by C. D. Reiss
“I can’t. I made a choice. I chose you.”
“And I chose you. I am yours. You are mine. I’m going to make you my wife and steal your name from under you. But if you turn your back on your family, you won’t forgive yourself if he dies—”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s a reality,” he said.
“I’ll forgive myself fine. I can turn my back on my brother because I can’t help him. He doesn’t need me. My presence is meaningless.”
He paused, looking across the street at the putt-putting, half-functioning cars and the stacked stucco buildings. Then he looked back at me. “I won’t let you take the rap for Paulie.”
“Are you serious?” I said. “You think I’m letting you take the blame for that?”
“My prints are on the gun. You will not go to jail for Paulie, as God is my witness.”
“You brought me here to keep me from taking that rap, and now you—”
“No," he said. "I brought you because I love you. Because I need you. Because heaven gave me a reason to have you.”
“And what about Irene? And Donna Maria?”
“I didn’t promise you this would be easy. It’s ten times worse now.”
He shook his head as if he wanted to say things and didn’t, as if words wanted to tumble out, and he held back the tide. I balled my fists and steeled myself for a fight. Jonathan had six more sisters and two living parents to care for him. A prodigal sister wasn’t necessary. If I went to see him, it would be for me, not him, and despite what Antonio might think, I wasn’t feeling selfish.
“If this happened in twenty years,” I said, “when it was supposed to, we could slip back without a problem, and I could see him. If we go back today, we destroy everything.”
He held his hands out. “Isn’t that what we do?”
I wanted to cry with frustration. I shook my head, looking into the traffic, the noise, the bedlam we had more than embraced. We’d gotten on the cliff of normalcy and jumped into the chaos face first. Of course, that was what we did. I couldn’t deny it anymore.
“I don’t want to,” I said.
“He’s your brother.”
“And damn him for it.”
Antonio kissed me slowly in the fetid heat, and I tasted the sweat of his cheek, the beer on his tongue. His lips were a promise, a blood bond, a kiss of greeting and good-bye, and the years in between.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, Capo,” I said.
“I know.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.” He sighed and looked up, as if seeing the narrow street for the first time. “I smell the beach.”
“Let’s walk on it,” I said. “We can decide what to do together.”
He slipped his arm around my neck, and we walked to the end of the block. The beach was a right turn and a few blocks away. We traversed it three times before our plan was set, and then, as if it was our job to dive headfirst into chaos and ruin, we began.
Fine, per adesso.
RULE.
Complete Corruption - Part Three
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
— 1 John 4:18
Would that life had the symmetry and passion of Italian opera, without the absurdity.
— Anonymous
prologue.
daniel
here was soot all over everything. Black ash and dust. Big stones made newly small. The size and shape of the Carriage House of the Gate Club had changed from the foundation upward with an explosion, much like my career. The building remained but had withstood the equivalent of a San Andres earthquake.
“She’s not here,” Kylie said, out of breath. She’d barely broken her run from the ballroom, in heels and a tight skirt, to deliver the news. “But she’s on the tape and—” She stopped short and turned green.
The spot where a barely breathing gunshot victim had been found—male, early thirties, possibly Paulie Patalano, possibly not—was splattered with blood, bone, and flesh. A dozen crime scene technicians took pictures and laid markers.
“Don’t look,” I said, using my fingers to direct her eyes from the corporeal mess to my face. “Did you check the exit tapes?”
She swallowed hard and looked at me. “So many people are crowding out at once, it could take days to sort through.”
My stomach had started churning as if poked with a sharp stick. And I had to stand up straight, because she’d taught me to do that. She’d made me a man, and in the wreckage of what I’d done, and with every bit of information that came to me, it became more clear she was gone. The tunnel had been sealed shut on the outside. She’d been lured down there, or that piece of shit had, and she’d followed him. Then…
I couldn’t dismiss Kylie to do her actual job of assisting Gerry in spin management, because if I sent her away, it meant I had no more leads and Theresa had been in that tunnel when the explosion hit. A ruckus broke behind me. Four men in smoking, wet rubber jackets came out of the closet. Aaron, the chief of police, approached them with questions, and I heard collapsed. Nothing left.
“Not much but junk down there,” one of the firemen said as he handed a digital camera to a forensics specialist, and I saw a picture of the scene. “We’re yellow taping it. It’s not safe.”
The forensics guy flipped through the pictures. A button. A diamond ring half-buried in the detritus underground.
I knew that ring. I’d chosen it. I’d gotten a bigger stone than I could afford. A stone that matched not my budget but my aspirations.
All the noise in the room fell away. Because that ring meant Theresa had been there, but it meant more than that. It meant nothing was cut and dried.
Why had she been wearing that ring? If Spinelli had wanted her to marry him, he would have gotten his own damn ring. I put the puzzle together. Was it that easy? It had been only hours since the Bortolusi wedding ended in fire, and the solution was already in my hands.
The question was, did I share my guess or keep it to myself? I wouldn’t tolerate anyone shooting it down, because if I was wrong, she was dead, and that wasn’t bearable.
“Kylie,” I said, bringing the young intern away from the noise and clutter of the investigation. “For the past and next twelve hours, get me flight manifests into and out of Rome and Milan.”
She cocked her head. “What are we look—?”
“Just get them. And Palermo and Naples.”
***
I’d cheated on her, ruined her ability to trust in men. I hadn’t spent one minute being faithful to her or doing what I’d promised, then I’d manipulated her, used her, done everything to push her into the arms of a man who destroyed her.
I didn’t even know how to be pissed at Spinelli. I kept redirecting the energy back at myself.
It was my fault she was in the position she was in, whatever that was, living or dead. I’d pushed her, with my distaste, toward a criminal. I’d used her to plant bad earpieces and tried to manipulate her back into my bed. But even before that, I’d set her up. I’d left her crying and broken and wondering what was wrong with her. I’d betrayed her for years behind her back. Whatever happened was my responsibility, and if she was dead or a mob wife, I had to save her to save myself.
If that meant the mayor’s office and the governor’s mansion would go to someone else, then fine. Suddenly, gaining political office and losing my soul seemed like a fool’s choice.
The seed of an idea grew in my head, watered and nourished by the reams of minutiae that came into my view over the following hours. Small things were my job. Details that fit together like a puzzle, telling a story of guilt or innocence, were how I put men in prison. And later, retelling that story to thousands of people became another part of a job I wanted and would do anything to gain.
The idea that grew, though, wasn’t the story of how the Bortolusi wedding was handled, or who shot Patalan
o. It wasn’t a story around how we would nail Spinelli. The story that grew was the tale of my own life being lived differently. It was a story of opportunities I had missed in choosing my life’s ambition. It was a story of freedom and, wrapped up in it, was the story of a life lived parallel to Theresa.
The story was a deal with God. If I made up for the pain I’d caused her, I would lose the election and be free of my ambition. Then what?
Who knew? Maybe a life with her. Maybe without. But a life where she was somewhere safe in the world and my responsibility for her hurt would be gone.
If she was alive. And that looked less and less likely. Her phone was dead. Her apartment hadn’t changed. Her family was dealing with their own crisis and hadn’t been able to get her on the phone.
I let everyone prove she and Spinelli were dead, and I wove the story of her life in the midst of it.
The details came in. I let my staff run in circles, because the story I built wasn’t for them. It was for me. I was a full-on fuckup no more. That was my new story.
Theresa hadn’t taken a bag with her.
The stash of cash was missing from her closet.
Years ago, the tunnel had led to a house across the street, but it was blocked by rubble and brick.
That ring. That ring that ring.
They’d split. It was so obvious to me, yet my staff was easily misguided. I told stories. It was what I did.
Did I have to save Spinelli to save Theresa? That was my only concern. I didn’t want to. I hated him. I hated him for breaking her down. But if I was going to stop bullshitting myself and do the job, I had to consider it.
I was exhausted when the manifests came across my desk.
“You have a press conference on the wedding in three minutes?” Kylie almost asked.
“Why do you look like I’m going to snap at you?”
“I was supposed to get you into makeup seven minutes ago, but these came and I forgot.”
I stood and got my jacket on in the same move. “Don’t worry about it. Looking tired’s going to help more than hurt.” I picked up the manifests and walked into the hall before I’d even gotten my arms through both sleeves.
“What the fuck, Kylie?” Gerry said, walking with a purpose, flanked by the usual team. I was sick of seeing them already.
“Leave her alone. It’s better.” I flipped through the manifests. The third set I’d seen with nothing nothing nothing… “These are incoming to LAX.” I handed them back.
But they caught my eye when I handed them over, and I saw two names right next to each other.
SPINELLI ANTONIN M 35A
SPINELLI TINA F 35B
I snapped the papers back. The flight was arriving in two hours. Impossible for them to get to Italy then back. Physically impossible. Was this some sort of trick he’d set up to misguide me? Or was every assumption I had made incorrect?
I was about to have Kylie set up a car to go to LAX after the press conference, but I decided against it. I was telling this story hour by hour, and I didn’t need anyone sending it off the rails. I’d get there myself.
one.
FIRST NIGHT IN TIJUANA[→1]
antonio
he slept on her side with her hand resting on my arm and her toes pivoting against my calf. The bed flattened the side of her against it, so the curves above were accentuated in the moonlight. Her left hand was turned palm up, the burn ointment doing its work.
I didn’t want to wake her, so I ran my hand along her neck, shoulder-to-ear-to-lips parted in innocent peace.
Paulie was dead because of me. He had been a confused, violent man I used and loved like a brother. And where was my grief? I rooted around my deep corners for it, but I was empty. I only had love for the woman who had killed him. That hand on my arm was murderous and capable. I should have been repelled by its touch, but I wasn’t. I was connected to the soul who wielded it.
When she’d pulled the trigger[→2], I saw the intent in her eyes. It terrified me in a way that was coiled tightly with exhilaration. This woman was no more than a stranger and no less than a kindred animal.
Everything happened too quickly after that. The practical matter that I couldn’t leave her took a backseat to something bigger. I couldn’t put a name on it. Not yet. I couldn’t call it something I didn’t understand. But she belonged to me. Her eyes, fluttering in sleep, were mine because they saw what I saw.
And still, that didn’t begin to define it. It wasn’t something I felt. It wasn’t lodged in my heart. This possession wasn’t the stuff of operas and art. It was made of bone marrow and earth. Roots and reality. I could almost touch it, but still, I couldn’t find the words in any language to describe it.
I touched her bottom lip, as if words would be released. She sighed and rolled onto her stomach, her elbows making a V on either side to keep her burned hands to the cracked ceiling.
The whole way to Tijuana, I’d wanted to fuck her, to see what was different, to touch this definition at the center and unearth its meaning. To dig through our separateness and feel what it meant to own someone. Until then, I would be at this same loss for understanding. I’d had half a hard-on the whole way south, and it wasn’t the curve of her breast under her shirt, though that was as arousing as always. She was beautiful, and I knew she always would be to me. The source of my arousal was deeper. I wanted to fuck her to find this shared core.
But there had been matters. Things. First thing, get past the line in the sand. Then get a place to hole up for the night. As we’d waited in the bar for the hotel to clean the room, we found out about her brother.
Jonathan, who I’d met once, was as sick as a man could be. I couldn’t take her from her family just yet. I couldn’t do that to her. As if he were my own family, I had to go back, for her, for our shared fate, for that connection in the marrow. I didn’t even want to return to LA for myself, but knew I was going as surely as my balls ached.
So on the beach, I’d spoken to her about plans. None of it meant anything, because plans changed in the doing, but we agreed on a goal and a first step, which had to be undertaken immediately.
I called my father, who cursed me for breaking his heart with my death on the one hand and being alive with the other. He’d arranged the marriage I’d run from.
“Do you understand what this means? Do you understand the level of betrayal?”
He was almost too enraged to speak, but he gave me the number for a man who knew a guy who could forge two passports.
I thanked him, but he’d hung up before I finished. My father’s reaction hurt me, but it hadn’t surprised me. I didn’t know if I could ever repair things with him. Which was too bad. I loved him.
I ran my hand over the slope of her back. She didn’t wake up.
We’d found a little hostel with the entire desert in the backyard. I spoke a little broken Spanish to the man behind the desk. When I signed us in as Mr. and Mrs. Spinelli, she blushed and got the smile people get when they can’t help themselves.
The passports wouldn’t be delivered until the next afternoon, and I had business to attend to. Important business.
I’d closed the hotel room door behind us. The room was done in cheap Mexican artifacts imported from China. The air conditioner hummed, and the windows were shut tight. The white curtains hung dead in the heavy afternoon air, and the flies were too lazy to buzz.
Theresa had slipped her bag off her shoulder onto the straight wooden chair as if she had all the time in the world, then peeked at herself in the peeling dresser mirror at the foot of the bed. She’d touched the bump on her head.
Against the sound of crickets and her breathing, I ran my finger along the angle of her shoulder blade, remembering the afternoon.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She’d passed the bed. The mattress was as high as a slice of bread over a metal frame.
“The bed will creak? I think it will, and I don’t care.”
“There’s too much, Antonio. Too much to th
ink about. I’m anxious.”
If she hadn’t said it, I wouldn’t have known. Not a line of worry crossed her brow.
“Get on that bed, Contessa, before I give you something to be anxious about.” I bolted the door.
“I don’t feel like it.”
I pushed her onto the bed, and she fell in a sitting position with her hands behind her. Her denim-covered knees parted slightly, and when she tried to cross her legs, I yanked them open.
“I mean it,” she’d gasped.
I got hard remembering that little bit of resistance I’d had to get through.
“Give yourself to me,” I’d said.
“Not now.”
I wedged myself between her legs, and she fell supine. “Give yourself to me.” I pushed my cock against her.
She put her hands on my chest and pushed me away. I took her wrists and held her hands over her head. She cringed. I let her hands go, and she held them up to me.
They were red. Streaks of white crossed the palms where they’d blistered.[→3] When I looked in her eyes, the bump on her head laughed at me. I’d gone to the tavern and walked on the beach with her and not tended to her injuries. I was already a failure as a husband, and we weren’t even married yet.
“Stay here,” I said, getting up. I was out the door and on the street in seconds.
I had crossed the border a different man. Had it been the border? It was only a line in the sand. Or had it been before, on the drive south? Or the moments when I let her think I was dead, and I couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave her with the corpse of my best friend and a warm gun. The thought of leaving her there seemed wrong. Against the laws of physics and logic. I had been trying to be forte and turn my back, find some other life to ruin. I couldn’t. I was a selfish brute. I was worse than my first wife’s accusations. An animal. A destructive force wherever I went.
I’d gotten got a tube of antibiotic cream, burn ointment, and white tape and gauze from the drug store, then I ran back. I was paranoid, convinced I saw enemies ducking around corners and behind doors. Would I always look for them? See them? When we got out of Los Angeles the second time, would I be able to live like a normal man? Ever?