"Come inside," he said finally, growing impatient.
Maura stepped past him, into the house, and stopped in the foyer. She stared at the floor there, too, still not reacting. The wooden floor wasn't spotless, but it had been swept recently. What was so interesting about it?
Frowning, Corrado glanced outside as the Lincoln pulled away.
Something struck him…
He addressed Maura, who still wasn't moving. "Where are your belongings?"
Her low voice barely constituted a whisper. "What belongings?"
"Your things," he clarified. "Your clothes and… things."
"I have none."
His father had dropped her off with nothing except the clothes on her back.
Oh well.
He had come to Chicago with the same. He supposed she didn't need much. He surveyed her, assessing. Some clothes, certainly, and a new pair of shoes, as her sandals were at least half a size too small. She could have used a hairbrush, too. And a razor. And some soap. And probably some other sort of feminine things eventually.
He grimaced at the thought and shut the front door, harder than he intended. Maura recoiled at the slam, taking a few steps away from him, pressing her back flat against the wall.
At least she's doing something now.
"So, uh…" Where was Celia? She should have been home from the grocery store by now. "…I'll be in my office, but don't bother me unless it's an emergency."
He walked away, heading straight to the first floor office, and sat down behind his desk. He had no work to do—not that he even did much work in this room, anyway. His work was out in the streets, and there was no paperwork to be filed about it. He was still merely a street soldier, despite his coveted position on the Boss's personal payroll.
That would change soon, though. It was only a matter of time.
He mulled over that, scanning through the day's newspaper, when he heard movement around the house. Doors opened, drawers slammed, whispered voices filtering through the cracks. He continued to read until the office door flung open without so much as even a knock. On alert, Corrado's eyes darted over top of the paper, but the person who stood in front of him was hardly a threat.
Hardly a threat, but yet something in Celia's eyes made him tense. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" she ground out, glancing out of the office before focusing back on him. "She was standing in the foyer with her head down."
"Still?"
"How long has she been there?"
He shrugged, glancing at the clock. "Thirty minutes, maybe."
"Just standing there."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"Yes."
"In the foyer."
"Yes."
She shook her head, throwing up her hands in disbelief. "Completely useless."
"She seems that way."
"I wasn't talking about her," Celia said, jabbing her finger in the air at him.
Dumbfounded, Corrado stared at the empty office doorway when his wife stomped back out. He folded up the newspaper and tossed it aside before following. Celia's voice sounded out from the kitchen, much more passive than it had just been. Corrado strolled that way, leaning against the doorframe. A dozen or so paper bags were scattered around, things lying on the counters as Celia put the groceries away. Maura helped, digging through the bags as Celia told her where everything went.
"Did you need help?" Corrado asked.
Maura flinched at the sound of his voice, green eyes meeting his for only a second. Celia, on the other hand, didn't even look his way. "I have help."
"Wonderful."
"Wonderful," she sneered, mimicking him. "Unbelievable, I swear."
Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. "I don't understand."
"I know you don't," Celia said, "and that's the problem."
He watched as his wife continued to put away the groceries, Maura working right along beside her. He wasn't sure what else to say, so he said nothing.
The phone rang after a minute, drawing Corrado into the living room. He picked up the receiver. "Moretti speaking."
"Corrado!" Antonio's voice greeted him. "You hungry?"
"No."
His curt response made Antonio laugh heartily. "Ever the honest one. How about you get hungry and meet me at Rita's? Thirty minutes."
The line went dead.
Hanging up, he headed upstairs and put on a tie, grabbing his jacket and revolver before heading back down. He paused at the kitchen again. "I'm leaving."
The anger melted away when Celia saw him dressed and ready to go. "Be careful."
He merely nodded. Careful was the name of the game.
It took a little over thirty minutes to make it to Evanston with traffic. Antonio was already seated at a table beside a young Sicilian guy named Amando Donati. The guys called him Manny, a sort of play off his name that doubled as a dig at his private life. Manny, a quiet masculine guy who always wore a short beard, had married an aging stripper, despite their ten year age difference. Manny took her in and supported her and her four kids, no questions asked. The guys jested him about it, calling him a nanny, but Manny took it in stride.
Corrado respected that—he didn't care about anyone's personal life as long as they kept it at home.
Manny worked as Antonio's chauffeur, a bodyguard whenever Antonio felt the need to travel with one. His presence told Corrado this was business, not pleasure.
Corrado slid into a chair across from the Boss, grateful not to be chastised for his tardiness, and ordered his usual: spaghetti with meat sauce. Antonio made small talk, joking all through the meal, the smell of the food not enough to spur Corrado's appetite to life. After they finished, Antonio cleared his throat and turned to Manny. "Amando, you mind giving me a minute with my son-in-law?"
"Of course not, Boss." Manny stood and walked out.
As soon as he was gone, the air around the table shifted, the relaxed atmosphere gripped by tension. Corrado eyed the Boss curiously, but Antonio carried on as if he couldn't sense the change. "How are things at home?"
A personal question. He hated these. "I have no complaints."
Antonio smiled, a strained sort of smile that carried no warmth. "Vito said he dropped your present off."
"Yes."
"How's that working out?"
"Again, no complaints."
"You never have any complaints," Antonio said, his expression more genuine now. "I'm just a little concerned, naturally. You already have heat on you from that detective. You don't need anymore trouble."
"I'll make sure she doesn't cause any."
"Good, good."
"Is that what this was about?" Corrado asked, wondering if he'd be called out of his house to talk about the girl.
"Of course not." Antonio reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small photograph and slipped it across the table to Corrado. It was a picture of a family, a man and his wife with their son. The older couple was strangers to Corrado, but the boy… he recognized him.
John Tarullo.
"You know them?" Antonio asked.
Corrado stared at the boy's face, an image flashing in his mind, those familiar eyes watching him from the door of Dolce Vita's the night he'd killed Luca. "I recognize the boy."
"Little Johnny," Antonio said. "Good kid, never a problem."
A weight lifted from Corrado's chest at the kindness in Antonio's voice. At least he wouldn't have to kill his wife's friend.
"His father, on the other hand…" Antonio let out a dry laugh that resulted in a cough. "He's got to go."
Corrado slipped the photo into his pocket with a subtle nod.
"Knew I could count on you," Antonio said, standing to leave. He only made it a few steps before leaning down, close to Corrado, and added, "There will be another ten grand for this one if you make it hurt."
Make it hurt. He'd never requested that before. "Yes, sir."
Antonio slapped him on the back and left.
It was dark when Corrado left the restaurant. He strode down the block, bypassing his car, to the nearest phone booth. Stepping inside, he closed the door and grabbed the phone book, searching through it for the name Tarullo. He found half a dozen in the area and scanned the listings. Antonio hadn't told him the man's name.
He grabbed the picture from his pocket, flipping it over, but only found 'Tarullo' scribbled on the back. He shoved it away, returning to the phone book, and started at the top of the list.
Feeding coin after coin into the payphone, he dialed the numbers one by one, putting on his friendliest voice. "Is Johnny there?" he asked whenever someone answered. Again and again he heard he had the wrong number, no Johnny lived there. Maybe the man was smart enough to keep his number unlisted.
He reached the final one, simply listed as Tarullo, V. Corrado dialed the number, leaning against the booth as it rang.
A woman's voice answered, soft and polite. "Tarullo residence."
"Is Johnny there?" he asked.
"He's working tonight," she replied.
Ding, ding, ding.
"Working, huh? You know when he gets off?"
"I'm picking him up at ten o'clock."
Bingo. "Great."
"Can I take your name? I'll tell Johnny you called."
"No, it's all right. I'll get up with him later."
Corrado hung up and stared at the phonebook, noting the address. 19934 Barton Ave.
Twenty-two minutes.
Corrado timed the distance between Dolce Vita's and the residence on Barton Avenue. Eleven minutes each direction. He would have less than a half hour to get in, get it done, and get back out again.
Plausible under normal circumstances. He had killed men in under a minute, dead in the blink of an eye from a single shot to the back of the head. But Antonio's words complicated matters.
Make it hurt.
The Boss wouldn't begrudge him if he stuck with a clean shot, quick and painless, but Corrado wasn't one to balk at a challenge.
A quarter after nine that night, Corrado parked his Mercedes down the block on Barton Avenue, just close enough to give him a clear view of the house. He sat in utter silence in the darkness, watching, and waiting, and watching some more.
At a quart till ten, a car in the driveway came to life and pulled away from the house. Corrado waited until it passed him before getting out, his glove-clad hands stuffed in his pockets so not to raise suspicion. The only hiccup in his plan would be if the man weren't home tonight, but those concerns were appeased when Corrado approached the house. The massive window to the living room was wide open, the blinds up, the curtains pulled aside. The man from the photograph sat on a recliner, snacking on a bowl of popcorn as he watched a movie.
So make it hurt... but don't let him scream.
And be invisible, so I'm not seen.
Corrado slipped around to the back door, finding it unlocked. He breathed deeply with relief as he stepped right inside the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and glanced around, still adjusting to the darkness. Stepping over to the counter, he pulled a chef's knife from the wooden block, gripping the handle, getting a feel for it. He had no time to waste.
Corrado slipped out of the kitchen, giving him a direct view of the living room. He glared at the back of the man's head, a mere few feet away, undetected. The itch to pull out his gun and put a bullet in his skull nagged at Corrado, but he swallowed it back.
The Boss would get what the Boss wanted.
Closing his eyes, he conjured up an image of the first death he'd ever witnessed. The brutality and hatred that surrounded him that day, the sheer horror he'd felt, and the heartbreak he'd been left with. He channeled it, letting it consume him, until the tips of his fingers tingled.
Opening his eyes again, he pounced, knife in hand.
The man caught a glimpse of Corrado in the reflection of the television and sat up straight, startled, but he wasn't fast enough to stop what was happening. Before he could speak—before he could scream—Corrado roughly grabbed a hold of the guys head, yanking it back toward the chair with his left hand, while he thrust the knife in the center of his throat with his right. The man flailed, gurgling, blood gushing from the wound as Corrado held it there, jamming the knife in deeper until he suffocated, choking on his own blood. The thick red ran down his chest, soaking his white undershirt. The bowl flew from his lap, hitting the floor, the pieces of popcorn coating the floor splattered with red.
In less than a minute, he stopped moving, his eyes glossing over as the flow of blood eased. His heart had quit. Corrado let go, leaving the knife wedged in his neck.
Quick, sure, but it had hurt.
Corrado's eyes shifted to the television at an equally grotesque scene. The Exorcist. He had to force himself to look back away.
As quickly as Corrado broke into the house, he slipped right back out. He took off his jacket and gloves, both soiled, and rolled them into a ball as he walked to his car under the cloak of darkness. He tossed them in a garbage bag in the trunk and tied it up before getting in the driver seat.
Starting the car up, he glanced at the time.
Five minutes to spare.
Without an ounce of hesitation, he drove away from Barton Avenue, heading back toward his neighborhood. He found a small store open that late at night and parked, avoiding the clerk as he headed into the little bathroom. Corrado scrubbed his hands before splashing water on his face.
The clerk eyed him peculiarly when he stepped back out. Corrado grabbed a box of raisins and a bottle of orange juice before approaching the counter. He pulled out some cash to pay but hesitated, spotting a display of fresh cut roses over by the door.
"How much for the flowers?"
"Three bucks."
"Give me some of those, too."
Corrado paid and picked up his things, grabbing some flowers on his way out the door.
Red, not pink.
Celia didn't like pink.
He made it home around eleven o'clock and walked inside, clutching the flowers, drink nestled in the crook of his arm as he popped raisins in his mouth, his appetite finally rearing its ugly head.
The house was dark, the quiet television in the living room emitting a soft glow. He walked that way, finding his wife sprawled out on the couch in a black nightgown.
Setting his drink on the coffee table, he sat down on the edge of the couch in front of her. His hand grazed her cheek, brushing her hair from her face. Her eyes opened. "Hey, you."
"Hey."
He held out the flowers, her expression brightening at the sight of them. "They're beautiful, Corrado. What are they for?"
"For being the light of my life."
She got up, darting from the living room, and returned with the flowers in a clear vase. She set them on the table as she sat back down. Corrado relaxed back on the couch and kicked off his shoes, munching on the raisins. "Want some?" he asked, offering the box to her.
She wrinkled her nose. "They're not smothered in chocolate."
"Why would they be?"
"To make them edible."
He laughed, shrugging, and finished off the box. As soon as he tossed his trash on the table, Celia snuggled against him. "What did you do tonight?"
"Went to dinner with your father."
"Really?"
He nodded. "What did you do?"
"Just hung out around here with Maura until she got tired."
"Where's she sleeping?"
She hesitated. "Our bed."
Corrado's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me the girl is asleep in my bed?"
"Our bed," she said again. "Where else was she going to sleep?"
"I don't know. I'm more concerned with where I'm going to sleep tonight."
"Well, I have no problem sleeping on the couch. And frankly, I didn't even know if you were coming home, so..."
&nb
sp; Point taken.
He pulled her in front of him as he stretched out, snuggling against her on the couch. He draped his arm around her, hand stroking her thigh and hip before slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown. It worked its way higher, caressing her soft stomach, as his lips found her neck.
She hummed. "That feels so good."
Those words were all the encouragement he needed. He slid her underwear down, discarding it on the floor, before unzipping his pants. He throbbed in his palm as he stroked himself, hitching her leg around him. Slowly, he slid into her from behind, groaning as he filled her.
Corrado stroked her clit, rubbing the sensitive flesh, bringing her to orgasm quickly as he thrust into her. As soon as her pleasure subsided, she dropped her leg and moved away. Corrado started to protest, feeling the loss the moment he slipped out of her, but she turned around and silenced him with a kiss.
Shifting onto his back on the couch, Celia climbed on top of him. She sunk down on his lap, taking him deeply inside of her. Shifting her hips, she rode him as his hands roamed her body over her nightgown, feeling her breasts, pinching her nipples through the flimsy fabric.
Celia grabbed his hands, pulling them away from her. She pressed them against the arm of the couch, holding them there. Corrado blinked a few times, glancing above him at their hands as she pinned him down.
He stared into her eyes, drinking in her serious expression. Anyone else and he would've killed them. Anyone else would be dead. But for her—and her alone—he offered a bit of control. He closed his eyes, letting her restrain him, letting her rock against him until he came inside of her.
23
The loud shriek echoed through the house, startling Corrado awake. He sat straight up on the couch, disoriented, as he heard frantic muttering coming from outside the living room.
"Oh no, oh God, this can't be. No… no… no… it can't be!"
"Celia," he called out, concerned as he climbed to his feet.
Celia bounded into the living room, clutching the morning newspaper. Her eyes were glassy with tears. He loathed the sight of them, vengeful at the thought of something hurting her. He'd kill whoever caused it.
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