"We got a call of a disturbance here," the officer said, eyeing him curiously, his gaze lingering on his battered hand. He glanced behind him at Pascal before turning to Corrado again. "What's your name?"
He said nothing.
"Corrado Moretti," Katrina chimed in, arms crossed over her chest.
"Ah," the officer said. "Moretti."
It didn't take a genius to know what would happen next. The second the officer reached for his handcuffs, Corrado knew he was in trouble.
Serious trouble.
"You're under arrest for assault," he said, forcing Corrado's hands behind his back, securing the handcuffs around his wrists as he read him his rights.
"I want them out of my house," Corrado demanded, glaring at his sister and Michael.
"You're not in any position to be making demands," the officer scoffed, patting Corrado down, whipping the gun out from his coat. "Whoa, score!"
"This is all just a big misunderstanding," Pascal called from outside, climbing to his feet. Red-tinted snow clung to his pants. "Moretti and I just had a little fight, man-to-man. No big deal."
The officer pocketed the gun. "You're wrong. This is a big deal."
"Corrado? Oh, God! Corrado!"
Corrado's stomach dropped when he heard Celia's voice calling out for him. Could this get any worse? He glanced around in the darkness, watching her hasty approach from down the street. The second officer tried to stop her, stepping in her path, but she dodged around him, slipping on a patch of ice, frantic to reach him.
"Celia, go inside," Corrado said as the officer dragged him toward the idling cruiser. "Go there, and stay there."
"But what about you?" she asked. "Do I need to come down to the station?"
"Don't worry about me," he said. " I need you to stay here. It's important."
She didn't understand, but he wouldn't explain it. He couldn't. She'd find out soon enough… as soon as she walked in the house and found the petrified girl upstairs.
The officer opened the door to the squad car and tried to force him inside, but he resisted, still watching his wife. "Make them leave, Celia. I don't want them in my house."
He couldn't delay it anymore without adding a resisting arrest charge. The officer shoved him into the car and slammed the door.
One count simple assault.
One count unlawful possession of a weapon.
Both misdemeanors.
Corrado was booked into the system, his bail automatically set for three thousand dollars. No sooner he changed into the grungy orange jail jumpsuit, a correctional officer led him right back to booking.
"Must be your lucky day. Someone already posted your bail."
"I haven't even called anyone yet."
"Guess whoever it is knew how much it would be."
He was processed right back out, in less than an hour walking through the front doors, temporarily a free man. He froze when he stepped out into the cold parking lot, being greeted by the battered smiling face of Pascal. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He hadn't even bothered to wash off any of the blood.
"You?" Corrado asked incredulously.
Pascal shrugged. "You shouldn't have been arrested."
Corrado just glared at him.
"Like I told the cop, no big deal." Pascal took a deep drag from his cigarette before tossing it into a snowdrift. "We good?"
He offered no response. No, they weren't good.
"Okay, well, don't worry about paying me back," Pascal continued, shrugging off Corrado's silence as he walked away. "We'll chalk it up to your share from today's job."
No car. No ride. Not enough money on him to call a cab.
He didn't even know where to find a payphone.
Corrado was screwed.
He walked a mile in the cold to the closest bus stop before realizing public transit was suspended due to the weather. Frustrated, he sat down on the icy bench, wetness seeping through his clothes as he ran his hands down his face in frustration.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head low and pulled his jacket tighter around him, grimacing at the stench still clinging to his clothes. He hadn't even showered yet. Home was over ten miles away.
A car pulled up as he sat there. His eyes opened when he heard the rumble of the engine, seeing the brown Ford coming to a stop right in front of him. The window rolled down, Detective Walker staring at him from the driver's seat. "Didn't take you for the bus type."
Corrado stared at the front fender of the car, not giving the man the satisfaction of a response.
"It isn't coming," the detective said. "But if you need a ride…"
Corrado's eyes drifted to the man then. "I'd rather walk than get in a car with you again."
"That'll be a rather long walk, Mr. Moretti."
"I suppose it will be," he said, standing and brushing snow from his clothes. "I ought to get started."
He walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets, refusing to respond when the detective shouted his name.
Five hours.
It took Corrado five hours, trudging through snow and slipping on ice, to make it home. His legs were numb, his feet aching. Every inch of his body felt frozen, pins and needles viciously rippling across his flushed skin as he shook, shivering, teeth chattering. He couldn't feel his fingers. They were like spikes—strands of ice that nearly snapped when he dared to make a fist to pound on the front door.
The house was locked. He had no key.
He was about to give up—about to kick in his own door—when he heard movement inside. The locks clicked, the chain jingling, before the front door yanked open. Celia stood there, her blue robe tightly wrapped around her, a scowl on her face.
Corrado wasted no time with a greeting, stepping into the house and going straight for the living room… into the warmth. He shivered again as the heat from the fireplace wafted across his skin, the bitter cold not wanting to loosen its grip on him.
Celia shut the door and joined him, lingering by the doorway. "I want to know what happened."
He shrugged off his coat, tossing it on the coffee table beside the vase of flowers. The red roses were drooping, brown around the edges. His eyes locked on them as a thought passed through his mind: he owed her a lot flowers for the man he killed in the barbershop basement.
"The girl didn't tell you?"
"She told me what she could between sobs," Celia said. "She told me those men raped her."
"They did," he replied. "That's what happened."
The flames from the fireplace cast ominous shadows around Celia's face as something flared in her eyes—rage. "Where the hell were you when this was happening?"
"Working."
"Working? Running errands, right? That's what you're always doing, Corrado. Always working."
"It's true."
"It's bullshit." Celia pointed at him as she took a few steps his way. He had never seen her quite so mad before, her body slinking like a panther, wanting to strike. "I want to know what you did today… what was so damn important that you left that girl here unprotected around those monsters!"
"They work for your father," Corrado reminded her. "They're just like me."
"Don't do that," she spat. "Don't try that old 'I'm a monster, too' bit again to try to distract me. I asked you a question, and I want an answer. You couldn't even go to church with me. So what did you do that was so important you had to leave her defenseless on top of it?"
"Work."
She closed the distance between them. "Not good enough!"
He shook his head. "You don't want to know."
"I do want to know," she said. "I want an answer."
"No, you don't."
Her eyes narrowed as she jabbed him in the chest. "What the hell did you do today?"
He snatched a hold of her hand before she jabbed him again. Her fingers hardly hurt, but it aggravated him when she did it. "I'm warning you. Don't ask me that."
"I already asked," she sneered, grounding out eve
ry word like a venomous curse.
"Fine, you want to know what I did?" He pulled her closer to him, his voice dangerously low as he stared her in the eyes. "I spent all night running errands for your father. Yes, running errands. And when I came home there were people in my house… people your brother let in. I wanted to go to bed, I would've even rather gone to church, but I couldn't. Instead, I had to do my father's work. Yes, work. It's what I do."
His words came out as a growl as he pinned her there, clutching her wrist, feeling her pulse frantically racing beneath his fingertips.
"I cashed out a gambling tournament, robbing men of their life savings because they were stupid enough to play one of our games. And then, because your brother let those monsters in my house, I had to hijack a lobster truck. A lobster truck, Celia. If you ever try to cook seafood in this house again after what I went through today, I swear to God, I'll lose it. And to top it all off, I watched two men take their last breaths… not one, two. One was executed because he couldn't follow a simple order, but the other…"
He shook his head, pausing, still staring at her. "I watched your father beat him half to death before I put him out of his misery, and all for something he didn't do. I killed him for a murder he didn't commit, and I know he didn't commit it, because I did, Celia. I did it. So that's what I did today. That's why I wasn't here. And the worst part… the part that's pissing me off most right now… is that I haven't been able to take a shower. I stink." He let go of her. "Is that a good enough answer?"
Celia took an immediate step back and clutched her wrist, blinking a few times. Her jaw hung slack, and while she said not a word, Corrado knew everything she wanted to say. It was there, plain as day in her expression—she finally saw the man he warned her about.
And those eyes—those warm brown eyes, always so welcoming, always full of compassion—glimmered with alarm.
He had to look away.
"Don't ask questions," he said quietly, sitting down on the couch as he ran his hands down his face. "For both of our sakes, don't do it anymore."
27
The steps creaked beneath Corrado's bare feet as he headed downstairs, drops of water hitting the wood as they dripped from his damp hair, streaming down the ridges of his exposed back. His skin itched, spattered red in patches from the singeing water.
His fourth scalding shower in twelve hours.
He smelled nothing except the stark, clean scent of soap, no trace of yesterday leftover, but he still felt filthy. Sleep had been evasive as he lay in his bed alone, staring up at the bland white ceiling and listening to the crying in the next room over. He heard his wife's soft voice, her soothing words not meant for him.
No, she had nothing to say to him. Celia had made that clear when she marched out of the living room without uttering a single word about what he had said.
He understood her anger. He took on her fear. He even endured her sadness. He would survive whatever she threw at him, but her silence was too much. He couldn't handle being shut out.
Stepping into the foyer, he unlocked the front door and opened it, finding his newspaper wrapped in plastic on the front porch. He carried it inside, shaking the snow off before slipping it from the packaging. His feet hit the stairs again as he headed back up, but he'd only made it two steps when the door behind him flew open. His head swung around when it slammed, his heart racing, on alert. He wasn't even wearing a shirt, much less carrying a gun.
Not that he even had a gun… the police had confiscated his.
No sooner he'd turned, someone knocked into him as they stormed past him up the stairs. Vincent. Corrado reached out, grabbing the back of Vincent's coat to stop him, but the boy merely slipped his arms out of it with an irate groan, letting him tear it off as he kept on going.
Furious, Corrado followed, reaching him as he opened Maura's bedroom door and burst inside, breathing heavily. Maura's soft cries morphed to full-blown sobs when she spotted Vincent.
Vincent's footsteps faltered as he blinked rapidly.
"You have some nerve," Corrado growled, grabbing Vincent's arm. He was about to yank him back out when Celia got between them, shoving Corrado into the hallway.
She stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed. "Don't."
Corrado watched Vincent climb up on the bed with Maura before his attention drifted to his wife. "You're speaking to me now?"
"Don't," she said again.
"She's traumatized enough," Corrado said. "She doesn't need Vincent bothering her on top of it."
Celia shook her head, glancing back at her brother as he held Maura, stroking her untidy red hair. She turned back to Corrado, a fierce determination in her eyes as she pushed against him, knocking him back a few steps, and shut the bedroom door to give them some privacy. Her body blocked it protectively. "You know, Corrado Moretti… for being such a sharp man, you sure can be a fool sometimes."
He blanched. "Excuse me?"
"I've told you before—he's not bothering her," Celia continued. "He loves her, and she loves him. They're in love. The only one who seems to be bothered here is you!"
"That's absurd," he said. "They hardly know each other."
Her eyebrows rose in challenge. "Absurd? Tell me… when did you fall in love with me? Because I loved you the first time I heard your voice, and I don't think that's absurd."
"This isn't about us."
"Exactly. This is about them, so why are you making it about you?"
"I'm not. But she's—"
"But she's what? A slave? What, he can't love a slave?"
"I was going to say she's Irish."
"Oh, who gives a crap?"
"Your parents."
"Screw my parents. My father didn't want us together, either, but we sure didn't listen, did we? We can't help who we fall for, Corrado. Believe me. If we could, well…" She laughed bitterly, dropping her gaze, and he knew his words from last night were running through her mind, the sins he had divulged out of anger, things he never wanted her to hear. "Just… leave them alone. Please."
He closed his eyes as she resorted to pleading. "It won't end well, Celia."
"At least let them try," she said quietly. Corrado opened his eyes when she touched him. Her hand ran across his chest before grazing down the trail of hair to his stomach, her fingertips tracing his abs. "Don't they deserve happiness, too? Especially after what that girl has gone through? She grew up under Erika Moretti's roof, too, you know. You and her aren't that different."
Corrado pulled her hand away from him when her fingertips grazed the band around his boxers. "We're nothing alike."
"You'd be surprised."
"Nothing will surprise me anymore. Your brother's in love with a—"
"Girl," Celia said, cutting him off. "He's in love with a girl who was hurt last night in the worst way, in ways even that wicked witch of a mother of yours could never hurt her."
"Wicked witch?"
"That's what Maura calls her."
"She talks to you about that stuff?"
"Yeah. She talks a lot."
"She doesn't talk to me. She won't even come near me."
"You terrify her."
"I seem to have that effect on everybody."
Not me. Corrado stared at his wife, wishing she would say those words, wishing she would rebuke him, but she merely frowned, her eyes drifting toward his stomach.
"Come on," she said softly, tugging his hand as she stepped away from Maura's door. "Let's do something about your dry skin."
He didn't resist, letting her pull him into their bedroom. He plopped down on the bed, utterly exhausted, and stared up at the ceiling as Celia grabbed a bottle of lotion and squirted some onto his chest. His eyes drifted closed when she rubbed it in.
He didn't even protest the sickly sweet smell.
"How do you know he loves her?" Corrado asked after awhile. "How do you know it isn't rebellion?"
"I just do."
A door down the hallway opened and Corrado opened his eyes, s
itting up when Vincent stepped into their room.
"She fell asleep," he said quietly, his voice cracking.
Celia patted the bed beside her. Vincent didn't hesitate. He walked over and plopped down beside his sister as he ran his hands through his hair. He dropped his head down low, gripping his hair tightly, as Celia rubbed his back.
"How could this happen?" Vincent asked, the words strained, spoken to nobody in particular. "She didn't deserve this."
"I know," Celia whispered. "It's gonna be okay."
The moment she said it, Vincent's body shook with sobs. He cried inconsolably, letting his sister pull him into her arms. She smoothed his hair, glancing overtop of his head at Corrado, that 'I told you so' look in her eyes.
Corrado stood, uncomfortable with the emotional outburst, feeling like he was imposing. He nodded at Celia, acknowledging that, before he walked out.
28
The Mercedes roared to life, rumbling along the curb. Corrado flipped on the defroster, cranking it the whole way. He lounged back in the driver's seat, watching as the windshield slowly thawed, the layer of thin ice melting away, clearing his view of Felton Drive.
He glanced at his watch. He had an hour to get to Evanston to meet the Boss. He would be early today.
Putting the car in gear, his glove-clad hands gripped the steering wheel as he pulled away from the curb. He made sure the road was clear before swinging the car around to go the other direction. His attention on the road wavered as he fiddled with the heater, his breath still coming out as a fog, the temperature below freezing.
Christmas Eve. It was supposed to snow again.
He clicked on the radio, smiling to himself as Frank Sinatra crooned from the speakers. He turned it all the way up and glanced back out of the windshield. He approached an intersection, prepared to speed right through it, when cars came flying out in front of him. Corrado slammed his brakes, the Mercedes skidding and nearly hitting a parked car as it came to a stop sideways in the middle of the street. Red and blue lights flashed all around, reflecting off the rearview mirror as police cars descended upon him. In a blink the officers were out, surrounding him, guns drawn.
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