"More like a thorn in my side," Corrado muttered. "He's determined to nail me for something."
"That's that detective?" Antonio asked. "Uh, whatshisname."
"Walker."
"He still giving you grief?"
He had been giving him grief for half a decade now. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Handle, huh?" Antonio stared out at the sidewalk. "Yeah, it'll be handled, but not by you."
Corrado nodded as those words sunk in. He would be the first they suspected if anything bad happened to the man. The entire Chicago Police force was aware the detective had made it his mission to bring him down.
"I owe him, you know, for that stunt he pulled at my daughter's wedding." Antonio's gaze shifted back to Corrado. "Speaking of which, you never took her on a honeymoon, did you?"
"I haven't had the time."
"You're supposed to make the time," Antonio stressed.
"Yeah, well, my boss is sort of a hard ass."
Antonio clapped him on the back as he led him inside. "Well, I have it on good authority he'll be giving you some time off soon."
Antonio led Corrado straight back to his office. Business. At the Boss's command, he took a seat, declining a drink.
"We need to deal with our enemies," he said straightaway, not beating around the bush at all. "I've been trying to take the high road, you know, the Capone way… this city being big enough for all of us… but they're pressing their luck now."
"Sir, they've been pressing their luck for years, since they put three bullets in your chest."
"In my vest, you mean," Antonio corrected him. "And frankly, maybe they were pressing it before then. Sal still thinks most of our problems lead back to the Irish."
"Is that what you think?" The only opinion that mattered to Corrado was the Boss's.
"I don't know," he replied. "Sal says maybe they were the ones who killed his family. And maybe they are—I wouldn't put it past them. They kept one of their own in a fucking cage, you know? What kind of savage does that?"
"The kind that needs taken out."
"Exactly," Antonio said. "But I can't stop thinking about this Russian guy and how he factors in."
"I believe someone hired him, sir."
"The Irish?"
"Most likely." The alternate was unfathomable to Corrado. One of their own? He couldn't believe it.
"Which is why they need taught a lesson."
"And you want me to do that?"
"First I want you to do something else."
"What's that?"
"Take my daughter on her long overdue honeymoon."
The next few weeks the detective followed Corrado everywhere, popping up all hours of the night. Corrado went about his days, ignoring the man, but he made it impossible to get any work done.
February rolled around, winter fading from Chicago. Corrado drove across town to Dolce Vita Pizzeria and strolled into the restaurant, forgoing his usual table to approach the register. John stood there, ringing someone up. After he cashed them out, his gaze shifted to Corrado, his smile falling. "What can I get you?"
"Large deep dish, extra pepperoni," he replied, pulling out his wallet. "To go."
John rung him up, and Corrado handed him some cash, refusing his change, instead stuffing it in a jar on the counter for a tip. He moved off to the side as John turned to the next customer. "What can I get you?"
"I don't know," the familiar voice said. "What do you recommend, Mr. Moretti?"
Corrado closed his eyes briefly before facing the detective. "I heard the place across the street has good orange chicken."
John seemed almost offended, but the detective laughed. He ordered a small Stromboli and paid before stepping aside also.
"You eat across the street often?" the detective asked.
"You tell me," Corrado said. "You've got my schedule memorized by now."
He had been meticulous the past few weeks, keeping to the most boring routine possible.
"Peculiar schedule you have, by the way," Detective Walker said. "Neither you or your wife hold down a job, yet you seem to have a never-ending cash flow."
"Family money," he replied.
"You should do something with that," the detective said. "Something legitimate. Invest it or something."
Corrado glanced at the man. "Huh, you know, that's not such a bad idea."
His pizza was up shortly. Corrado took it and headed to leave.
"I'll be seeing you around, Mr. Moretti."
Corrado pushed open the door and paused. "Yeah, we'll see."
He headed home with the pizza, finding his wife sprawled out on the couch, flipping through channels with the remote. Corrado set the pizza on the coffee table in front of her as she sat up to make room for him.
"What's on it?" she asked, flipping the top up to eye the pizza. She smiled when she saw the entire pie covered in pepperoni, so thick you couldn't even see the cheese. "Johnny loves me."
Corrado sat down beside her. "I bought it."
"But he made it."
"How do you know?"
"Because he knows how I like it."
Corrado's eyes narrowed as she grabbed a slice and shifted sideways on the couch to face him.
"Jealous?" she asked, taking a bite, teasingly.
"Should I be?"
"If you love me."
"Then yes," he said. "I'm burning with envy."
She laughed, shoving him playfully. "I see how it is. Johnny wouldn't mock me that way."
"John wouldn't do anything to you," he replied. "Not if John wanted to live."
Celia rolled her eyes. She didn't laugh. Despite his playful tone, she knew he wasn't joking. "So what did I do to deserve extra pepperoni? I know you prefer eating it with all that other crap."
He shrugged, grabbing a slice.
Celia stared at him in silence, eating her pizza, assessing him. "What's going on, Corrado?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I know you," she said. "You're buttering me up for something."
"I am."
"Why?"
He let out a dramatic exhale. "I have to go away."
She shifted position, sitting straight up. "What? Where?"
"Italy."
She gaped at him. "Italy? Like Italy-Italy?"
"Is there another Italy?"
"Little Italy."
"That's just across town."
"Exactly!" Her voice rose. "That's why I'm hoping you're going there. You can come home at night when you go to Little Italy!"
"I'm not going to Little Italy," he said.
"But… Italy's so far away."
"It is," he agreed. "Far, far away."
"No." She threw her pizza down. "You're not going."
"You're telling me what I can do?"
"Yes."
He stared at her, stunned. "I'll go if I want to go, Celia."
"No, you won't," she said, matter-of-fact. "Not without me."
"Ah." Corrado reached into his jacket, pulling out the envelope and holding it out to her. "Good thing you're invited, then."
All traces of anger melted away as she snatched the envelope from him. "I'm invited?"
"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Wouldn't be a honeymoon without you."
She tore open the envelope holding the plane tickets and gasped. "We're going to Italy?"
"We are."
"Italy-Italy?"
"The one and only."
She jumped on him, tackling him to the couch as she punched him in the chest, harder than he expected. "I can't believe you did that to me! You made me think you were leaving me!"
Laughing, he grasped her hands. "I'll never leave you."
"Promise?"
"I'll never leave you," he said again, linking their fingers together. "Not if I can help it."
Three days later, the two of them departed for Italy, spending two weeks traveling the country and soaking up the culture. They watched an opera at La Scala in Milan, made love on a balcony in
Verona, and soaked up the sun floating along the Venice canals. Their time in Florence was filled with architecture, churches and museums, leftover ancient ruins, before they headed further south to Rome.
Rome was the heart of the trip. They spent days immersed in the city, life back in the states a blurry memory.
For the first time in their marriage, it was truly just them.
When Corrado awoke their last morning in Rome, sunlight streamed through the glass doors leading outside of the small villa. He lay in bed, stark naked, a flimsy white sheet loosely draped across him. The ceiling fan above him spun round and round, his eyes following the dizzying movement.
Celia was fast asleep beside him.
A knock sounded from the door. Corrado stood up, wrapping the sheet around his waist to cover himself. They knocked again just as Corrado reached the door. Opening it, he came face to face with a middle-aged Italian man.
"Signore," the man said. "You, uh, Moretti?"
"Corrado Moretti, yes."
"You on phone needed," he said in broken English, mimicking holding a phone to his ear. "L'America."
Corrado's stomach sunk. A call from America? "Who is it?"
"Emergenza."
Emergency.
The man waved impatiently, urging him to follow. Corrado was out of the room without a second thought, not bothering to wake Celia. He clutched the sheet around him as he followed the man to the front office and snatched the phone off the desk where it lay. "Moretti speaking."
"Corrado." Salvatore's high-pitched voice greeted him. "Hope I'm not interrupting, but we have a situation."
"What?"
"It's your father," he said. "He's been arrested."
His father? Arrested? Wasn't the first time. It hardly constituted an emergency. "Yeah? What are they saying he did this time?"
"He killed that detective."
They caught Vito red-handed… literally. The gun was in his hand, blood splattering his skin, as he stood on the detective's porch in front of half a dozen police officers.
A silent alarm had been tripped when Vito broke into the house.
Corrado and Celia flew straight home to find officers waiting in front of their house for Corrado. They arrested him for suspicion of murder, but he wasn't surprised.
He expected to have the finger pointed at him.
Despite his airtight alibi, despite him being in an entirely different country when the murder occurred, they kept him locked up for forty-eight hours, grilling him intensively, trying to get him to turn, but he didn't.
He never would.
Begrudgingly, they released him, having no evidence to charge him. Another arrest that led to nothing.
Corrado never went to Vito's trial.
Day after day he'd get up early, just before the sun rose in the steely Chicago sky. He'd shower and get ready in silence, going through the motions, making sure his clothes were flawless, his tie as straight as he could possibly get it. He'd snatch the day's newspaper from the porch as he left his house, climbing into the driver's seat of his Mercedes and making the trek to the Cook County Criminal Court Building.
Most days he'd drive right by, not slowing down, and go somewhere else. Where didn't matter—a coffee shop, a diner, anywhere open at that hour, where he'd ask for a glass of ice water and he'd read the newspaper. But some days, rare moments, he'd find a parking spot and climb out of his car before strolling to the front entrance of the courthouse. He'd never go inside, never even step foot into the heated lobby, but he'd stand there, and he'd wait. What was he waiting for? A glimpse? A sign? He wasn't sure.
After a few minutes of nothing, an hour at most, he'd get back in his car and leave.
Celia never questioned it, never pried about what he did and where he went. He figured she liked to assume he went out of support for his father, so he kept the bitter truth to himself: he didn't want to see what went on in that courtroom.
He'd catch short segments on the news and see photographs on the front page of the paper, glimpses of his father's stoic face, his mother always front and center of the judgmental peanut gallery, but as for first-hand? Not a chance.
And he knew without a doubt, his father was grateful for it.
Corrado never witnessed the verdict, but he was there that day, sitting behind the wheel of his car. He stared out the side window from his parking spot, watching as the crowd spilled outside, some cheering, others appearing shell-shocked. He knew not the verdict, and his mother's face didn't give it away as she stepped out of the courthouse, a dark fur coat swallowing her petite frame. Her expression was stern, her steps steady.
Not drunk.
Another woman came out behind Erika Moretti, her feet wobbly in a pair of flats. She took a few steps before her legs gave out beneath her. Falling in a crumbled heap to the sidewalk, her face contorted with sobs. Others from the crowd grabbed her, pulling her back to her feet, carrying the burden of her weight as they struggled to help her walk. They moved closer, around Erika as she remained by the door, unmoving as if she posed herself to be a magnificent statue.
As the others approached, Corrado got a good glimpse of the distraught woman's face.
Vivian, his father's mistress.
He knew it then. Guilty.
Corrado slumped further in his seat as he vacantly stared at the steering wheel. Maybe only thirty seconds passed… maybe twenty minutes. But when Corrado's eyes slowly drifted back to the courthouse, the crowd had thinned, everyone moving on.
Everyone except for statuesque Erika Moretti.
Weeks later, Corrado skipped the sentencing hearing. He didn't even put on the façade of pretending he would go. He didn't have to. The mandatory sentence for what Vito had done was life without parole.
36
"Oh my God! Oh my God!"
Celia's shrieking echoed through the house, speeding up Corrado's footsteps as he descended the stairs and headed straight for the living room. He found her, phone clutched to her ear.
"Okay, okay… yes, I got it… we'll be right there!"
She slammed the receiver down as she let out a squeal. Her wide eyes met Corrado's. "It's time!"
He stood frozen. "Time for what?"
"The baby!"
The baby... "What about it?"
She clenched her hands into fists as she bounced on the balls of her feet, unable to contain her excitement. "Maura and Vincent are having the baby! Right now!"
Corrado refrained from pointing out only Maura was having a baby, unless he had missed something by dropping out of high school mid-Biology class, instead offering her a smile. Her happiness was at least infectious, even if he didn't share her enthusiasm.
"That's great news," he said, meaning it for the most part.
She reached up on her tiptoes, kissing him. "Let me grab my shoes and we can head to the hospital."
His expression didn't fall until she bound from the room. Sighing, he ran his hands down his face. It was going to be a long night.
They arrived at the hospital at nine o'clock that evening to a hectic waiting room in the labor and delivery ward. Despite the other dozen people waiting, nobody else had shown up for Vincent and Maura. They found seats off in a corner, and Celia skimmed through parenting magazines while Corrado sat with his head bowed. He closed his eyes, not praying, not sleeping... he just needed a moment of peace, a moment of darkness.
The bright lights of the hospital were giving him a headache.
As time wore on, the crowd thinned, quietness subduing the waiting room. Corrado opened his eyes, yawning as exhaustion set in. Celia seemed as bright eyed as she had been hours ago.
Glancing over, he saw her reading an article about how to create well-adjusted children with good emotional control. The very top tip: say 'I love you' every day.
Despite himself, he laughed at that.
"What's so funny?" she asked, laying a hand over the magazine article.
"Does it say anything about children whose parents never sa
y those words?"
She gazed at him peculiarly. "Your parents never said it?"
"Never."
"Not even once?"
"No."
That threw her for a loop. "Has anyone ever said that to you?"
"You."
"Other than me."
He nodded. "Once. Zia."
"An aunt?"
Close enough. "I was seven."
"What happened to her?"
"She died the next day."
"Oh." Celia seemed at a temporary loss for words. "Well, I love you, and I'll tell you every day of my life."
He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it as she turned back to the magazine.
A few hours later, Vincent burst in, his eyes swimming with tears as he scanned the room. His gaze settled on them.
"What's wrong?" Celia asked, on her feet in seconds, rushing toward her brother.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Then what is it?"
"It's a boy," he whispered, his eyes widening as that knowledge seemed to sink in. "I have a son."
Celia squealed, throwing herself at her brother. "I have a nephew!"
"You do." Vincent laughed. "And he's perfect."
The boy had been born around dawn on the morning of June 3. They said the moment he came into the world, he inhaled sharply before letting out a blood-curdling scream. The doctors had been worried about his lungs because he was a few weeks ahead of schedule.
Clearly, they worried for nothing.
Corrado stood outside the nursery, peering through the thick glass at the cradle, a card affixed to it with all of his information. Eighteen inches long, six and a half pounds. Carmine Marcello DeMarco.
He was puny compared to the others.
Maura rested in recovery with Vincent at her side, while Celia had run off to find a phone to call her parents. Corrado had ventured through the halls, somehow ending up here, right in front of the child.
Another DeMarco.
"Congratulations."
Corrado turned his head, eyeing the blonde woman in a pair of pink scrubs. "Excuse me?"
"The baby," she said, motioning into the nursery. "Congratulations."
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