"I'll need a car."
Antonio looked at Vito expectantly, and Vito's expression fell even more. He remained silent, never offering his Lincoln, so Antonio pulled out the keys to his DeVille. "Take mine. Vito and I have some more talking to do."
Corrado strode out of the room. He checked the hallway and kitchen, finding both empty, before begrudgingly taking the steps two at a time, heading for the dreaded second floor yet again.
This time he didn't stop.
He found another small staircase at the end of the hallway and headed up it, stopping only when he reached the dusty attic. The electricity didn't power the top of the house. The sweltering room was illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the old window, a missing pane of glass letting the stifling air cycle in and out.
Sitting right in front of the window, in a glowing patch of natural spotlight, was Maura, her legs tucked beneath her, her dress fanning out around her. In front of her, casting long shadows along the floor that nearly reached Corrado's immaculately shined shoes, stood Vincent, his fists shoved into his pockets.
Vincent stared down at her, his grievances soundlessly airing on his face, while Maura cried. She didn't look at the boy, almost as if she didn't see him, but her soft voice betrayed her oblivious appearance. "You know what I am."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't."
Vincent was adamant, no uncertainty in his tone as he spoke those words: he didn't care. It surprised Corrado, hearing him sound so downright confident. Vincent's decisions were usually influenced by resentment, the rebellious streak of an insecure teenager, going left to prove a point whenever his father told him to go right.
A part of Corrado wondered if this were the same—did he seek out this girl, this little Irish slave, to spite his father? She was the complete opposite of everything Antonio would want for his son.
"Vincent," Corrado said, his level voice magnified in the vacant space, making the girl flinch.
Defensively, Vincent stepped in front of Maura. "What?"
"I'm supposed to take you back to the hotel."
Vincent stubbornly shook his head. "I'm not ready to go."
"Not your decision to make," Corrado said. "Antonio's orders."
Vincent's eyes narrowed, a flash of defiant anger stirring. "He can't make me go."
Corrado admired his tenacity—it rivaled Celia's, a DeMarco family trait. And much like his sister, he wouldn't win. Not against the head of the family. "Can't he?"
Vincent's expression softened at the question, subtle sadness washing away the rage. "Please don't make me leave."
"Not my decision either," Corrado said. "You know that."
"This is bullshit." Pleading hadn't helped. Back to rage. "I shouldn't have to leave if I don't want to."
"Why would you want to stay?" Corrado certainly didn't. "There's nothing here."
"Because I… I just do, okay? Is that so hard to understand?"
"Yes."
Groaning, the boy threw up his hands. "You people…"
"We people say it's time to go," Corrado stressed, getting irritated at having to stand there. "Don't make me drag you out of this house, because I will."
Vincent argued but cut off mid-word when Mara reached over and placed her hand on his leg. The simple touch, barely a graze against a pair of gray slacks, shocked Corrado into temporary awe.
"Go," Maura said. "You need to leave."
"What?""
"I don't want you here." Maura pulled her hand away from him. "So leave."
"But—"
"Please."
Maura's voice cracked when she squeezed out the word, her shoulders slumping as she folded into herself. Vincent stared down at her, but once again she refused to meet his gaze.
"I still don't care," Vincent ground out.
Maura didn't respond as she started crying again.
"Vincenzo," Corrado said, using the boy's real name, ignoring the fact that he grimaced at the sound of it. "Let's go before you make it worse than it already is."
Those words were the catalyst that finally forced Vincent to move. Grumbling to himself, he trudged past Corrado, shooting a longing look back at Maura before stomping down the stairs. Corrado gazed at the crying girl before turning his back to her and walking away.
Vincent waited for him in the foyer. Argumentative words seeped out from the dining room, Vito trying to defend himself while Antonio ripped into him. Corrado frowned, knowing he could do nothing to help his father, when there was a loud crash, the sound of something being thrown in the kitchen.
Vincent cringed at the noise.
"Go out to your father's car," Corrado said, gazing toward the doorway. "I'll be right there."
Vincent walked out, the screen door slamming behind him, as Corrado slipped into the kitchen. His mother grumbled to herself, a bottle of wine in one hand as she threw dishes into the empty sink with her other. She swayed as she took a step, drunkenly stumbling over her own feet. Instinctively, Corrado's hand shot out and caught her by her arm, keeping her upright. Erika snatched her arm away, nearly knocking herself over again.
"You're all worthless," she slurred. "There's a fucking mess, and that little bitch Maura is nowhere to be found. I don't even know why she's still here. She does nothing but eat my food and use my water and breathe my air. She's worse than even you. You never did anything but take up space, too."
He ignored the insult.
"I ought to get rid of her. Every slave I've had has been useless." Erika laughed bitterly. "Especially that first one… she deserved what happened to her."
Resentment brewed inside of Corrado as he glared at his mother. Smudged mascara lined her bloodshot eyes like day-old bruises, remnants of her red lipstick smeared around her mouth, the hue of fresh welts on a child's skin from a leather belt. Wrinkles marred her once pretty face, now covered with imperfections, her skin as wishy-washy as a corpse. Even from the distance Corrado smelled the sour scent of old alcohol seeping from her pores.
"What?" Erika spat, taking a sip of her wine. "Something you wanna say?"
There was something he wanted to say, all right.
Someday, you'll pay for everything you've done, and when that happens, I'll feel not an ounce of compassion. Because I can't. And it'll be your own fault, because you made me this way.
There was no threat to his thoughts. It was the simple truth as far as he was concerned. The sky was blue. The grass was green. And someday, Erika Moretti would pay for her sins.
"Goodbye, mother."
Turning away, he strode out of the house and climbed in the Boss's DeVille.
"And I thought my mom was bad," Vincent muttered.
Corrado didn't bother responding to that. Silence choked the car during the drive into the city limits. It wasn't until they'd reached The Flamingo and parked that Vincent forced more words from his lips. They came out strangled, like he'd tried his hardest to keep them inside, but they wouldn't be restrained. "What's going to happen to her?"
"My mother?"
"No. Maura."
Maura.
Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Vincent asked doubtfully. "What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know." What else could that possibly mean?
"But you're supposed to know," he argued. "I thought you knew everything."
Corrado glanced at him, expecting to find the boy sneering with bitter sarcasm, but sincerity shined from Vincent's eyes. "Look, kid—"
"Do not call me that," Vincent interjected. "I'm almost as old as you. I'll be a man soon."
"Being a man has nothing to do with age."
"Spare me the philosophy lesson," Vincent said. "I just want to know what's going to happen to Maura."
"You don't know the girl. Do you even care?"
"Yes."
There was that steadfast confidence.
"She'll die."
>
Vincent recoiled. "She'll what?"
"She'll die. We all will someday."
"Okay, Socrates. Thanks for nothing."
And there was the bitter sarcasm.
"I don't know what's going to happen to her," Corrado said again. "And I don't really care to know."
"But I do."
"You shouldn't."
Vincent groaned. "You sound just like her."
The conversation was going nowhere, and Corrado was getting a little exhausted with the meaningless back-and-forth. "Let me give you some advice that my father once gave me."
"Huh?"
"It's best you don't get attached."
Vincent glared at him. "That's terrible advice."
"It's worked for me."
Corrado stepped into the small lobby bar in The Flamingo and slipped onto an empty stool on the end. The bartender stopped in front of him. "What can I get you?"
He answered without even looking up. "Anything."
He'd drink piss warm moonshine right then to dull the memory of the night.
A minute later an orange and green aluminum can slid onto the bar in front of him. Cactus Cooler.
Brow furrowing, he glanced at the bartender. "Do I know you?"
"No, but I know you," he said. "Or, well, I know who you are. Management said you were coming and told us to stock that stuff, just in case you asked for it."
Corrado laughed to himself, picking up the can and studying it. "I haven't drank this in years."
"Oh. Well, if you'd prefer something else..."
"No, it'll do." Popping the top, he took a sip of the orange-pineapple soda and nodded at the bartender. "Thanks."
Clutching his drink, he strolled through the casino to the elevator, taking it to the top-floor. With the bulletproof windows and secret tunnels, the presidential suite was a mobster's dream... literally.
One had designed it.
Corrado unlocked the door and stepped inside, finding the bed empty. He made his way toward the dim bathroom, hearing the subtle sound of splashing water, and pushed open the door. Celia lay in the bathtub, lit candles surrounding her, a heap of bubbles covering her body. Leaning against the doorframe, he took a sip of his drink.
"Corrado Alphonse Moretti," she said playfully. "Are you drinking something carbonated?"
"Cactus Cooler."
"What the hell is that?"
He walked over and sat down on the edge of the tub as she sat up, sloshing water onto the floor. He handed her the can, and she sniffed it. "This isn't cactus juice, is it? Because it would be just like you to drink some healthy crap like that."
"Don't worry—it's right up your junk food alley."
She took a sip as she surveyed him in the dim lighting. "What happened to your face?"
"My mother happened."
"She hit you?"
"No," he said. "She shot at me."
She gasped, gaping at him, as he took the drink back.
"Needless to say," he continued, "I'm rescinding her invitation to the wedding."
Setting the can down, Corrado reached over and brushed some wayward hair from her face before cupping her chin, his thumb stroking her soft cheek. "You are far too beautiful to be marrying into my family, Bellissima."
Her expression softened. "Are you rescinding my invitation, too? Because if you try, I'll just crash the party."
"It wouldn't be a party without you," he said. "Just me in a suit, jacking off in a church like a chump."
She snorted. "Sounds like a good time to me."
Smiling, he leaned down to softly kiss her. He pulled back, but she grabbed his tie, locking him there. "You mentioned something earlier about a basement tunnel. How do you feel about making good on that?"
"So, about this Maura girl..."
Corrado closed his eyes, a long exaggerated blink of exasperation, before looking across the small table at his fiancée. Celia casually picked at a plate of bacon, a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice in her hand. "What about her?"
"What's going to happen to her?"
He frowned. "Have you been talking to your brother?"
"Huh? Why?"
"He asked me that same question."
"Did he?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you what I told him: I don't know."
"You don't?"
"No."
"Can you find out?"
He stared at her peculiarly. Why would he do that?
"Don't give me that look, Corrado," she said. "She's a fifteen year old girl."
"How do you know how old she is?"
"Vincent told me."
Sighing, Corrado closed his newspaper. She had talked to Vincent. "Did you lie to me?"
"No," she said. "I just avoided answering your question."
He wanted to be annoyed, but he was too impressed by her manipulation. Had she learned that from him?
"So?" she pressed. "Can you?"
"I can. Doesn't mean I will."
"Oh, you will," she said with certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm going to say please."
Tossing the newspaper aside, he stared at her, that irritation setting in. "I can afford to hire a maid. You don't need a slave."
She flinched, stopping eating. "How can you say that?"
"Say what?"
"What you just said." Anger laced her words. "She's a person. A living, breathing, feeling person."
"I know she is."
"Do you?"
"Of course."
He picked his newspaper back up, flipping to the place he'd left off minutes earlier. As soon as he started reading, Celia shoved her chair back and stood, snatching the top of the paper and shoving it down to look him in the eyes.
"Then act like it," she sneered.
Celia stormed off, slamming drawers as she changed into her one-piece bright blue bathing suit. She grabbed a towel and her sunglasses, not even acknowledging him again as she stormed out of the suite, slamming the door behind her as she went.
Frustrated, Corrado threw the paper aside, grabbing a muffin from the small basket in the center of the table before striding after her. He made his way to the lobby and out toward the pool, lingering at the side of the building as he watched her dive into the water.
"Corrado." The familiar voice of the Boss rang out behind him.
Corrado took in the sight of the husky man, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of black swimming trunks. "Sir."
"You seen your father this morning?"
"Uh, no, sir."
"He's supposed to be around here," Antonio said. "You know, handling some things."
Antonio slapped him on the back before walking away, finding a spot to settle beside the pool near where his daughter swam.
Corrado slipped back inside the casino and gnawed on his muffin as he made his way through the lobby and to the office down the long hallway. He knocked on the door before stepping inside.
Vito sat behind the desk, surrounded by paperwork. Corrado sat down in the chair along the side—the same chair he'd taken up residence in day after day when coming to work with his father as a child.
"Your mother, uh… she's getting some help."
Corrado quietly ate his muffin.
"It's this outpatient thing," Vito said, "you know, at home."
Of course. It would take a miracle to get Erika Moretti to leave her house for anything.
"Doctor's gonna make house calls… so is the counselor."
"Counselor?"
"Yeah, like a drug counselor," he grumbled. "Not one of them crazy doctors. Your mother… the last thing she needs is some doctor fucking with that head of hers."
"You think it'll work?" Corrado asked.
"Of course, kid. She ain't that bad."
Corrado's opinion differed.
"She'll be fine," Vito said. Who was he trying to convince—Corrado or himself? "She's more pissed she has to do all the housework. That woman doesn't have a domestic bone in her bod
y."
"She has help."
"Yeah, uh, not anymore," Vito said. "Can't have that girl in the house with those people coming by. Gotta be careful."
"What's going to happen to her?" Corrado mentally berated himself when he asked the question. Damn the DeMarco kids, putting those thoughts in his head. "You going to send her back wherever you got her?"
Seemed like a simple solution to him.
"Not possible," Vito said. "I lost twenty thousand getting that girl. You don't know anyone who could use some help, do you?"
"No."
"Celia couldn't use an extra set of hands? Maura's a good worker. Nice girl. Never caused any problems."
"You don't have to convince me of that. I was around her more than you were."
"Yeah, right, right… you're right. So? You want her? Maura?"
No. He stared at his father, that word echoing in his head, but Celia's concerns overshadowed it. "I'm sure Celia wouldn't be opposed to it."
"Great." Vito relaxed as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Call it a wedding present from your mother and me."
The pool area was packed when Corrado ventured back outside, scantily clad bodies everywhere. Corrado scanned the crowd, finding Antonio and Gia lounging in the bright sunshine, but no Celia to be found.
Heading back upstairs to the suite, he unlocked the door, his footsteps faltering. The sound of frantic crying reached his ears. Coldness swept through Corrado, every cell in his body on edge.
Celia sat at the foot of the bed, her head dropped low, her hands covering her face as her body shuddered.
"Celia?" he called, as he shut the door. "Sweetheart?"
She looked up at the sound of his voice, tears streaming from her blurry eyes, streaking her flushed cheeks. The crying stopped for a fraction of a second, just long enough for the universe to feel like someone had hit pause. The world had ceased to turn in that moment. Nothing existed—nothing mattered—except for Celia. He stared into her distraught eyes, vowing he'd destroy whatever made her feel that way. He'd kill whoever hurt the beautiful creature in front of him, whoever had been so callous and cruel as to make something so precious feel such pain.
He'd tear the world apart until he got vengeance.
But that moment faded when she covered her mouth to stifle a sob. Shutting the door, Corrado hurried over to her and grasped her hands, pulling them away from her face. Crouching down in front of her, he stared into her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."
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