The flash of the gun muzzle sent the world into fast forward.
Corrado's pulse kicked into high gear, his heart thumping so hard, so erratically, he barely heard the arguing anymore. The abrupt eruption of gunfire shattered the window, as the noise ripped through the air. Antonio turned toward the street, barely having a chance to react, when bullets tore into his chest, knocking him backward over his chair.
Celia screamed, the high-pitched shriek making Corrado's blood run cold. Quickly, he snatched a hold of his wife and threw her to the ground, forcing her to safety. People ducked for cover, crying, as they dove beneath the table. Corrado didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess. His body reacted, as instinctual as taking air into his lungs. He was on his feet, reaching into his coat for his gun, as Celia screamed for her father, crawling over to him.
Corrado's feet moved, carrying him to the broken window, as he squeezed the trigger, back to back. The shots struck the lingering car, tearing through the metal and shattering glass, as bullets whizzed by him, so close he felt the rush of air. His ears rang mercilessly as he expelled every bullet from his gun.
He squeezed the trigger again and again, scarcely aware that nothing happened but the subtle click of an empty gun. The car tires squealed, smoke filtering around the back of it as it fled the scene. Before it disappeared into the darkness, Corrado noticed the flash of green on the back windshield, a sticker affixed to the corner.
A shamrock.
Corrado slipped the gun back into his coat as he turned to their table. Chaos reigned, men scattering and running for the door, as Corrado's eyes scanned the room, seeking out his wife. He rushed to her as she hovered over her father, sobbing. "Daddy! Oh God, Daddy!"
Corrado's blood ran cold, the image of the bullets striking Antonio flashing in his mind. He fell to his knees beside them, pulling Celia away from her father, expecting the two of them to be covered with blood, but there was none. Celia struggled against him, but Corrado overpowered her, pinning her arms against her sides as Antonio took in a deep inhale. His eyes opened, blinking rapidly as if stunted.
"Don't move, Daddy!" Celia cried, scanning the restaurant. "Somebody call 911!"
"Nonsense," Antonio ground out, his voice strained as he tried to push himself up. "I'm fine."
"You were shot!"
"Don't be ridiculous," Antonio said as he sat up.
Corrado loosened his hold on Celia enough for her to slip away. She reached for her father, tugging at his shirt, ripping it open. Buttons popped off, flying around them, as Celia exposed his black-clad chest… a bulletproof vest.
"Really?" Celia shoved her father. "I thought you were hurt!"
"I am." He winced, reaching up to grasp his chest over his heart. "I'm just not dead."
Corrado stood, relieved, and glanced around at everyone else. Vincent peeked out from under the table, his body pinning a shaking Maura beneath him. Vincent's eyes were glazed over, his mouth hanging open, as he stared at Corrado with awe.
"It's safe now," Corrado said. As safe as it will ever be, anyway.
"How did you…?" Vincent shook his head and pulled Maura into his arms. "You just walked right into the line of fire. They could've killed you!"
"They didn't."
"That's because they shoot worse than fucking storm troopers," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Bullets flew all around you. Jesus, it was like watching a bad movie."
Vincent pulled Maura tighter against him, leaning down to whisper to her, consoling her, reassuring her, although the boy looked anything but comforted himself. Corrado turned back to his wife as she clung to her father, refusing to let go, despite him being safe.
Antonio hugged her, his gaze drifting to Corrado. "You saved my life."
"The Kevlar saved you."
Antonio stared at him. "I think I'd rather have you."
Corrado moseyed downstairs, rubbing his tired eyes as he headed for the front door. The morning breeze hit his bare skin, sending a small chill down his spine as he glanced out, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. He scanned the porch, his vision blurry, and came up empty.
"Celia?" he called out, shutting the door again. It was shortly after dawn, a soft orange glow touching the wooden floors as sunlight streamed in the windows.
"In here." Her soft voice reached him from the living room. He had woken up to an empty bed, no sign she had even slept beside him last night.
Strolling that way, he rubbed his stomach. He never ate anything the night before, slight hunger pangs gripping his sides. They got stuck at the restaurant for hours having to give interviews after the police arrived. Antonio had been smart enough to make Vincent and Maura leave, not wanting the girl to speak with the authorities, sending Celia away with them, despite her arguing she needed to stay. It was only after Corrado slipped her his gun, asking her to sneak it away, that she had gone willingly.
Accessory after the fact yet again.
He stepped in the doorway to the living room, seeing her on the couch. "Did you get this morning's paper?"
Wordlessly, she raised her arms, clutching the newspaper in the air with both hands. He stepped toward her, yawning, his eyes scanning the front page.
Reading the top headline, he froze.
The Kevlar Killer?
A grainy color photo was right below it, covering the left side of the page, of him leaning back against a police cruiser, arms crossed over his chest, as Detective Walker grilled him. The man had wanted to arrest him—had been dead-set on charging him for discharging a weapon—but his superiors overrode him. They had little more than witness accounts, total contradictions, and not to mention no weapons.
Stalking forward, Corrado grabbed the newspaper from her hands, suddenly wide-awake. He scanned the accompanying article.
Rita's was lit up in a hail of gunfire Saturday night as rival gangs came head-to-head at the popular Italian eatery. Witnesses say the DeMarco crime family was having dinner when a car pulled up out front and unleashed a spray of bullets on the diners. Antonio DeMarco, reputed boss of La Cosa Nostra, survived the attack, thanks to the quick reaction by one of his men.
Sources say Corrado Moretti retaliated with gunfire, scaring off the assailants and ending the attack as soon as it began. Moretti, a rising figure in Chicago's mob, is the son-in-law of DeMarco. At only twenty-years-old, he is rumored to be one of the Mafia's top earners, having already accumulated quite an arrest record that includes weapons charges, felony assault, and first-degree murder.
Corrado stopped reading after that line. "Unbelievable."
Celia shifted around on the couch to face him, the movement drawing Corrado's attention. None of the disgust he expected to see from her shone. Instead, amusement twinkled in her eyes. "You made the front page."
He stared at her, surprised by the humor in her voice. "This isn't funny, Celia."
"It kind of is. They even gave you a nickname."
He groaned, glancing back at the headline. "It's absurd."
"It's catchy," she said. "The Kevlar Killer. Rolls off the tongue."
"It makes no sense," he said.
"Oh keep reading… they explain it."
Shaking his head, he glanced back down at the page.
Sources say Moretti is notorious for coming out of situations unscathed. "Antonio DeMarco equates him to Kevlar," an anonymous witness tells us, "stronger than steel and just as defensive as a bullet-proof vest."
Corrado's eyes narrowed at those words. "That's not what your father said at all."
"Close enough," Celia replied. "Someone clearly heard him."
"Yeah," Corrado grumbled, "and ratted."
He stared at the photo, feeling more exposed than ever before. His crimes had always been anonymous, even his arrests and trials barely making a blurb in the crime section in a city overwrought with violence, but this was front page.
"You'd think the attempted assassination of your father would be their focus. I'm nobody."
"Oh, you're somebod
y, alright," she said. "You're the Kevlar Killer."
A fit of giggles erupted from her as she mock-whispered the nickname. Groaning, Corrado walked around to face her. "Not funny."
"Oh, come on." She lay back on the couch, grinning. "It is."
"It's not. My picture on the front page isn't staying out of the limelight or flying under the radar. At this rate, I'll never be made."
She laughed again, grabbing him and pulling him down to her. She captured his lips with hers, kissing him, nipping his bottom lip as she pulled away. Her face grazed against the stubble along his jaw before bringing her lips to his ear. "Kevlar."
Corrado pulled away, rolling the newspaper up and playfully swatting her with it. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I am," she admitted. "Look, this is one of those situations where you either have to laugh or cry about it, and I've done enough crying. Some men tried to kill my father last night. They almost killed him. They could've killed my husband, too!"
"They wouldn't have killed me."
"Why? Because you're made of Kevlar?"
She choked back another laugh as he cut his eyes at her. "Because they weren't aiming for me."
"Maybe not," she said, "but that doesn't matter. Christ, Corrado, you walked straight toward them! You could have died right in front of me! Do you know what that would do to a person? To have to watch someone you love die?"
"You'll never have to see that."
She rolled her eyes, sitting up again. "The point is, this entire situation sucks, so it's easier to find some humor and focus on it than to worry about the might-have-been and might-someday-be."
He tapped the newspaper on top of her head. "When did you get to be so smart?"
"I was born this way."
"Where were those smarts when I asked you to marry me? You should've run the other way."
"I was blinded by your ruggedly handsome good looks."
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips before strolling across the room and tossing the newspaper into the fireplace on top of the kindling. Grabbing the lighter from the mantle, he flicked it, as Celia jumped up. "Wait!"
He hesitated, the flame going out, as she darted toward him. She snatched the newspaper out of the fireplace and ripped the front page apart, tearing out the article, before discarding the rest in the fireplace. Celia strolled out of the room, grinning, clutching the article to her chest.
Lighting the kindling, the remaining newspaper went up in flames. He watched it burn, the pages curling as they disintegrated, when the phone rang. He backed up a few steps, eyes still on the fire, and grabbed the phone. "Moretti speaking."
"Meet me at the church."
"Yes, sir."
He hung up, looking away from the fire, and headed upstairs to get dressed for the day.
The church was empty when he arrived a few hours before Sunday Mass. Corrado strolled down the aisle, glancing at the stained glass windows casting vibrant colors along the golden-toned pews. He strolled to the front, slipping into the same seat he had sat in last time he met the Boss here, and waited.
Minutes of peaceful silence passed before the door in the back of the church opened and someone approached. Corrado smelled the subtle scent of cigar smoke as the Boss slid into the pew beside him, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head. Corrado remained silent, letting the man pray in peace.
When Antonio raised his head again, he let out a deep exhale and slouched back in the seat, cringing. He reached up, rubbing his chest over his heart. "Got one hell of a bruise."
"Bet it hurts."
"Not as bad as it could've," Antonio replied.
"You sound like Celia."
Antonio smiled. "She sure didn't get that from her mother."
Corrado nodded and remained silent, unsure of what to say or why he had been called there.
"Look, I'll get to the point," Antonio said. "I need a favor."
"Okay."
"I need someone to look after my boy," Antonio said. "I know that's asking a lot, because I already entrusted you to take care of my daughter, but my kids… my kids are everything to me. Vincent, he isn't prepared for this life. I'll do whatever I can to mold him, but I can only do so much. He needs someone else."
"And you think that someone is me."
"I know it is. I knew it from the beginning. You're tough, Corrado. Dare I say as tough as Kevlar?"
Corrado cut his eyes at the Boss, seeing the amused smirk tugging his lips. Just like his daughter. "You saw the paper."
"Of course I did," he said. "My daughter see it?"
"Yes."
"She keep the article?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
Antonio roared with laughter, working himself into a coughing fit.
"You're a good man, Corrado. That's why I trust you with my family. I know you'll look out for them, and well, I know they need looking out for. Vincent's in deep with this girl, and I don't like it, but it's what he wants. He's willing to fight for it, for her, but I'm telling you… it's going to end badly. They say she's a nice girl, and maybe she is, but it isn't about her. It isn't about either of them. It isn't even about me. It goes way back. The Italian and the Irish… putting us together is like throwing water on a grease fire. You know what happens when you do that?"
"No."
"It gets too hot and explodes, and everything goes up in flames. Oil and water don't mix. And the Irish and the Italians, we're oil and water. My son's playing with fire."
Corrado knew the history between the groups in Chicago, knew about the bad blood that went back to Prohibition. Just the night before, he had watched an Irish car try to gun them down as they ate dinner. But he couldn't fathom how this girl… a girl not even a part of that life… could make it any worse.
"In that case, sir, wouldn't it be better if they were away from all of this?" Corrado asked.
"Are you questioning me?"
"I'm just trying to understand."
"Your father tell you where he got the girl?"
"No."
"We had this problem with this guy down on the south side… he ran betting games in our territory, set up this loansharking business right under our noses. We couldn't have that, you know, so Vito went in and took him out. When he raided his house, he found her in the basement… the girl. She was locked in a fucking dog cage. He called me, asked what he was supposed to do about that. I said it was up to him—take her or leave her."
"So he took her."
"He did," Antonio said. "Good thing, too, because Sal sent a crew out to burn the house down. Your father saved her life."
"I thought he bought her."
"He did," he continued. "In a way. He told me not to pay him for the job, you know, the contract. So I kept the money, and he got the girl."
"Twenty thousand," Corrado mumbled. Twenty grand for a hit.
Antonio glanced at him. "Not everyone's worth as much as you."
Those words stunned him.
"The point is, we got one of theirs locked up, Corrado. Well, we had one locked up. And it's easier to keep her close to the chest, you know, and control things, then to let her go all willy-nilly. If they find out who she is, what she was… all Hell could break loose."
A throat cleared behind them. Corrado turned around, on edge, seeing Father Alberto standing in the aisle. Antonio greeted him without even looking. "Father."
"When he opened the Abyss, smoke rose from it like the smoke from a gigantic furnace," the priest said. "The sun and sky were darkened by the smoke from the Abyss."
"The book of Revelations," Antonio said, chuckling to himself. "When Hell breaks loose… literally."
The priest smiled. "During those days men will seek death, but will not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them."
"Sounds about right," Antonio said.
"Shall I alert the congregation that the locusts are soon coming?" the priest asked, a playful hint to his voice.
"Not yet," Ant
onio said. "The star hasn't fallen from the sky."
"Good." Father Alberto shifted his gaze to Corrado. "Mr. Moretti, quite the cameo you made in this morning's newspaper."
Corrado stared at the priest as Antonio laughed. He threw his arm over Corrado's shoulder. "Ah, Father, you'd be better off reading one of my daughter's gossip rags than the Chicago Times if you want the truth."
"If I want the truth, I come to the source," Father Alberto said. "Speaking of… are you ready for Confession?"
Antonio stood. "Of course."
Father Alberto nodded in acknowledgement, turning to Corrado again. "Hopefully someday you'll also join me in Confession?"
"Someday," Corrado agreed.
"He will," Antonio chimed in. "The day Corrado feels true remorse for something, he'll be banging down your door."
"No need to bang," the priest said. "The door is always open."
Father Alberto walked off, leaving them alone once more. Antonio glanced down at Corrado in the pew and hesitated. "Mark my words… my son's blood with be on that girl's hands someday."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because if someone did to one of ours what we let happen to one of theirs, I wouldn't hesitate to annihilate them."
33
The small, square card lay on top of a ripped envelope on the coffee table, beside the empty crystal vase. A few scraggly wilted rose petals surrounded it that Celia hadn't bothered to pick up when discarding the weeks old roses that morning.
Corrado sat down on the edge of the couch in the darkened, quiet living room, as the fire picked up steam in the fireplace. Sighing, he grabbed the card and stared at the front of it. White bells tied together with ribbon graced the cover, surrounding by a drab tan background, the words 'you're invited' beneath it in cursive.
He flipped it open, seeing the generic fill-in-the-black text, messy scribble covering the lines.
Vincent and Maura request the pleasure of your company on February 14 at 7 o'clock for their wedding at home. The RSVP line was left blank, as was any information about a reception. There wouldn't be one. It could hardly even be called a wedding. It was just Vincent and Maura, along with the priest, and whatever witnesses they could get to attend.
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