"I thought you were a Cubs fan," Corrado said.
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. "I am."
"So how do you know about the Sox?"
She shrugged. "I like baseball."
"Then you know the Sox aren't terrible," he said defensively. "No worse than the Cubs."
"True," she agreed. "The Cubs suck, too."
"So why are you a fan of them?"
"The Cubs are just the better team. White Sox fans are savages."
"I'm a Sox fan."
She stared at him, a devious twinkle in her eyes. "I know."
John returned, sliding the pan of hot pizza on the table between them. Celia was still talking, her words stumbling when she glanced at the waiter. "Johnny!"
John's eyes darted to Corrado nervously before flicking back to her, a slight flush overcoming his cheeks. "Hey, Ceily-Bear."
"I forgot you worked here," she said, reaching out and grasping his arm. The sight of her touching him, red-painted fingernails wrapping around his scrawny bicep, made a similar color coat Corrado's vision. His own grip on the newspaper tightened as he fisted the sides of it, tearing a page. The ripping sound echoed around him, but Celia didn't notice.
John did, though. His eyes once more darted to Corrado, the sudden blush draining from his face.
"You know each other?" Corrado asked, attempting to keep his voice steady, ignoring the haze that threatened to settle over him out of rage. Rage that she was touching him. Rage that he was liking it.
"Yeah, from school," Celia said, still beaming. "We're friends."
"Friends." That was what she'd called him… her friend. What she wanted them to be… friends. "How close of friends?"
John stammered, mumbling "not that close," while Celia just laughed. That laughter… it wasn't the genuine laughter he'd heard before. It wasn't the laughter of his childhood, the melodic sound that warmed him from the inside out. It was a bitter laughter.
Mumbling some more, John made a speedy escape. Had he even said goodbye to Celia? Corrado wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything except for the look in her eyes as she leaned across the table toward him, her smile turning sinister. "Oh, we're close."
"How close?" He hardly recognized his own voice, the demanding tone as the question forced its way from his lips.
"Very close," she whispered seductively. "So very, very close."
His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as his body instinctively seemed to follow her lead, moving toward her, his voice dangerously low. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
"You are," he insisted. "Tell me you're lying. Tell me that pesky little boy hasn't gotten close to you. Tell me he hasn't… that he hasn't touched you. Tell me he hasn't—"
"What if he has?"
"I'll kill him."
"Why?"
Why. That word again. As soon as it registered with Corrado's mind, he slammed his hands down on the table, nearly knocking over his drink. People close by startled at the commotion, but Celia didn't even flinch. She stared him dead in the eyes, awaiting an answer.
Demanding an answer.
"You know why."
She nodded, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned back in the chair. Reaching up, she unbuttoned the top button of her cardigan. "You're not jealous, are you?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
She unbuttoned the second button. Corrado impulsively glanced at it, his eyes trailing down her neck, seeing the hint of flesh of her chest. He stumbled a bit on a response. "No."
"Not even the tiniest bit?"
She reached for the third button as Corrado's pulse raced. "Stop that," he ground out, reaching across the table to grasp her hands as she unfastened it. He caught a flash of her bra and blinked rapidly. Fumbling with her shirt, he struggled to button it as she laughed.
This laugh… this one was familiar.
This was genuine.
This one flustered him.
She shoved his hands away and fixed her shirt. "He's a friend, Corrado. We have Chemistry together."
Those words didn't ease Corrado's tension. "You have chemistry?"
"Yes, the class." She rolled her eyes. "Not the attraction. He's a nice boy, but…"
"But you haven't?" Corrado asked. "He hasn't…?"
"No, we haven't," she said pointedly. "Not that it matters. Where do you get off threatening to kill someone for touching me?"
"Where do you get off letting someone touch you?" he retorted.
She balked. "Excuse me?"
"You should respect yourself more than that. Your father would—"
She looked like she wanted to slap him. "How dare you. My body is my own, and who I let touch it is my decision. Not yours, and certainly not my father's. I'm sure it's nice, this perfect little square box you live in, but I have no desire to squeeze myself inside of it. I'm not going to conform to anyone's standards. It's take it or leave it, and you've made yourself clear that you don't plan to take it. So lets just leave it, and I'll leave you alone."
Every ounce of anger inside of Corrado evaporated at the dejected tone of her voice. "Celia, wait."
"I waited a decade," she said. "And then I waited some more. I've waited enough. It's your turn to catch up."
Besides a faded photo of a six-foot-five, buzzed head, coke-bottle glasses wearing Italian man, Corrado knew little about Marcus Bellamy. A shopkeeper. A gambler. He walked with a slight limp.
That was the extent of his knowledge, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter what kind of personality he had, what he found funny, if he had a family, what he enjoyed. It was inconsequential.
Because Marcus Bellamy had to die.
The manila envelope of cash had been delivered to his house in the middle of the night, the photograph tucked inside with the name scrawled on the back. He hadn't been hard to find—the phone book gave Corrado all he needed. He drove to the address listed in the yellow pages and waited outside in the darkness until the man from the photo appeared.
Corrado tailed him across town to a small convenience store. He debated his options before exiting his car and lurking in the small alley adjacent to the store. Minutes passed before Marcus stepped out the back door, lugging a black garbage bag. He went over to the Dumpster and shoved it inside as Corrado stepped out behind him.
The single gunshot lit up the alley before the bag of trash even hit the bottom of the Dumpster. The noise was suppressed, muffled against the back of the man's head. Marcus never knew what hit him. One second he was breathing, the next he was dead.
Corrado concealed the gun in his coat and strolled from the alley, keeping his head down.
Nobody saw. Nobody knew.
Nobody suspected.
He made sure of it this time.
Corrado's slick black shoes crunched against the loose gravel of the path leading to his father's house. The black Lincoln gleamed along the curb in the dim evening light, the paint shiny almost as if it were still brand new. His father took care of the car... more than he took care of his own family.
Soft light glowed from the house windows. A lamp, Corrado figured. He pressed the doorbell, hearing the faint chime inside.
Corrado wasn't entirely sure why he was there. He'd been in Chicago for months and had only ventured to his father's place a few times. Vito preferred his privacy, and Corrado was more than happy to give it to him.
But he needed someone tonight.
Corrado rang the bell again, hearing another chime, followed by a shuffling inside as his father's voice shouted, "Hold your fucking horses, I'm coming."
Footsteps approached the door, followed by the sound of laughter.
Female laughter.
Corrado's insides knotted. The door flew open, a shirtless, disheveled Vito appearing, unlit cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and fedora cockeyed on his head. Corrado barely gave him a glance, his gaze shifting past him to a woman scampering down the hallway.
A woman who was not Corrado's mother.
"Hey, kid
!" Vito sounded genuinely surprised. He smirked, turning around. "V! Get your ass over here, woman."
Within a matter of seconds, the woman reappeared. She wore nothing but a burgundy silk robe, her curly brunette hair haphazardly pinned up. Smeared makeup covered her face, splotches worn off to expose aging skin. Not as old as Vito, but she approached middle age.
"V, this is my kid," Vito said. "We just talked about him, remember?"
"Yeah, right!" Her eyes sparkled. "I've heard a lot about you."
Corrado wished he could say the same. He stared at them, silent, stoic, as his father wrapped an arm around her petite waist. She giggled, plucking the cigar from his mouth before kissing him, smearing what was left of her pink lipstick onto his chapped lips.
"I'll let you boys talk," she said. "Great to meet you, Vito's kid."
Corrado cringed.
Vito watched her scamper away, a dopey grin on his face, before turning back to Corrado. He slapped his son on the back, squeezing his shoulder as he stepped out on the porch. "Vivian Modella. Met her years ago when she was a student at the university. She's still a looker, alright, but man… she was something back then."
Corrado was dumbfounded. "You've been seeing that woman for years?"
Vito cast him a sideways glance at the judgment in his voice. "Don't you look at me that way. We do what we gotta do. Your mother... well, your mother's your mother. I'll always love her, I'll always support her. I take care of mine, kid. But a man has needs... needs your mother ain't taking care of."
Corrado had no idea what to say. A conflicting sense of loyalty nagged at him.
"Enough about that," Vito said. "What's going on with you?"
"I, uh..." Corrado hesitated. He'd come to talk to someone who might understand his situation, but instead, he'd found a man whose judgment he wasn't sure he trusted anymore. Did vows mean nothing to Vito? "It's nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yeah," he said. "Forget about it."
Corrado tried to leave when his father caught his arm. "You okay, kid?"
"Fine."
"You got a birthday coming up soon, right? We ought to do something for it. Maybe catch a Sox game. You been paying attention this season? They're doing pretty good."
They're doing terrible. Celia's words ran through his mind, but he didn't verbalize them. How could he expect his father to know that when he didn't even know his birthday was still months away? "Sounds great."
Vito squeezed his shoulder again before heading back inside.
Corrado turned his gaze to the Lincoln. The streetlight had flicked on as the sky gradually darkened, giving him a better view of the car. It was rusting, Corrado realized, around the back wheels.
Respect was a funny thing. It took a lifetime to build, a lifetime to secure, but a mere moment wiped it all away. And once gone, things looked different, the rose-colored glasses that once beautified the world now a set of grimy bifocals, tainting the view. An infallible man was no longer faultless. A flawed woman had been wronged the entire time.
Maybe the perpetrator was just as much the victim.
Maybe things weren't as clear-cut as he'd thought them to be.
14
The energetic tunes from the live band filled the busy banquet hall as a Sinatra look-a-like commanded the stage. A crowd gathered along the floor, stumbling their way through a dance. Corrado lingered in the doorway of the entrance, surveying the gathering. His black jacket felt heavy, weighed down by the thick envelope shoved inside the pocket.
Vito sauntered inside, pausing beside him. He appeared relaxed, confident, and happy to be there.
Corrado would rather have been somewhere else.
"The celebration awaits, kid," Vito said. "Eat. Drink. Find a pretty girl to take home with you tonight."
Corrado's eyes were instantly drawn to the front of the room. He excused himself, strolling to the head table as he pulled the envelope from his pocket. Antonio glanced up as he advanced, assessing him before looking back away in approval.
Nobody approached without his permission. The guys scattered along the edges, incognito in all black, made sure of that. Enforcers were the most ruthless of the bunch. They were the intimidators. The murderers.
It still hadn't sunk in that Corrado was one of them.
Taking a deep breath, Corrado approached the person on the left. Celia's attention had been on the crowd until Corrado stepped in her line of sight. Almost as if it took some painstaking effort, she forced her gaze to him. She didn't smile. She said nothing.
She looked beautiful, though. Celia DeMarco wasn't just a pretty girl. Even with such a stern expression, even with resentful, narrowed eyes, her face had a passive calming effect on him. Her navy dress fit snug, complimenting the blue graduation cap perched on the table in front of her.
Corrado cleared his throat, holding out the envelope. "Miss DeMarco."
She still said nothing. After a moment of awkward silence, she reached out and snatched it from his hand.
"Celia Marie," her mother scolded. "That's no way to act toward a friend."
"Sorry, mother," she muttered, not sounding apologetic. "Thank you, Mr. Moretti."
He nodded, stung a little at her formal addressing of him.
"It's great to see you again, Corrado," Mrs. DeMarco said, her words more genuine than Celia's had been. "Antonio says such great things about the kind of man you've turned out to be."
The praise made Corrado uncomfortable. Thankfully, Antonio chimed in before he had to respond. "Now, now, Gia, enough of that. You give the kid a big head, and he'll be no good to me."
"Nonsense," she said. "From what I've heard, he's earned his ego. Strong, passionate, and handsome to boot? He'll make some young Italian girl very lucky someday."
Uncomfortable put it lightly. Corrado was unnerved.
Celia hastily shoved her chair back and stomped off, high heels clicking against the wooden floor as she went. Corrado cast her a glance and frowned when she disappeared into the crowd.
"Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with that girl." Mrs. DeMarco waved her off flippantly. "We raised her better than this."
"It's probably hormones," Antonio said, picking up his glass of wine to take a sip.
His wife huffed but didn't disagree. Corrado caught Antonio's eyes, seeing the truth, silently acknowledging the real problem.
Him.
"If you'll excuse me," Corrado said, nodding politely. There was something to be said about being the source of conflict. It was the quickest way to end up eliminated, point blank.
"Of course," Antonio said.
"Go on." Mrs. DeMarco smiled. "Enjoy yourself, since it seems like my own children can't. Ungrateful brats. I don't even know where Vincenzo went!"
Corrado slipped into the crowd, relieved once out of the Boss's line of sight. He strolled over to the bar, hesitating, before sliding onto an empty stool. He waved to the bartender, asking for a glass of water, before turning to his right.
Celia.
She fidgeted with a small glass in front of her, half-full of clear liquid. Corrado ventured to guess they hadn't ordered the same drink. His suspicion was confirmed when she took a sip and grimaced.
"And here I thought the drinking age was twenty-one."
Her body stiffened at the sound of his voice. "I can do what I want."
She sounded like an entitled princess. She was in a sense. A spoiled rotten principessa.
"Congratulations," he said, deciding not to point that out to her. "I'm happy for you."
"Yippee," she said sarcastically, twirling a finger in the air. "I survived high school."
"It's a big deal."
"It's a piece of paper."
"It's an accomplishment."
"Whatever." She took another sip and sputtered, shoving the glass away from her. "Did you graduate?"
"I stopped going in tenth grade. I stopped caring in fifth."
"Because it wasn't a big deal."
"No, because
they couldn't teach me what I needed to know."
"And you think they taught me? Yeah, sure. They squeezed in Mafia Wife 101 between economics and calculus."
He frowned. "That's not who you are."
She'd seemed to give up on her drink, but his words made her think better of it. Grabbing the glass, she tipped it back, downing the rest of it in one large gulp. She coughed, her face turning bright red, but it didn't deter her from gasping out her next words. "What makes you think I won't be just like my mother someday?"
"Because there isn't a hateful bone in your body." He cast her a sideways glance. "You put on a good facade, Miss DeMarco, but I'm not fooled. You're bigger and brighter than this world."
"You don't get it," she said. "That's like saying the stars are too bright for the sky. Maybe they are, but it doesn't matter, because that's where stars have to be. I'm in this world, Corrado. I always have been. And I belong here, just as much as you do."
"You're better than it."
"Yeah, well, so are you. You can't see it, but it's true." Celia waved for the bartender and asked him for another drink—vodka, straight up. Corrado wanted to interject, to order water for her instead, but thought better of it. A tenacious woman like Celia wouldn't like to be told what to do. "It was wrong of me to snap at you. I get it—I do. I know what happens when people disobey an order, and I know being with me isn't worth dying for."
He stared at her, wishing he could find the words to tell her how wrong she was about that. It was worth dying over. He lived his life in a box—she'd been right about that. A box where he felt nothing. It was only when he stepped from that box, when he treaded lightly into her domain, that he came alive. Being with her would be worth risking it all.
Risking everything, of course, except for her.
He wasn't a good person. Festering poison consumed him, his heart a hideous, bottomless pit, a shell incapable of giving her what she would want. Incapable of loving her like she deserved. He'd taken lives, callously, casually, and without remorse. How could he ever be enough? His own mother hadn't found him redeeming.
He was barely worth the oxygen intake.
"I'd infect you with my darkness."
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