so self-centered. They think about themselves, they worry about themselves, and the rest of the world comes second. But not you. You're the most honorable person I've ever met."
Slowly, he leaned down. "You're wrong." His voice dropped low as he chastely kissed her, again and again, whispering harsh words against her soft lips. "I'm a terrible person. Greedy. And angry. And vengeful. The most selfish man you'll ever meet. I'm heartless. I take what doesn't belong to me. I hurt anyone who gets in my way. And you want to know what the worst part is?"
"What?"
"I feel no remorse for any of it."
Her breath hitched. "I don't believe you."
"You should."
He pulled back, but her arms gripped him tighter, locking him in place. She kissed him then, a full-fledged kiss of passion, eliciting a soft groan from his chest.
She pulled away at the sound of it, putting space between the two of them. "So, uh, how about a tour?"
She wanted a tour? "You've been here before."
"I climbed in your window like a thief and got escorted right back out the front door," she said. "That hardly constitutes a visit."
"Fair enough," he conceded, waving down the hall. "After you."
He showed her the downstairs, flicking on lights in the different rooms, most of which she'd taken it upon herself to check out the day she'd broke in. He led her to the stairs. Celia walked in front of him, swaying her hips with each step, drawing his attention straight toward her backside. She stopped when she reached the top step, blocking him.
"How about that drink now?" she asked.
"Uh, sure."
"You got anything with alcohol in it?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"Hmmm, just water then," she said, smiling. "Thanks."
He took a step back, eyeing her curiously, before heading downstairs. He went straight for the kitchen, flicking the light on before grabbing a small glass from the cupboard. He tossed a few ice cubes in and filled it with water before heading back out.
When he reached the stairs again, Celia was gone.
He
started back up, figuring she'd look around on her own. It wouldn't take her long. Most of the upstairs was vacant, entire rooms full of nothing except space and squandered opportunity. He had no need for them. Besides the bathroom, the only other area he used was his bedroom, and it was scarcely furnished with the necessities—a bed, a dresser, and two nightstands.
The glow of the bedside lamp emanated from his room as he approached, the only door open on the second floor. Stepping into the doorway, he paused and blinked a few times to adjust his eyes.
And then every muscle in his body seized up.
Standing a few feet from him, the back of her legs pressed against the end of his bed, stood Celia. The blue dress lay rumpled in a pile by her feet, her shoes haphazardly kicked off on top of her clothing. All five-feet-seven of her slender figure was exposed, stark naked, not a single part of her hidden from his view. Impulsively, raptly, his eyes raked over her unclothed body, starting at her toes and working their way up, drinking in every drop of her bare flesh, savoring every last centimeter he could make out in the dim lighting. The curve of her hips, the striking hourglass shape leading to the swell of her perky breasts, mesmerized him.
His dry throat was scratchy when he reached her eyes, seeing a darkness lurking in them he'd never noticed before. Usually a warm brown, they now burned black, full of sin and secrets and surprises. They were the eyes of a predator, eyes that held an unadulterated hunger waiting to be satiated.
And this time, Corrado was the prey.
Without a shadow of a doubt, he threw up his white flag.
He surrendered.
Taking a deep breath, he brought the glass to his lips and gulped down every drop of the water, trying to soothe his parched throat, but the real thirst he knew only she could quench.
Setting the glass down on the dresser, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside, not uttering a single word. His eyes raked down her body one more time as he approached, this time starting at the top and drifting down. Reaching out, he ran the back of his hand along her arm. She shivered at his soft touch, goosebumps pebbling her skin. His hand settled on her hip, pulling her toward him, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her throat. She tilted her head, moaning, as his lips trailed toward her collarbones.