Made (39 page)

"You dumb fuck!" Alex spat. "You were gonna do her, too! As soon as your girl passed out."

"I wasn't! I swear!" Michael seemed even more terrified now as he looked at Katrina. "I
wouldn't
."

Out of the three, Michael was the only one not made—the only one Corrado could get away with killing—but even that pushed it. He was the son of a made man. Corrado glared between the men, bitter about that fact. It wasn't the first time he had found Michael in this situation, wrapped up in something but somehow managing to remain guiltless.
Coward
.

"Relax, Corrado," Katrina muttered. "You're overreacting."

"Get out," he demanded. "All of you. Get out of my house and
never
come back."

Alex didn't have to be told twice. He darted outside, cursing. Corrado turned toward the doorway to ensure he was gone and spotted the red and blue lights flashing along the curb. He lowered the gun, quickly slipping it back into his coat as a pair of officers approached the house. One stopped beside the porch, gazing down at Pascal sitting in the snow, shirtless, pants still unzipped, while the other stepped into the open door.

"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 every 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…"