Tough break. Shaking his head, Corrado stuffed the cash back into the envelope and stuck it in his pocket. He didn't bother saying goodbye as he strode out.
He drove to Pascal's, arriving in the middle of a party. The house was filled with people, music blasting, alcohol and smoke all around. He was ushered to the living room by someone from Pascal's crew. Pascal sat on the couch with two scantily clad girls snuggled up against him.
Corrado held the envelope out to him. Pascal pulled away from the girls and snatched a hold of it. "Kind of scarce this week."
"It's a bit short," he admitted.
"A bit?" Pascal asked. "A bit short is twenty, thirty, fifty bucks, not thousands."
"Slow week."
"Tell me something, Moretti. What would you do if someone owed you money and didn't come through?"
Kill them. He stared at Pascal, not answering. He didn't have to.
A slight smile curved Pascal's lips. "Got a job for you, if you're interested."
"What is it?"
He leaned closer. "Got a man that needs taught a lesson... a permanent one."
The hair on Corrado's nape bristled. A hit. He hadn't done one in months. "How much?"
Pascal held up the envelope. "How much are you short?"
"Five."
"Five then."
Five thousand? Blood on his hands was worth much more than that. "I'll pass."
"You'll pass?" Pascal asked, surprised.
"Yes."
Pascal tapped the envelope against the table. "It's ten-thirty. That means you have an hour and a half to bring me the rest of the money you said you'd have for me."
So it was going to be that way. "Yes, sir."
Corrado headed out to his car and climbed behind the wheel. Ninety minutes to make five thousand dollars.
He headed uptown and cruised the streets, shaking down a few people who owed him to get a few bucks. He stopped by stores, collecting early payments, hoarding every penny he got his hands on. Twenty minutes until midnight and he still needed a thousand. He stared at the clock as a few minutes ticked away, before driving home. His house was silent, completely dark. He strolled through the downstairs before heading up to his empty bedroom.
No sign of Celia anywhere.
Relief settled through him. She must have gone out somewhere with Maura. At least she wouldn't be there to see this.
He rifled through drawers, pulling out all the hidden cash, and still ended up short. Pausing beside the bed, he stared over at Celia's jewelry box, nestled between the legs of her gigantic stuffed bear, gleaming under the moonlight streaming through the open window.
The phone ringing downstairs shattered his train of thought. Sighing, he looked away. He would give the man his last breath before he ever stole from Celia.
Striding downstairs, he snatched up the phone. "Moretti speaking."
"Tell me my son is there."
Corrado hesitated at the sound of the Boss's raised voice. "Do you want me to say that or would you rather me tell the truth?"
"The truth, Corrado. Is he there?"
"No."
"Where the hell is he?"
"I don't know."
"If you find out, you make him come home. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
Corrado set the receiver down just as the front door opened. He stepped into the foyer, catching a glimpse of Celia. "Hey, have you seen your brother?"
Celia froze, holding open the door, wide-eyed as she turned to him.
"Did you hear me?" he asked, brow furrowing, as he glanced past her. "Where's Maura?"
She still didn't speak. She didn't move. Was she even breathing?
Coldness ran through him. "Answer me."
No response.
"Celia!" he growled, stepping toward her. "Where's your brother?"
Her lack of a response told him all he needed to know.
Grabbing her arm, he pulled her to him. "Tell me where they are."
"No."
No.
She finally speaks and she tells me no?
"I'm your husband, Celia. Tell me."
"No."
She tried to pull away, but he gripped tighter.
"This isn't the way," Corrado said. "Whatever you did, I can still undo it. Just tell me where they are before it's too late."
"I can't."
"You can."
"Just let them go, Corrado. Let them be. Please."
Any other time 'please' would have won him over, but not now. Not this.
"Your father already called here for Vincent," he said. "Trust me when I say you'd rather me find him than Antonio. So tell me where they are, Celia. While I can still do something about it."
Frowning, she yanked away from him. "I dropped them off at the bus station, okay?"
The bus station. Unbelievable.
Corrado rushed out the door, ignoring her protests, everything else forgotten. He jumped in the car and sped away from the house, straight to the Greyhound terminal across town.
He found them as soon as he arrived, sitting on a bench along the side, holding hands, a single black duffle bag on the floor by Vincent's feet. As Corrado approached, a lady came over the loudspeaker, announcing boarding for a bus to New York City. Vincent jumped to his feet, pulling Maura with him as he snatched up the bag. Smiles lit up both their faces as Vincent leaned down to kiss her.
The kiss was soft, but sensual. A kiss full of hope. A kiss for their future. Vincent pulled back, gazing into her eyes for a moment, before his attention shifted past her. And Corrado saw it there, in the boy's eyes, as his hope was doused in gasoline, his future going up in flames.
Busted.
Vincent yanked Maura to him protectively, his eyes darting around the terminal for others, but Corrado had come alone. Slowly, Corrado stepped toward them.
"Go get on the bus, Maura," Vincent urged, his voice a frantic whisper. "I'll be right there."
The girl moved, listening to Vincent without so much as questioning why, but Corrado's stern voice stalled her. "I wouldn't if I were you."
Maura swung around, her fear palpable. A soft gasp escaped her parted lips. She obeyed him instead, remaining planted in spot.
Vincent groaned. "Look, Corrado, I—"
Corrado silenced him with a raise of the hand that made Maura flinch. Realizing it wouldn't help to argue, Vincent decided to act instead. Tugging on Maura's hand, he started toward the boarding passengers. "We're leaving."
"The only place you're going is home."
"That's the last place I'm going."
"Vincent," Corrado warned. "Stop."
"Make me."
The childish words set Corrado off. Snatching Vincent by the back of the collar, he dragged him through the terminal toward the exit, ignoring the looks tossed at him by the crowd. The boy tried to fight, but Corrado was undeterred. A punch landed against Corrado's jaw as he forced Vincent out to the parking lot. Corrado let go of him, adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, numbness coating his nerves as his jaw stung.
Vincent tried to hit him again, but Corrado blocked the blow, instinctively tempering the boy with a punch to his face. Corrado's fist, strong, clenched tightly, hit Vincent straight in the right eye. The boy grunted as a shriek rang out behind them. Maura.
"Vincent," she cried. "Oh God!"
Distracted, Corrado glanced at Maura, giving Vincent the upper hand. He lunged at him, knocking right into him, swinging his fists with fury like a cat backed into a corner, fighting for a way out.
He gave a valiant effort, trying to ward Corrado off, landing a few blows, but it only took a minute for Corrado to subdue him. Forcing Vincent's arm behind his back, he slammed him against the side of the Mercedes so hard it left a dent.
"I don't want to hurt you, Vincent."
The boy's breaths were ragged, his voice strained. "Fuck you."
The profanity did nothing but enrage Corrado further.
Corrado forced him in the passenger seat be
fore tossing his bag in the trunk. "Get in the car, Maura."
Maura didn't argue. Corrado's voice, terse and edgy, left no room for argument. Even Vincent surrendered, slouching in the seat as he grumbled under his breath.
Corrado drove straight home, pulling up to his house and glancing in the rearview mirror at a sobbing Maura. "Go inside and stay there."
Again, she didn't argue.
As soon as she was inside, he sped down Felton Drive to the DeMarcos. He pulled up in front of the house and cut the engine. Vincent remained in the seat, staring out the side window. "It's not fair. I love her, Corrado. What else am I supposed to do?"
"You want my advice?"
"Yes."
"Find somebody else to love."
Vincent scoffed. "Gee, great, thanks. A lot of help you are."
"Until you grow up, Vincent, there is no helping you," Corrado said. "Running away isn't the solution."
"What is the solution?"
"Facing it head on."
Corrado got out and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and motioning for him to get out of his car. Huffing, Vincent obliged, heading inside. Antonio stepped out of the den when they reached the foyer, his expression alternating between relief and confusion when he took in both of their faces, battered, bruising from the scuffle. "What the hell happened?"
Vincent flicked his tongue out, licking his split lip. Neither one answered the question.
Before Antonio pried any further, Vincent stomped upstairs.
Antonio gazed at Corrado once his son departed, questions in his eyes, but he didn't ask.
Somehow, he knew.
"Thank you, Corrado."
It wasn't until Corrado was on the way home that he discovered the money still stuffed in his pockets.
Pascal.
He drove straight past his house and headed across town, knocking on Pascal's front door.
Nearly two hours late.
A woman opened, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. She eyed him peculiarly. "Pascal has been looking for you."
Of course he has.
Corrado followed her to the living room, where Pascal lay passed out on the couch, snoring, wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxers. She shook him awake. "Passy, that guy's here."
Pascal rubbed his eyes, his voice cracking as he said, "about fucking time."
Corrado pulled out the cash and laid it out on the coffee table, hesitating before pulling off his watch and setting it on top. He was still short a few dollars. The watch was worth enough to cover it.
"Ten thousand?" Pascal asked skeptically.
"I owed five."
"You're late, so it's doubled."
Corrado glared at him. He had struggled coming up with five. There was no way he could get ten.
Pascal laughed as he grabbed a cigarette. "Guess you'll be doing that work for me after all, huh?"
"Yeah." Corrado eyed the man with distaste. "Guess so."
It was much later, after nightfall the next evening, when Corrado finally worked off his debt for the week. He headed home to face his wife, knowing a man who had been unlucky enough to cross Pascal would never again face another living soul… not after what Corrado had put him through.
"Make him suffer," Pascal had said. Unlike when Antonio expressed the same desire, he knew Pascal wouldn't have accepted it any other way. He still heard the man's screams rattling around in his sleep-deprived brain, a haunting tune he had single handedly produced.
Sweat beaded along his forehead as his tie hung loose, his shirt grimy and wrinkled. He felt repulsive. Pascal had trailed along, watching the entire thing play out with a sickening smirk. He got off on the carnage.
His expression was an image Corrado wanted to purge from his memory.
As soon as Corrado pushed his front door open at a quarter after ten, the first thing he encountered were his wife's brown eyes. Staring into them, everything else faded away. Her expression was blank, her face a mask of indifference, but those eyes told a different story. Her worry gave way to relief. He drank it in from across the room, the sight of her easing the melody of misery.
"You didn't come home last night. You didn't even call."
"Sorry." Sorry wasn't a word he said often, and certainly not one he took lightly. There was very little he allowed himself to feel remorse for, but upsetting the one person who loved him was where he drew the line. She deserved that much from him. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"But you did," she said, frowning. "I had no idea what happened. You could've been hurt, or dead..."
"Not tonight, Celia," he said, shaking his head as he shut the front door. "I can't do this right now."
She sighed, but otherwise remained quiet as he held out a dozen red roses he had picked up on the way home. She grasped them, her eyes boring into him, studying, surveying, suspicious. He looked away from her at the flicker of disappointment, unable to deal with it. He hated being bad for the only good thing in his life.
His feet were like concrete slabs against the wooden stairs when he headed to the bedroom and pulled off his jacket, tossing it in the hamper as he slid out of his shoes. Celia appeared and stood in the doorway behind him, watching as he undressed. She was already ready for bed, wearing a blue nightgown with her hair pulled back. The tension radiating from her was palpable and made the hairs on his neck stand up, uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.
He unbuttoned his shirt as he faced her. "It's been a long day."
"You're telling me."
"I really am sorry."
For every moment of heartache I cause you.
"I know you are, Corrado." Her voice was softer as she held her hand out. "Give the shirt to me."
He glanced at it, confused, before spotting the bright red blood splatter on the cuff. He hesitated too long for her liking, and she snatched it from his hand, muttering as she walked out.
He unzipped his pants as she paused in the doorway, her forehead wrinkled. She eyed the shirt cautiously, and he knew what was coming next before it even happened. "This isn't my brother's blood, is it?"
"No, Bellissima, it's not."
He was pretty sure it wasn't, anyway.
"Thank God," she whispered, disappearing into the hallway.
'Thank God' was right. He sincerely hoped a day never came where he had to answer yes to that.
He showered and put on fresh clothes before heading back downstairs, finding Celia in the living room. She stood in front of the fireplace, the fire just starting to come alive. He made out his shirt tucked in among the flames, the fabric burning to ash, disintegrating in front of his eyes.
He focused on Celia when the last bit of it faded away, watching her as she watched the fire, the flickering flames casting shadows upon her frowning face. He wondered if she understood what she was doing. Helping him cover his tracks, destroying evidence, made her an accomplice, an accessory after the fact. It sickened him to think he involved her in his world, but Celia was not the type of woman you shielded from things.
If he ever tried to protect her from something for her own good, he likely would need someone to protect him from her.
31
Cigar smoke permeated the air of the den as men packed the room, football blaring from the television.
The Chicago Bears—the one sports team the men agreed on. The Cubs and the Sox rivalry ran deep, instigating fights to the point that Antonio had banned baseball from being watched when they gathered.
The Boss was a Cubs fan. His only flaw, Corrado surmised.
So they gathered nearly every week, uniting, watching the Bears play. Most of the men had money riding on the game, always betting on the home team, no matter how terrible of a season they were having.
Today, the Bears were dominating the Lions—the first game after the NFL strike came to an end. Spirits were high, the underground betting world back on track with money flowing in again, lining all of their pockets a little thicker, but something in the atmosphere overshadowed
the joy, an overwrought sensation of stifling air.
It seemed to hover around the Boss in his chair, his alcohol untouched as he puffed on cigar after cigar, lighting another as soon as one burned down too far. The smoke surrounded him like an ominous fog, his piercing gaze cutting through it as he stared at the doorway.
At Vincent.
The boy stood on the outskirts, his focus on the men and not on the game. He didn't notice his father's attention. No, nothing existed except for Pascal. Vincent's eyes regarded the man with a sheer hatred that Corrado had never seen the boy possess before, the warm brown of his eyes—eyes he shared with his sister—burning as black as coal.
Another fight brewed. Corrado sensed it, and he knew, from Antonio's rigid posture, that he did, too. It was only a matter of time before the boy lurking in the doorway, building with intensity, exploded.
The first half of the game came to a close. The men relaxed, pouring more drinks as they chatted, unaware of the impending eruption until it happened. Pascal laughed, saying something about a new girl he was seeing, the words igniting the bomb. Vincent pushed away from the wall, his nostrils flaring. "You're sick!"
"Vincenzo!" Antonio's grave voice struck hard. "Enough!"
"It's not enough!" Vincent yelled back, stopping right in front of his father. "How can it be enough when you did nothing?"
Silence swept through the room. The men stared, appalled, as Vincent talked back to the Boss, challenging him… questioning him.
"It's none of your concern," Antonio said. "You'd do well to mind your own business."
"She is my business," Vincent replied. "I made her my business."
"I told you that was over."
"And I told you I love her! I love Maura. How many times do I have to say it?"
Based on Antonio's expression, at least a few more times.
"Get out," Antonio barked, his eyes never leaving his son's, but it was clear the order was intended for everyone else. At once, the men scattered. Corrado trailed the rest of them, stepping out into the hallway. Most went right for the front door, taking it as a final dismissal, but Corrado lingered, catching sight of his wife down the hallway within earshot.
He strolled over to her. "Let me guess… you had something to do with this."