"I don't lie to you," he said, reaching out to her, but she smacked his hands away and took a step back.
"Don't touch me." Her eyes narrowed with disgust. "Don't even look at me."
Her irritation didn't deter him. He stared her straight in the eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said again, voice calm despite his utter confusion.
"There's makeup on your shirt," she spat, snatching up a white button down shirt from the couch cushion where she had been sitting. "Lipstick on your collar!"
"It's yours," he said with disbelief. Why was she acting this way? It wasn't the first time his shirt had been stained by her makeup.
"It's not mine."
"You're mistaken."
"I'm not," she spat. "It's pink!"
"That's impossible," he said. "You don't wear pink."
She shook the shirt angrily, stepping toward him. There it was, the smear on the edge of the collar, another right on the shoulder, mixed with faint black smudges. Bright pink. There was no mistaking it.
Vivian.
He closed his eyes. Not good.
"Is that where you were?" she spat, shoving the shirt against his chest. He stumbled backward a step, surprised by her strength, and clutched the shirt. "Off with some whore? Is that why you were showered and changed in the middle of the afternoon? Huh? Is it?"
"It's not what you think," he said.
"Not what I think?" She let out a high-pitched laugh, the mocking sound concealing what he knew to be real hurt. "I can smell it on the shirt. It reeks."
"It does," he agreed. He still faintly smelled the stench.
A flash of pain took over Celia's expression like she had been struck before the fire returned to her eyes, burning brighter than before. A switch had been flipped inside of her, setting her off.
She lunged at him.
Corrado was so caught off guard it took a moment for him to react, enough time for her fists to strike his chest. The force of the punch wasn't enough to take his breath away, not enough to leave a mark, but the damage it caused ran deep. He wouldn't do this with her. He wouldn't be this way. They wouldn't be that couple.
They wouldn't be his parents.
He responded by grabbing her, pinning her arms at her sides to stop her striking fists. He restrained her, blocking her blows, as he leaned down and growled in her ear. "We're not doing this. I'm not going to fight you."
"How could you?" The tears flowed down her cheeks now. "How could you do that to me?"
"I haven't done anything."
"I love you," she cried.
"And I love you," he said quietly. "Only you."
"Then why? Why would you? How could you?"
"I wouldn't," he swore. "I didn't. I would never touch another woman. You know me better than that."
"Do I?" she asked, trying to pry away from him. "Let me go!"
He hesitated before loosening his hold. He wouldn't keep her there against her will. She shoved away from him, stepping back, wiping her tears. The shirt dropped to the floor between them and she kicked it away, disgust twisting her face.
"You should," he said. "You should know me."
"I thought I did."
"That…" He motioned toward the shirt. "…meant nothing."
The flash of pain struck her again as she gasped.
This wasn't coming out right.
"Her name's Vivian," he explained. "She's—"
"A whore?" she spat, eyes widening. "It's true?"
Irritation swam beneath his skin. He tried to swallow it back, to remain calm, but she was pushing him. "She was my father's mistress. He wanted me to look out for her, since he can't anymore."
"And, what? You fucked her?"
He grimaced as she spat that word at him. "I didn't touch her."
"Then how did her lipstick get on your collar?"
"She was crying," he said. "She hugged me."
"She hugged you?" she asked with disbelief. "You expect me to believe that?"
"It's true," he said. "She cried into my shoulder. I didn't ask her to do it. I didn't want her to do it. I didn't even want her to touch me. But she did. That's not my fault."
"Not your fault? You shouldn't have even been there!"
"My father asked me to do it," he said. Why couldn't she grasp that? "What was I supposed to do?"
"Tell him no! She's his mistress, not his wife! She was sleeping with a married man! Whose to say she wouldn't try to sleep with you?" That fire flared in her eyes again. "Whose to say she didn't sleep with you?"
"I say she didn't," he yelled, raising his voice as he pointed at himself. "That should be enough for you."
It wasn't. He saw it in her eyes.
"I'm a lot of things, Celia DeMarco, but I'm not this. I'll cheat the law, I'll cheat on my taxes, I'll try my damnedest to cheat death, but never… never… will I cheat on you."
She stared at him, breathing heavily, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "Moretti," she ground out.
"Excuse me?"
"My last name is Moretti," she stressed. "You called me a DeMarco."
"Because you're acting like one."
She raised a sculpted eyebrow at him. "How exactly does a DeMarco act?"
"Emotional."
A sharp laugh of disbelief tore through the room. "Sorry I'm not frigid like the rest of you Morettis."
He glared at her, those words picking at him like little needles against his skin. "I'm not frigid."
"You feel nothing," she spat.
She was intentionally being spiteful. He didn't like it. At all.
"Come on." Corrado grasped her wrist and yanked. "Let's go."
He dragged her to the doorway before she pulled from his grasp and hissed, "I told you not to touch me."
"Then follow me on your own."
He strode outside, pulling out his keys. He left the front door wide open, not even glancing back as he climbed behind the wheel and started the car. A few seconds passed before the passenger side door opened, and Celia slid into the seat. She didn't speak as he pulled away from the curb, the sky lightening on the horizon.
She might have been angry, might have been hurt, but a part of her still implicitly trusted him.
He drove through town, bitter silence gripping the car until he pulled into the packed parking lot, not bothering to search for a spot, just skidding to a stop. He threw the car in park and cut the engine. "You don't believe me? I'll show you."
"What?"
The question was only half out of her mouth when he got out and slammed the door.
Celia climbed out behind him, hollering at him. "Corrado? Where are you going?"
"To prove to you I didn't lie."
Her footsteps stalled briefly before speeding up to reach him. "You brought me here? To the whore?"
"She's a decent woman."
"She was your father's dirty little secret."
"She wasn't much of a secret. Everyone knew about her."
"That makes it even worse! Where's her self-respect?"
He pulled on the front door of the building, holding it open for Celia. She stepped around the cinderblock and grimaced when she entered the building. "God, what died in here?"
He walked in behind her, the door slamming against the cinderblock. He cut his eyes at his wife. "Maybe her dignity did."
"Funny," she sneered, following him to the stairs. She reached for the banister but hesitated, instead wiping her hand on her clothes, not wanting to touch anything.
They trekked to the fourth floor. Corrado knocked on the door of 42 and waited, knocking two more times before he heard movement inside the apartment. The door was pulled open, once again blocked by the chain, as the woman appeared in the crack. "Corrado?"
"Vivian," he greeted her. "I just need a moment of your time."
"Sure." The door closed again, the lock jingling, before it opened the whole way. Vivian eyed him apprehensively, noticing Celia. "Uh, hey."
Celia spoke hesitantly. "Hello."<
br />
"Well, come in," she said as she stepped aside. "Make yourselves at home."
Corrado stepped around her, pausing there as Celia walked in. "Vivian, this is my wife, Celia. Celia, Vivian."
"Nice to meet you," Vivian said at once, smiling. That kindness Corrado had sensed earlier surfaced full force. "I've heard a lot about you."
Celia's eyes cut to Corrado, subtle, swift, but Vivian noticed as she closed the door. "Actually, it was from Vito. He always talked about how lucky his son was to have married such a great woman."
"He is lucky," Celia agreed as she relaxed a bit. "Very lucky."
Corrado shook his head. "I don't believe in luck."
That earned him another look from Celia. "If you aren't lucky, what are you?"
"Persuasive."
She rolled her eyes as Vivian laughed. She offered the two of them something to drink, never once questioning why they were there at that hour or what they wanted. She was hospitable and chatty, complimenting Celia, engaging her in conversation about things that meant nothing to Corrado—clothes, and shoes, and hair-dos. He sat on the edge of her frayed couch once again as the two women traded stories for a bit, almost as if they were old friends. The sun had risen outside, taking its place high in the sky, when the words slowed to a trickle.
"We should be going," Corrado said, interrupting before they found something else to gossip about.
Celia stood, smoothing out her clothes before pulling Vivian into a hug. "It was great to meet you."
"You, too," Vivian whispered, tears springing to her eyes. "You're so kind."
Celia pulled away from her and strode to the door as Corrado followed. He nearly made it out before Vivian lunged at him, hugging him from behind. He tensed, back rigid, as she burst into tears.
"Sorry," she said, letting go as she wiped her eyes. "It's just, you know…"
"I know," he said. Vito.
He walked out into the hallway, shutting the door, when Celia descended upon him. She narrowed her eyes, poking him hard in the chest. "If you ever go near that woman again, I'll kill you."
Corrado blanched. "But you liked her."
"I did," she agreed. "And maybe she is a decent woman, but she's also a grieving woman… a woman grieving for a man you're a hell of a lot like."
His brow furrowed as he took her hand. "I don't look like Vito."
"You do," she insisted. "You carry yourself like him, too. And that woman in there isn't blind to that fact."
"You're being absurd."
"No, you're just a fool."
40
The ringing of the phone cut Celia off mid-sentence, tension falling over the table. They were having dinner together for the first time in a week.
She had cashed in on her rain check, and Corrado had promised this evening to her. There weren't to be any interruptions. No work tonight. No one was to stop by. His phone wasn't supposed to ring.
He should've known better.
He ignored it until Celia sighed. "Go ahead and get it."
"No," he replied. "They can wait."
The phone continued to ring.
"It could be important," she said.
"Nothing's more important than dinner with you."
She sighed. Again.
The ringing stopped, silence sweeping through the house for a few seconds, before it started up again.
Whoever it was called right back.
"Answer it," Celia said. "Before they show up here."
Corrado threw down his fork, tossing his napkin aside, before shoving his chair back. "Excuse me."
She merely waved him away as she continued to eat.
He strode to the living room, snatching up the receiver. "Moretti speaking."
"Mr. Moretti, it's Reverend Parker, the chaplain at Menard Correctional Center."
As soon as those words met Corrado's ears, he shook his head. Vito. "If you're calling about my father, I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Yes, well, it's important."
"There's nothing I can do."
"Unfortunately, sir, there's nothing any of us can do." The reverend's voice sounded hollow. "I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Moretti, but your father passed away."
The man kept talking, very little registering as Corrado scratched absently at his jaw, coated in almost a weeks worth of scruff. He waited until the man paused before chiming in. "I appreciate the call."
"Of course," he said. "If you have questions, you can contact the warden at—"
Corrado hung up before he could rattle off the phone number. Speaking to the prison warden was as bad as dealing with the police.
Returning to the dining room, he retook his seat.
"Let me guess," Celia said. "You need to leave."
"No." He placed his napkin in his lap and picked up his fork.
Celia glanced at him with surprise. "No? Who was it?"
"The chaplain."
"You mean the priest?" she asked. "Father Alberto?"
"No, Reverend Parker, at the prison."
"Oh Lord," she said, picking up her drink to take a sip. "What's Vito up to now?"
"Nothing," he replied. "He's dead."
Celia froze, glass half way to her lips. "What did you say?"
"I said he's dead."
Celia gasped, her hand shaking as she set her glass down. "Vito?"
He nodded.
"How can that be?" she asked, her eyes glossing over with tears. "It has to be some sort of mistake, right? He can't really be… there's just no way."
"He is," Corrado replied, shoving the food around on his plate with his fork.
Celia jumped up, shaking her head frantically. "We have to do something. We have to call someone. Something."
She bolted for the door, frenzied, but Corrado snatched a hold of her to stop her. Pushing his chair back, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her when she started to cry. Hiccupping gasps rocked her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clung to him.
Her hand grasped the back of his neck, fingernails digging into his skin. "I'm so, so sorry, Corrado."
She was trying to console him.
He held her tightly, laying his head against her as he rubbed soothing circles on her back, letting her cry. No tears streamed from his eyes, but he felt it deep in his chest, a tight knot of emotion as a lump in his throat made it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.
"He's dead," he whispered, stress audible in the strain of his voice as he rocked her in the chair. "My father's dead."
Convicted Cop Killer Murdered in Prison
It didn't even make the front page. Corrado found the article tucked in the newspaper a few pages in, wedged between an article about school budget cuts and reports of voter fraud.
A purported member of the Chicago Mafia has died at the Menard Correctional Facility, where he was serving a life sentence.
Officials say Vito Moretti was found dead around noon on Friday in the prison chapel, the victim of a fatal attack. Moretti, 44, had gone to the chapel for Reconciliation when he was stabbed multiple times in the neck and face. The weapon, suspected to be a sharpened pencil, was not found at the scene.
The prison was immediately put on a lockdown. Officials say the surveillance equipment in the chapel malfunctioned prior to the incident. They have no suspects, but believe it to be a fellow inmate.
Moretti was convicted of the murder of Chicago detective John Walker and had only recently been transferred to Menard. He had been placed in general population at his own request, despite prison officials' concerns about his numerous enemies.
Murdered in the prison chapel, found face down in a pool of blood. He had been praying… it was the only way someone would catch Vito off guard, the only reason he wouldn't fight back.
As a child, Corrado believed his father was invincible, ten feet tall and bulletproof. But he wasn't.
He never had been.
Brilliant James Bond walked right into the enemy's trap. Batman got exposed as a m
ere mortal. And Vito Moretti, resilient and fearless, got taken out with a harmless implement. A pencil.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
The reality of it was a slap to the face. Vito didn't get to go out in a blaze of glory. Vito went out on his knees, with his eyes closed, as he appealed to a God that wouldn't spare him.
A few days after the article ran, Corrado was scanning through the newspaper when he came upon another familiar name in the obituaries: Vivian Modella.
It didn't say what happened to her, but Corrado could guess. Grief. He burned the newspaper in the fireplace right away, before Celia happened upon it.
Bitterness festered inside of Corrado, his anger growing as days passed. Erika flew in from Nevada and claimed the body. Vito had been cremated overnight without Corrado even being informed, robbing him of his burial rites… robbing him of a Catholic funeral. By the time Corrado heard what his mother had done, she was already heading for home.
Never in his life had he wanted to kill someone as much as he did then. Killing, to Corrado, had always been a job. It was technical, methodic. It was never emotional. But thinking about his mother, thinking about how wronged his father had been, stirred up a suppressed need for retribution. The bloodthirsty sensations engulfed him, dragging him deeper into a darkness that he had only dove into a handful of times in his life.
The part of him, he guessed, that had died the day of his birth. The part of him that never got brought back to life. It was a part of him that knew nothing of sunshine, of happiness, of love, of compassion. His heart didn't beat. His lungs didn't breathe. He was a walking corpse.
The living dead.
The bright sun scorched Corrado's skin as it hovered high above in the hazy afternoon sky, not a single cloud anywhere to temper it. Despite it being the beginning of September, fast approaching autumn, the air still sweltered like the peak of summer. Mid-nineties, not a single breeze, very little shade around the dry, desert land. Corrado certainly hadn't missed that.
Somehow, over the years, he had learned to enjoy the cold.
He didn't want to be here. But a job was a job, and the Boss had personally ordered him to do it.
"You know all about that place," Antonio had said. "Take care of it for me."
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