Complete Corruption (Corruption #1-3)

by C. D. Reiss

  “Because I can’t walk out of this room like this. You’re like a stranger all of a sudden. One question.”

  “The girl. Who was she? To you, I mean? Why did you come here for her?”

  “That’s three questions.”

  “Pick one.”

  “My sister. She’s my sister. Her name is Nella.”

  “And?”

  He bit his lip and looked down at my face. After a second, I realized he wasn’t going to answer me.

  “Excuse me.” I pushed him away, but he shoved me against the door.

  “I want my kiss,” he said.

  “That was no kind of answer.”

  “I answered two of the three. If you only cared about the last one, you should have said so.”

  “Lawyer.” I said it like an indictment, and he smirked. I elbowed him, but he caught my forearms and pinned me to the door.

  “Your underwear’s already ripped, and if I checked, I bet you’re wet again.”

  “Get off me,” I said.

  “I should fuck you right now.”

  “Go to hell.”

  I twisted, but his hands were bruising, and the growing hardness of his dick was enough to weaken my knees and my resolve. “Take your kiss then.”

  He did, without hesitation or gentleness, prying my mouth open with his tongue, thick with the taste of my pussy. He pulled away when we had to breathe, and we stared at each other, panting.

  “I hope you enjoyed that,” I said. “Now excuse me.”

  He backed away from the door, and I went through it before he and his beautiful dick could stop me. The air outside the bathroom felt fresher and thinner. I smoothed my dress again and pulled the pins out of my hair, letting it fall down in a red cascade. It was easier to keep that way.

  I felt a weight between my legs. I could easily get my appearance together for the rest of the party. But I couldn’t hide the fact that my cheeks were pink with arousal and my nipples stood on end. My arms still had goose bumps, and I was so wet I felt the moisture inside my thighs. But I walked outside as if it were my house, my party, my world, because that’s what I did. It was easier than math.

  Dinner had started. Daniel was at his table with an empty seat next to him. He hadn’t mentioned the seating arrangements, but they shouldn’t have surprised me. Forgiveness didn’t sit across the room. He stood as I took my seat.

  “Thank you,” I said. When our eyes met, I was sure he knew what I’d just done.

  twelve.

  he next morning, two things happened simultaneously. One. A dozen red roses on Pam’s desk.

  “Wow, these from Bobby?” I asked.

  “They’re for you.” She tapped a pen to the desk blotter, as if writing a song in her head.

  Before I could open the paper flap of the card, the second thing happened. I caught the image on my assistant’s screen of Antonio and me in the hallway. It had been shot through the window the moment before we kissed. Next to that image was one of Daniel and me sitting together at dinner.

  I’d feared looking weak. I’d feared the op ed pieces about my neediness and desperation, about Daniel’s ambition and mindless drive for power. The inevitable comparisons to greater women’s choices about cheating political mates. Maybe I should have worried about looking like a whore.

  “Who’s that?” Pam asked.

  Who was he? I ran the question over and over in my mind, and I didn’t have an acceptable answer. He was a man I’d met the other day. He was a magnet for my sexual hunger.

  “He’s being investigated for fraud,” Pam said, as if he was just a guy on the screen and not someone I had been standing so close to I could feel his heat. “Is he the same guy with the cars?”

  “Same,” I choked. “What’s the article say?” I opened the envelope so I wouldn’t have to look at the screen. I figured the flowers were from Daniel, asking for another reprieve.

  “Says you and Antonio Spinelli are friends through WDE. And you’re reconciling with Daniel Brower.”

  “They used that word? Reconciling?” I looked at the card.

  One more question.

  No name. An arrogant avoidance of redundancy. I folded it back into the envelope.

  “Yeppers,” Pam said. “Right next to that picture with the hot Italian guy. Sneaky.”

  “Journalist. In Latin it means ‘to say everything while saying nothing.’”

  “Really?”

  “No. But if the ancients had known anything at all, it would.”

  ***

  I’d gotten up and dressed like any other morning, expecting nothing more than the usual inconveniences. Traffic. Runny stockings. Coffee too hot/cold. Daniel and I had parted amicably the previous night, with him whispering “think about it,” in my ear. I promised to, and I would, but it was hard to think of Daniel when I woke up with a soaked, sore pussy courtesy of Antonio.

  I relieved myself, fingers stroking the soreness. I loved the pain of remembrance. He’d been so good, so hard, and talking during sex was something new. I whispered to myself fuck me fuck me fuck me hard until I came, ass tightening, hips twisting, balancing my whole body on the top of my head and the balls of my feet.

  Only when I took my first panting breaths, cupping myself in my palm, did I consider how poorly we’d parted. I couldn’t be with someone so closed off. Later at work, when Pam told me he was under investigation, I knew why he didn’t like being interrogated. I had her hold my calls for an hour.

  One more question.

  What would it be? More about Nella? Another reason to land in Los Angeles besides easy Bar exams? No. All that was too facile and obviously loaded for him.

  I locked my office door. I had a million things to do, but none would happen while those pictures sat in my mind. I needed to solve all of it immediately with an internet search.

  If I could have bottled the next hour in a fragrance, it would have been called frustration. If the size of the bottle contained the amount of information I found on Antonio Spinelli, it would be one ounce, not a drop more, and the contents would be worth less than the vessel.

  In other words, one sidebar article in Fortune had not one undigested word. I found one professional photograph in which he looked gorgeous, an unsubstantiated complaint in the comment section of a real estate blog bitching about how many cars he had and how much property he owned, a short fluff piece about Zia Giovanna in the San Pedro Sun, and an investigative piece in the same paper from two years later.

  The investigative piece was recent enough to matter. Antonio Spinelli, owner and proprietor of Zia’s restaurant, was under investigation for laundering millions through the establishment. The claim was absolutely impossible to prove, and apparently the money trail died before the reporter’s deadline.

  Pam texted me.

  —Mister Brower is on the line—

  —I have another twenty minutes—

  —He’s pretty insistent—

  Pam knew me, and she knew my ex-fiancé. She wouldn’t interrupt for nonsense. I picked up the phone.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He started before I had the chance to take another breath. “What are you doing?”

  “What?”

  “With a known criminal. What are you doing with him?”

  I was shocked into speechlessness.

  “Tink? Answer me. It was in the LA Times.”

  “I’m not with anyone. Not that it’s your business.”

  “Your safety is my business. I’m sorry. That’s not negotiable now or ever.”

  His voice seemed physically present, coming through not just the phone but the walls, and I realized he was right outside my locked door.

  “Let me in,” he said.

  I hung up and opened the door. “You have to relax.” It was barely out of my mouth before he slammed the door and shut out his bodyguards, who seemed to be holding back Pam.

  “Daniel, really—”

  “Really? Really, Theresa? Where did you pick him up?”r />
  I put my hands on my hips. I had to bite my lips to keep in all the pointless recrimination. We didn’t need more of it. Daniel knew things.

  “Do you want to take it easy and talk to me?” I said.

  “No,” he said, taking my shoulders. “I don’t.” He kissed me, pushing me back against my desk.

  I kept my mouth closed not out of anger, but confusion. By the time he pulled back, we’d both calmed down.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sit down.” I indicated the chair across from my desk, and I sat next to it.

  He pulled his chair close to mine as if he was still entitled to breathe my air, as if I’d agreed to the newspaper’s reconciliation in real life. “I need you to tell me everything,” he said, gathering my hands.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “How did he approach you?”

  I pulled my hands away. “This is not fair. You’re not exactly entitled to any information about me or my love life anymore. If I tell you it’s nothing, you’re going to think I’m lying. If I tell you it’s something, it’s like I’m trying to hurt you. I’m just trying to live my life, okay? I’m just trying to get through my days and nights.”

  “You’re stumbling into a place where you can get hurt.”

  “All roads lead to hurt, trust me.”

  “I deserved that.”

  “It wasn’t directed at you.” I threw his hands off me. “Can I just talk to you without all the baggage?”

  “No, because you’ve forgotten who you are.”

  “I’m not yours anymore.”

  “You’re an heiress. A socialite. You run one of the biggest accounting departments in Hollywood. You funnel millions of dollars a day. You have access to the district attorney.”

  “This is about you?”

  “No! Fuck!” The curse was pure exclamation. Not a lead in or a modifier.

  He paused for half of a microsecond, but I caught it. When he and I were together, I hadn’t liked cursing. I thought he didn’t do it until I found his texts to Clarice, and I found out just how well he used the word fuck.

  He put his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. “He’s the capo of the Giraldi crime family, Tinkerbell.”

  If I’d had a muscle in my body that wasn’t tensed to pain, they caught up. Even my toes curled. “You’re making that up.”

  His face was red and sweaty. He looked more like a man and less like a mayor than he had since the morning I discovered his infidelity. “I wish I was. I wish I was only jealous.”

  My ex-fiancé didn’t get jealous often, but when he did, he burned white hot. I’d never betrayed him or any of my boyfriends. My relationships had ended because of educational choices (Randolph went to Berkeley, and I went to MIT) or because the other party strayed or because there was nothing worth bothering with, as was the case with Sam Traulich. He was a nice guy, just completely incompatible with me.

  Sam and I stayed friends, and when he’d called to ask if I had any contacts at Northwestern Films, I agreed to a lunch. It had gone long. At three thirty p.m., Sam and I were laughing over some crumb of nostalgia when Daniel stormed into the little diner. At first, he was thrilled to see me alive. He’d apparently been calling the office for hours about our dinner plans, and no one knew where I was. My cell battery had died, so he tracked me down by having his friends on First Street look into my credit card transactions for the previous two hours.

  For some reason, that didn’t bother me.

  Once he’d gotten over his initial delight, he got a good look at Sam, who was burnished brown from the sun, joyful as always, laid-back, and in good humor. Daniel put on his politician game, apologized, and appeared to forget about it. We made it to dinner on time. Life moved on.

  But not for Daniel. I was shocked to find out years later, through a mutual friend, what had followed. As an extraordinarily popular young prosecutor, Daniel had arranged for Sam to be picked up by the police, brought in, roughed up, and detained. Daniel visited the detainee and mentioned that if he ever kept his girlfriend too long again, Sam would be joined in his cell by at least three gang members who owed him favors.

  I had been livid. I slept on the couch for three weeks and barely spoke to him. That was the last intolerably stupid thing Daniel ever did on my behalf.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m listening. Antonio is what... in the mafia?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean there’s still a mafia?”

  “Yes, Virginia, there is a mafia.”

  I paused for a long time. On the one hand, he might as well have told me Antonio was a leprechaun. On the other, I couldn’t say I was surprised.

  thirteen.

  texted Antonio.

  —I have my one question—

  —I want you to ask it in person—

  —Agreed—

  The address was in Hollywood Heights, overlooking the Bowl, on a hairpin turn that looked like a sheer drop on the right and a fortress wall on the left. A thirty-foot long, fifteen-foot high dumpster was visible over the hedge, and crashing and banging drowned out the scrape of cricket wings. I edged past a pickup truck that looked as though it had survived a demolition derby and parked next to a low sports car covered by a grey tarp.

  The house was Spanish with a red tile roof, leaded stained glass accents, and thick adobe walls. Tarps swung from rafters, and every wall’s plaster had been cracked down to the lathe. I followed the banging and crashing, nodding at the rough men pushing a wheelbarrow of broken house detritus.

  “Is Antonio here?” I asked.

  I couldn’t imagine him hanging around a scraped-to-the-beams structure, but one of the guys thumbed toward the back of the house. I thanked him and headed in that direction. The pounding, thumping sounds were followed by the tickle of pebbles hitting the floor. The air got dusty, and the smell of pine hit me as I saw him.

  I’d always been attracted to clean cut, educated men, men who had people to change their flat tires, drive them around, break down their walls. They exerted themselves mightily in gyms and squash courts. But none of them had ever looked like Antonio. He hoisted a sledgehammer and brought it down. The wall crumbled under the weight, and he wedged the head behind the wall and yanked it out, sending a shot of plaster and shredded lathe toward him. He didn’t stop, though. Didn’t even pause. His wiry muscles shifted and pulsed. The satin sheen of sweat on his olive skin brought out every muscle and tendon.

  I knew women who liked that sort of thing: a sweaty man doing physical labor. I had never understood the appeal until that moment. He brought the sledgehammer down with a coil of force, like a righteous god smiting an errant creation off the face of his earth. The movement was so dramatic the gold pendant around his neck swung around to his shoulder.

  “I know you’re there, Contessa.” He brought the hammer down again.

  “Don’t you have people to do this for you?”

  He tossed the hammer down as if he was done with the day’s violence. “It’s my house, and demo’s too much fun to delegate.” His face was covered in dust, sweat, and a smile.

  “You should hire yourself,” I said.

  “Like it?”

  “It’ll be nice once you mop. Dust. You know, maybe a few pictures on the wall.” I swept my hand to the view of the city, the busted everything, the sheer potential.

  “Let me show you.” He headed out an archway, indicating I should follow.

  He led me onto a balcony on the west side of the house. The terra-cotta floor looked to be in good shape, and the cast-iron railing curled in on itself, making a floral design I’d never seen.

  “I love this view,” I said, understating the grandeur of the ocean of lights. “I could look out on this all night.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and poked one out. I refused his offer, and he took out a big metal lighter.

  “Sit here at night, have a glass of wine. Or in the morning, a cup of coffee, just lo
ok over the city.” He lit his cigarette with a click clack, his profile something out of an art history class. He put his fingertips to the back of my neck, his stroke so delicate I didn’t lean into it, just stayed as still as I could.

  “You had a question?” he asked, tracing the line where my shirt met my skin.

  “Are you a leprechaun?” I asked.

  “Only when St. Patrick’s Day lands on a full moon.” He was smiling, but I could see the question had confused him.

  “I’m sorry. I had a real question, but I forgot which one I picked.”

  Because they were all ridiculous, of course. If he was some cartoon capo, he’d have a dozen guys around him all the time. He’d wear pinstripes and a fedora. He’d carry a gun. He’d say capisce a lot.

  “Do I get any questions?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I’m an open book.”

  He laughed softly, smoke trailing behind him. “Right. Open, but in a different language.”

  He gave me an idea.

  “I’m not going to ask you a question,” I said. “I’m going to tell you what happened to me today.”

  “Let me make you coffee.”

  ***

  The kitchen was in bad but useable shape. The beige marbled tiles with little mirrored squares every few feet, dark wood cabinets, and avocado appliances told me the place hadn’t been redone since the seventies.

  Antonio sat me in a folding chair at a beat up pine table. “Best I have for now.”

  “You living here during all this mess?”

  “No. I have another place.” He gave no more information. “Do you like espresso? I have some hot still.”

  “Sure.”

  He poured from a chrome double brewer into two small blue cups. “Does it keep you up?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. A real woman.” He brought the cups and a lemon to the table and set a cup before me. I reached for the handle, but he made a little tch tch noise. “Not yet.” He cradled the lemon in one palm and a little knife in the other. “What happened to you today?”

  “Today, my assistant found a picture of us in the paper.”