"We fought." The words came out as a strangled cry.
Fought? "You got in a fight?"
"We did."
"Who did?"
"Us," she gasped. "Me and you."
"What? When?"
"Earlier." She hiccupped as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I was so mad… and when I came back, you were gone. I didn't know where you went! I looked, and I couldn't find you, so I came back up here and you still weren't here, so I thought…"
He gaped at her, dumbfounded as she stammered on and on. "Celia, calm down."
"We're not even married yet," she cried. "We're already fighting!"
"We didn't fight," he insisted. "We aren't fighting."
Her crying slowed to a whimper as she caught her breath.
"My parents fight," he continued. "We just had a disagreement."
Celia sniffled, gazing at him. "What's the difference?"
"We're not always going to agree, Celia. It's impossible. You're a spitfire. You're going to have your opinions, and I can guarantee I'm not always going to approve of them."
"You should," she said, her voice cracking. "I'm always right."
"Like I said—we won't always agree." He cracked a smile. "But never, never will I fight with you. I'll never scream at you, I'll never throw things at you, and I'll never hit you. And if someone else ever does? I'll—"
"I get it," she said before he could elaborate. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me," he said, brushing her tears from her face. "Hearing you groveling will be worse than seeing you crying."
She rolled her eyes as she pulled herself together. "Where were you, anyway?"
"Talking to my father," he said, standing back up. "He's getting rid of Maura."
"What? What do you mean getting rid of her?"
"They can't keep her anymore. You asked what will happen to her, so I suppose that's up to you now, since she's yours."
"Mine? You bought her?"
"Of course not. He gave her to me as a wedding gift."
"Gave her to you?" Celia was on her feet. "She's a person!"
Why was she yelling again? "I thought you'd be happy about this, Celia."
"Happy? You thought enslaving a fifteen-year-old girl under my roof would make me happy? Clearly you don't know me."
For the second time that day, before the clock even struck noon, Celia stormed out and slammed the door behind her.
21
Saint Mary's Catholic Church was filled to the brim. Even Easter Sunday didn't pack so many bodies into those long wooden pews, an overflow loitering along the sides and in the back, standing stately, awaiting the service.
The Boss's daughter was getting married today.
No expense had been spared. Antonio insisted they marry at Saint Mary's, with Father Alberto heading the ceremony, but the rest was left up to Celia. Whatever she wanted, she'd get, Antonio swore, and Corrado had no intention of arguing. It was her day, after all… he was just honored she would share it with him.
So much to Antonio's displeasure, but more to Corrado's amusement, he stood at the front of the church wearing a simple royal blue suit. Nothing fancy. It had come straight out of his closet, hand picked by Celia.
No matter how much Antonio expressed his frustrations ('It's a Catholic wedding for God's sake—he's got to wear a tux!), Celia merely batted her eyelashes and reminded him, "you said whatever I want."
His get-up clashed with his groomsmen in their clean, classic tuxedos, even conflicted with the bridesmaids in their darker shade of navy blue, but no one seemed to notice. Attention focused on the father of the bride as he marched down the aisle with his daughter on his arm.
Celia wore a dress identical to the one her mother had been married in: white and flowing with long sleeve lace. As hard as she'd tried, her curvy figure couldn't fit into Gia's slim dress, so they'd improvised with a replica. Classic and elegant, a tiara in her hair, she looked like royalty.
Pricipessa della Mafia.
They stopped at the front as the music cut off. Antonio passed her off to Corrado with a simple nod that spoke volumes.
I'm giving you my pride and joy. You hurt her, I'll kill you.
Before Antonio made it to his seat—before the priest even spoke—Celia handed her bouquet off to a bridesmaid so she could fix Corrado's crooked tie for him.
The service wasn't elaborate, straight to the point with the usual Catholic vows recited by the priest. Up until they said, "I do," he still waited for her to change her mind about him.
But she didn't waver.
Father Alberto blessed their marriage, declaring them husband and wife without so much as a hiccup.
They sealed it with a simple peck on the lips that most would have missed in the time it took to blink.
Taking Celia's arm, he led her down the aisle, straight through the middle of the celebratory crowd. She beamed, brighter than the afternoon Chicago sunshine that blasted them when the doors opened and they stepped outside. A feeling of pure peace settled over Corrado that lasted about as long as it took him to glance toward the busy street.
Double-parked, blocking the limo with the streamers tied to it, 'Just Married' written on the back, was a beat-up brown Ford, two marked Chicago squad cars in the front and back of it. At the end of the steps, lingering on the sidewalk in front of them, stood a familiar man.
Detective Walker.
Not today. Corrado paused. Whatever you do, don't say my name.
His silent demand went unanswered.
"Corrado Moretti, you're under arrest... again."
Obstruction of justice.
They had disrupted his wedding for a petty misdemeanor.
"You supplied false information during your previous arrest," the detective said during the drive to the jail. "You denied the car was yours."
Not true. He had simply evaded answering.
Furious, Corrado said nothing as they booked him. Threats were on the tip of his tongue—promises of vengeance he yearned to verbalize—but he wouldn't lower himself. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
All it would take was a few bitter words for them to slap him with another assault charge. It was what they wanted. These charges wouldn't stick. They were trying to instigate a reaction.
In less than two hours, Corrado was released on bail. He strode through the police station, finding Celia standing in the middle of the front lobby, hands on her hips. A single eyebrow arched at him. "Are we going to make a habit out of this?"
"Out of what?"
"You getting arrested."
"Probably."
A lesser woman would have been furious. Corrado wouldn't have blamed her—it was shameful. Locked up on their wedding day. But Celia, still clad in her wedding dress, burst into laughter at the absurdity of it.
A DeMarco party didn't stop for anyone—not even an absent bride and groom.
The reception was in full swing when Celia and Corrado made it to the mansion at the end of Felton Drive. Jazz music blared from the live band as guests danced the evening away in the elaborately decorated backyard. Dinner had been served, the cake even cut, people liquored up and borderline belligerent. Sacrilege for a formal Italian-American celebration, especially one for La Cosa Nostra royalty, but decorum had gone out the window when Corrado had been put in handcuffs.
Hours later, the Boss remained hysterical.
"The nerve!" he spat, sitting behind his desk in his office, the shut door muffling the music to a dull murmur. Outside the music rang true with elation, but in here, locked away, it sounded like the strangled cry of trepidation. "How dare they interrupt today of all days! They show up at the church—my church, my sanctuary—and drag my son-in-law away in front of everyone!"
Corrado sat in the leather chair, rubbing his wrists, sore from the handcuffs. Salvatore and Sonny stood around the room, along with Vito. The men took in the Boss's every word—venom Corrado knew he'd been spewing since the incident.
"They did it
to spite me," he declared. "To spite us! This blatant disrespect cannot be tolerated!"
"Whaddaya gonna do?" Sonny shrugged. "It's Chicago's Finest. They do these things."
"No, they don't," Antonio said. "Not anymore. Not on my watch. I've put up with their harassment for years. I took it all in stride. It's a part of the business. But this? This crosses the line. This was personal, and I'm not putting up with any more."
"What do you want to do?" Sal asked.
"That detective," Antonio said. "That, uh... whatshisname."
Corrado cleared his throat. "Walker."
"Detective Walker," Antonio said. "He needs taught a lesson."
Corrado and Celia didn't hang around their own reception. As soon as the meeting with the Boss ended, Corrado grabbed Celia's hand and pulled her away from the guests, taking her straight to his house.
Or their house, as it was now.
They snubbed tradition occasionally, giving in to temptation early in their relationship, but certain customs were inescapable. Up until their wedding day, Celia remained under her father's roof, sleeping in her bed every night. But now it was just the two of them, together, all alone. No need to worry about curfew. No need to worry about interruptions.
For tonight, anyway.
"Bellissima," he mumbled, rubbing her lace covered arms as he leaned toward her, standing in the living room. "How about we get you out of that dress?"
He kissed her passionately, their first real kiss of the day. Reaching behind her, he went for the zipper on her dress but she stopped him, breaking the kiss.
"Not yet," she said. "I have something for you first."
She darted into the hallway before returning with a present. Corrado's brow furrowed when she held it out to him. Flat as cardboard, perfectly square shape, covered in striped paper with a big blue bow on top.
"Where was this?" he asked.
"In the hallway closet."
"You hid a present in my house?"
"Yes."
How hadn't he noticed it?
It was strange, he supposed as he took it, but outside of the obligatory greeting cards from his father's associates over the years, nobody had given him a present before.
"But I didn't get you anything."
She rolled her eyes dramatically, shoving his hands that clutched the present. "Just open it."
His finger slid beneath the flap, ripping the tape on the end of the wrapping paper. He tore it off, discarding the paper on the couch. The orange cover on the LP vinyl was tattered around the edges, Come Back to Sorrento written along the top beneath the black bold Frank Sinatra.
"Sinatra," he said. "I haven't heard this one."
"Look at the fourth song."
Corrado scanned the track list along the side, stopping on track four. Luna Rossa.
Wordlessly, he walked over to his stereo as he pulled the record from the sleeve. Placing it on the turntable, he dropped the needle at the start of the fourth track before facing her.
He held out his hand. English, not Italian, but just as beautiful. "You never got your first dance, Miss DeMarco."
"You don't dance, remember?"
"I've decided to make an exception for you."
She took his hand, her cheeks flushing as he pulled her into his arms. "You can't call me that anymore. It's Mrs. Moretti now."
"Mrs. Moretti," he repeated.
"Mrs. Corrado Moretti."
"As much as I love the sound of that, how about we just call you Celia," he said, grinning as he pressed a soft kiss against her lips. "You're not a woman to be kept. You have your own identity."
"Well, well," she said playfully. "How very twentieth century of you, Mr. Moretti."
"Corrado," he corrected her, spinning her gently before pulling her back to him. He held her tightly against his chest, pressing his cheek against the top of her head as he closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. The song was short, less than three minutes. Corrado stopped moving, his body going still as he let out a deep exhale of contentment, a pressure releasing from his chest.
"I found the one," he whispered into her hair.
"Favorite Sinatra song?"
"Yes," he replied. "But I meant you."
Corrado grabbed her, lifting her into his arms, and ignored her feeble protests as he carried her upstairs. He set her back on her feet right inside the bedroom, swinging her around so her back was to him. Slowly, methodically, he tugged the zipper down on her dress, his knuckles grazing her spine and pausing at the small of her back. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed the material down her arms as he caressed her skin.
Her dress dropped to her ankles.
He unfastened her bra, removing every last stitch of clothing from her body. Celia stood in place, allowing him to undress her, goosebumps coating her flesh wherever his hands touched.
Backing up, Corrado surveyed her. A blush tinged her bronzed skin as she wrapped her arms around herself. Corrado grasped her wrists, pulling her hands away when she tried to shield herself. He stared at her, stunned to see the uncertainty in her eyes.
"You're not nervous this time, are you?" he asked, half-teasingly, half honestly wanting to know. She'd been so confident, unwavering before.
"It's the way you're looking at me."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you look at the Taj Mahal. Or the Sistine Chapel. You're staring at me like you stare at the Mona Lisa."
"I've never seen those things."
"It's like you've never seen something so beautiful before."
"I haven’t."
She shivered at his words. "That's the way you're looking at me."
"And that bothers you?"
"I can't live up to it," she said. "You can't put me on a pedestal. I'll only fall."
"You'll never fall," he said. "Not if I'm there to catch you."
A small smile infused her lips, despite the self-doubt still lurking in her eyes. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Say things so matter-of-fact and make people believe them?"
"It's not hard when what I say is true."
"There it is again."
He returned her smile, raising an eyebrow. "Do you believe me when I tell you there's nothing more beautiful in the world than you?"
She hesitated. "You make me want to."
"It's true," he continued. "You're the woman the Italians write their poetry about."
Her blush deepened. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not," he said. "My life is ugly, Celia. I'm ugly."
"You're not," she insisted.
He ignored her. "I'll never deserve you, I'll never be good for you, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be enough. And the simple fact that you're letting me proves your beauty. Because your beauty, Celia, is more than skin deep." He let go of her wrists, the palm of his hand cupping her flushed cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, before running down her neck and across her chest. She sighed, her eyelids fluttering at his touch. "As beautiful as you are on the outside—and you are—it's what's beneath it that's the most beautiful of all."
"What's so special about me?"
He stared at her again. How could she even ask that?
"I've shown you parts of the monster inside of me."
"You're not a monster."
"I've shown you it," he said as if she hadn't interrupted, "and it doesn't terrify you. People look at me, and I can tell they're unnerved to be even breathing the same air as me, as if whatever's inside of me is contagious. But not you. You're not afraid to be with me. You're not afraid to let me inside of you. You're not afraid of catching my disease."
She grimaced at the way he spoke. "There's nothing wrong with you, Corrado."
She meant it. He could tell by the sincerity in her voice.
He hoped with everything that she always felt that way.
"Your light is the only thing in this world not tainted by my darkness," he said, his eyes leaving hers to rake d
own her flushed body. "The only effect I seem to have on it is to turn it a slight shade of pink."
"It's because you're still looking at me that way."
He laughed lightly, his focus returning to her face, noting her cheeks growing even redder. "Luna Rossa," he whispered. "My very own blushing moon."
He kissed her briefly before his lips left hers, trailing kisses along her jaw and to her neck. She tilted her head to the side as he made his way to her collarbones, before going lower.
Right there, in the middle of the bedroom, Corrado dropped to his knees. Celia stared down at him, breathing heavily, confusion in her eyes that faded at his wordless declaration of love. Her eyes closed, a shuddering breath escaping her parted lips, her hands gripping his hair as his lips found her body again, tasting her flesh.
She whimpered. Her knees trembled.
"I believe you," she said.
22
Very little made Corrado uncomfortable.
Although he had long ago learned to detach, he wasn't immune to feelings. He loved his wife—God, did he love her—and he loathed his mother more than anything. His emotions spanned the entire spectrum, but discomfort was one of those rare sensations that crept up on him.
And no moment, no situation, made him quite as uncomfortable as standing in the foyer of his house, clutching the door wide-open, with a young Maura on his front step. Vito stood beside her, frantically puffing on a thick cigar as his gaze darted around the neighborhood.
"Well, here you go, kid." Vito took a step back. "She's all yours."
"She's Celia's," Corrado clarified, but his father was already halfway to the idling Lincoln.
Corrado wasn't sure what to say. He stared at the girl, expecting her to do whatever she was supposed to do—whatever she usually did—but she just stood there, eyes downcast as if the grungy stone step were the most interesting thing she'd ever seen.
Maybe it was, Corrado thought. Maybe she wanted to clean it.
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