Vincent had impeccable aim.
Not once did Corrado worry.
Men fell, bullets tearing through flesh as screams echoed through the air, incessant gunfire lighting up the night sky. Vincent's movements slowed eventually. He struggled, his breathing labored. He'd taken a few bullets, his hands covered with blood as he clutched his heaving chest.
The moment Vincent tore off his coat, exposing the Uzi strapped to his chest, Corrado knew it was all over. The final act had arrived.
It was the end.
Vincent bowed his head and made the sign of the cross, his mouth moving furiously as he prayed. Corrado was reminded of the boy's father then.
Antonio prayed for survival.
Vincent, Corrado knew, prayed for death.
Carmine's terrified screams cut through the night, his pleas falling upon deaf ears. It was too late to stop it, too late to take it back.
What was done was done.
"I think it's time," Vincent had said the last time they spoke face-to-face, a staunch detachment in his voice as the men stood on the steps of Saint Mary's Catholic Church under the cloak of darkness.
Corrado eyed him suspiciously. "Time for what, Vincent?"
"Time for me to be with my wife again."
Corrado closed his eyes as Vincent stepped out into the wide-open, his finger squeezing the trigger of the Uzi. Incessant gunfire lit up the night, deafening, terrifying, as bullets hailed across the yard, shattering glass and splintering wood, ripping through bodies and ending lives.
Corrado pinned Carmine down, shielding him from the deadly spray. The boy he had so fiercely resisted being responsible for trembled beneath him, needing his protection, relying on him for safety.
No matter how hard they fought it, fate snuck up on all of them.
When the bullets ran out, Corrado opened his eyes, watching Vincent fall to the ground. Crawling over to the side of the house, Vincent sat back on his knees. The gunfire had ceased, in its place the faint wail of sirens in the distance. They approached fast, growing louder as the seconds passed.
Nine blocks.
Eight blocks.
Seven blocks.
Vincent reached beside him, picking up his discarded pistol. Corrado, seeing his desolation, yelled in warning. "Vincent!"
Vincent glanced in his direction, his face ashen and eyes dull.
"It's time now," Vincent whispered, the words garbled.
Corrado shook his head, knowing what he was thinking. He'd expected to die tonight. Corrado had expected him to die.
But not this way.
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
Vincent nodded defiantly as the sirens grew closer.
Stubborn and rebellious. He hadn't changed.
Six blocks.
Five blocks.
Vincent raised his trembling gun, pressing it beneath his chin. Carmine screamed, horrified, but the sound grew muffled as Corrado's heart thumped wildly in his chest. The familiar fog took over, numbness seeping into his skin and coating his insides.
Vincent stared at Corrado, silently pleading for help. He'd never ask him to do it. He had too much pride. Too much heart. But his expression spoke volumes. It always had. Decades later, even after everything, Vincent still couldn't bluff.
Not with Corrado, anyway.
Four blocks.
Three blocks.
They were cutting it close.
Corrado grabbed his revolver as Antonio's hazy voice infiltrated his senses, a long ago memory Corrado had never forgotten.
"If you break Celia's heart, I'll make you suffer. I don't care if I'm rotting in a grave somewhere. Hurting my children is hurting me."
"I understand," Corrado had replied. "I swear on my life I won't hurt your family."
Corrado closed his eyes, bowing his head, as he pushed that memory away. Seeing the desperation in Vincent's eyes, knowing what he planned, Corrado realized he had to break that promise.
He had to do the one thing that would hurt Celia most.
He had to break her heart.
It was the only way to save Vincent's.
Two blocks.
One block.
Out of time.
"Perdonatemi," Corrado whispered. Forgive me.
He aimed, his finger on the trigger, and for only the second time in his life, he hesitated.
This time it was real.
This wasn't a game.
Vincent wasn't another target, another kill. Another number. He was his friend. No, he was his brother.
He was just like him.
Corrado stared into Vincent's eyes. Only a second or two passed, but it was enough for Corrado to seek out what he needed. He saw it, watching as Vincent's life flashed before him, as it all played out in his final moments, deep love and happiness shining from his eyes.
He needed to be with his wife.
And Corrado realized then exactly what Maura had seen at the end… it wasn't the pain or the misery. Those things didn't define her. It was her family.
Just as it was Vincent's.
The single gunshot tore through the air as Corrado pulled the trigger, killing his brother-in-law instantly.
Carmine bawled.
Sirens wailed.
Corrado prayed he'd done the right thing.
The days following were a blur as Corrado endured interrogation and nights in a cold, dark jail cell, confined for as long as they could legally keep him. When a judge ordered his release, he didn't call his wife. He didn't call any friends, any associates, or any family.
Instead, he called a priest.
Father Alberto pulled up in front of Cook County Jail, the familiar Cadillac DeVille rumbling. Antonio's car, come to pick him up from jail yet again. Corrado ran his hands along the hood before opening the passenger door and slipping inside.
He hadn't seen the thing in years.
The priest said nothing as he drove through town. Father Alberto parked the car at Saint Mary's Catholic Church and climbed out, not giving Corrado another look.
He didn't have to. Corrado followed, anyway.
He kept his head down as he strode down the long aisle, following the priest straight to the confessional. Corrado sat down inside of it, shoving the clunky screen out of the way. He had no intention of hiding his face.
Father Alberto sat beside him. "Whenever you're ready."
Corrado had never done this before, but he knew how it went. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I'm forty-six years old, and this is my first confession."
"Go on, my child" the priest said. "I'm listening."
"I lied." Corrado bowed his head. "I made a promise I knew I couldn't keep."
"About what?"
"I promised long ago that I would never leave my wife."
"And you're leaving her?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Maybe next year. Maybe ten years from now. There's no way to tell. But it'll happen someday. I'll leave her."
"Why?"
"It's not my choice. I'm already on borrowed time. Men like me… we don't live forever. We don't live long at all."
"So by leaving her, you mean…"
"I'm going to die."
"We all die. It's unavoidable."
"I know, but it hasn't been enough," he said. "It'll never be enough. She deserves so much more."
"There's eternal life," the priest said.
"I'm not a fool, Father. My wife sometimes says I am, but I'm not. I know Celia and I aren't going the same place. There is no eternity. This life is all we've got."
The priest was quiet. "Have you considered the prospect of her leaving first?"
"No." Corrado shook his head. "It won't happen that way."
"How can you be certain?"
"Because God knows, if He ever took Celia from me, I'd burn the world down around us all."
Corrado stood to leave, but the priest reached
out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. "That's it?"
"Yes."
"There's nothing else you need to get off your chest?"
"No," he said. "Everything else I've done, I've made peace with."
"Do you want penance?"
"Will it give me more time on earth with my wife?"
The priest smiled sadly. "No."
"Then keep your forgiveness." Corrado started out of the confessional but paused by the door. "You know, as I was leaving the courthouse the other day, a woman asked me a question. She said, 'what made you this way?' And ever since then, I just kept wondering..."
"You wondered what made you the man you are today."
"Yes."
"You know my answer." God.
"The world treats me like I wronged them, when really, the world wronged me," Corrado said. "The world made me this way. And maybe they all hate me, but still, they need me. Because without villains, there wouldn't be superheroes."
"Even in the story of your life, you still think you're the villain?"
"Of course," Corrado said. "We are who we are."
Corrado strolled out of the church, stalling on the top step to gaze out at the old Chicago neighborhood, his eyes skimming along the DeVille parked along the curb. Life, he thought, had been like a line of dominos, set up in a complex, interweaving path, toppling one another as things fell into place. Corrado often tried to pinpoint what had been the trigger, the first domino in the line, the one that had set him on this path of no return.
How far back did it all go?
He wasn't sure where it began, but he did know the end. He knew where the trail led to, what the last domino to fall would be.
It would be the last page in Celia's scrapbook.
Corrado A. Moretti
Corrado Alphonse Moretti, 51, of Felton Drive, Chicago, died Saturday, November 1, 2014. Funeral will be held on Wednesday, November 4 at Saint Mary's Catholic Church with the burial to follow at Hillside Cemetery. Family requests absolutely no flowers.
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Acknowledgements
This book almost didn't happen. It was shelved for reasons beyond my control, and that broke my heart. I couldn't imagine leaving Corrado's story untold. So I need to thank everyone who stood by me and fought with me to make this finally see the light of day. Thanks to superstar agent Frank Weimann, who unknowingly gave me the biggest boost of confidence when others seemed to be happy stepping on me while I was down. So much gratitude to Sarah Anderson, who listened to me bitch, moan, and groan about this book for years now.
To my amazing family, and my beautiful best friend Nicki, and to all of the readers out there who pick up my books and dedicate hours of their lives to them, knowing they could be reading so many other books instead. You make my life what it is. You helped make my dreams come true. You are extraordinary.
To my mother, who had a soft spot for Corrado. You don't know how much I wish you were here to read this book. I love you.
In December of 1946, The Fabulous Flamingo opened in Las Vegas, the dream of famed mobster Bugsy Siegel. While the hotel today has absolutely nothing to do with organized crime (this bears repeating: NOTHING), the colorful history of the place is undeniable. So special thanks to them, for letting me play in their sandbox fictitiously.
J. M. Darhower, Made
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