Made (40 page)
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."
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, sitting 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.
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.
Heart racing, Corrado put the car in park and moved his foot off the brake. Slowly, he raised his hands in the air, to show he wasn't armed. No sooner his hands hit the roof, someone yanked his door open and snatched a hold of him, dragging him out of the car. He groaned when he slammed the ice-coated road on his stomach, his face scraping against the grainy asphalt. He felt the burn along his cheek when it tore the skin, a knee in his back as his arms were yanked behind his back. Handcuffs went on, digging into his wrists, before he was jerked to his feet by the metal chain linking his hands.
As soon as he was upright, his eyes met a familiar face. Detective Walker. "Corrado Moretti, you're under arrest for the murder of Miguel Pace."
Corrado's brow furrowed. "Who?"
This question had been genuine, out of surprise, but nobody clued him in. Instead, they read him his rights as they dragged him to the closest police cruiser, forcing him in the backseat. He laid his head against the cage in front of him, closing his eyes. He still heard the music rattling from his car speakers through the open door.
Miguel Pace
. Corrado tried to place the name.
Who the hell is Miguel Pace
?
The question was answered when they took him to an interrogation room at the police station. Detective Walker sat down across from Corrado, another man beside him. Corrado had been released from the handcuffs and given a bandage for the scrape on his cheek, but he tossed it on the table, ignoring the injury.
"Miguel Pace," Detective Walker said, sliding a gruesome photograph across the table to Corrado.
Barbershop basement guy
.
"Look familiar?"
"Hard to say," Corrado said. "I can't make out his face."
"That's because someone beat him with a baseball bat." The detective laid out some other crime scene photos, including a picture of the bat Antonio had discarded on the basement floor. "And that was before they put a bullet in his head. What do you have to say about that?"
"I'd say somebody wanted him dead."
"You?" the detective asked. "Did you want him dead?"
"I have no reason to want him dead. I'm not even sure who he is."
"He's Miguel Pace," the detective stressed before launching into a biography about the man's life, making him sound like a picture-perfect citizen, but Corrado knew a faultless man would never even cross Antonio's path, much less be tied up in a basement by him.
"Why am I here?" Corrado asked, interrupting the detective. "What makes you think
I
did this?"
"Ah, the million dollar question." The detective sorted through a stack of papers before pulling out another photograph and setting it on top of the others. Corrado stared at it, recognizing his revolver. "Now does
this
look familiar?"
Corrado didn't answer that.
"It should," he said. "It was taken off your person by one of our officers the same night Miguel Pace was murdered. We processed the gun, just routine testing, and I'm sure you can guess what we found."
The detective stared at him, as if he actually expected Corrado to guess.
"We found blood splatter on it consistent with Miguel's blood type," he replied. "A ballistics test confirmed the bullet found in Miguel was consistent with the test-fire from this gun."
"That's a lot of consistency I hear," Corrado said. "And not a lot of certainty."
The detective glared at him. "Cut the shit, Mr. Moretti."
"I'd like to speak to a lawyer now. I don't appreciate profanity."
The detective stood, shoving his chair back roughly, and slammed his hands down on the stack of photos. "What, murder doesn't seem to fucking bother you, but foul language does?"
Corrado stared at the man, refusing to react.
One count of first-degree murder
Half a day had passed by the time Corrado was issued a jumpsuit. The heavy orange material hung from his body, scratchy against his skin. He was led to a phone and grabbed the receiver, ignoring the corrections officer as he tried to instruct him. He knew the deal. He had been here before.
He dialed the number from memory and leaned against the wall beside the phone, blocking his mouth for some privacy. It rang, and rang, and rang some more, before the curt female voice answered. "DeMarco residence."
"Gia," Corrado said politely. "Can I speak with Antonio?"
She laughed dryly. "You sure you want to? He's been on it for the past few hours. You must've done something wrong."
Corrado missed an appointment with the Boss. There wasn't much worse than that. "The sooner I speak with him, the better."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "Hold on."
A minute of rustling, of muffled arguing passed, before the phone was picked back up, Antonio's gruff voice on the line. He launched right into it, not even giving Corrado a chance to explain. "I told you to be at Rita's at 8 o'clock. I told you it was important. I don't fucking say these things for my health. I say them because I mean them."
"I know, sir."
"Then why weren't you there? I don't even get the courtesy of a call? I don't get a note? Nothing? You just leave me high and dry?"
He ranted on and on, his voice so loud Corrado was sure everyone around heard. He remained quiet, absorbing the Boss's anger, but after four minutes had passed he knew he couldn't take any more. The phone would cut off soon. "Sir."
Antonio stalled mid-sentence. "You have the audacity to interrupt me now?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but—"
"And now you're apologizing? You're just pissing me off more and more. You know what? I'm done with this conversation. I expect you at my house in ten minutes so we can discuss what we're going to do about this."
"I can't."
"You can't?"
"No, sir, I can't." He took a deep breath. "I'm tied up."
"With
what
?"
His eyes drifted toward the corrections officer, waiting to escort him to a cell. "Handcuffs, momentarily."
There was a long pause. "You're in jail?"
"Yes."
"And you called me? You know these calls are monitored, and you fucking call my house? And you don't even warn me I'm being recorded?"
"I just wanted to tell you I wouldn't be at the meeting."
"I got that, Moretti. I got it when you didn't show up!"
He pushed away from the wall. "It'll never happen again."
"It
better
not. And don't ever call me from that place."
A second before the voice came on informing Corrado that time was over, Antonio ended the call.
Bail was set at half a million dollars.
Corrado remained in jail as Christmas passed, December slowly fading away. He lay in the bottom bunk of his cell, staring at the bed above him night after night, exhausted and irritated. He kept mulling over every word the detective had said to him. How would he get out of this?
New Years Eve rolled around when a corrections officer came to get him from his cell. "You're being released, Moretti."
Corrado sat up in the bed. "Someone bailed me out?"
"So it seems."
Half a million dollars… who would put up
that
much money?
He was processed out of the system and given his clothes back. After haphazardly dressing and collecting his things, he stepped into the lobby of the jail to find his wife sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs by the window, gazing out into the parking lot. Sighing, he strolled toward her as her eyes drifted his way, a frown tainting her soft face. "
Bellissima
."
There was always a brief moment whenever Corrado came face-to-face with his wife after being away that it felt like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.
His chest tightened, and the air was suddenly thick, making it impossible to breathe. He was suspended in time, nothing existing except for them. There was no anger or hatred, no violence, no pain. No worry about the future or what would happen tomorrow. It was only then and there, and it was only
them
.
His heart stalled then, when their eyes connected, before pounding so hard that he felt the blood surging under his skin. He grew dizzy, his vision blurring from the intensity as his body flushed. He worried for a split second that he was going to pass out, every ounce of strength and resolve he fought so hard to maintain disintegrating. He was weak, vulnerable, with his
chest cracked
open, leaving him completely exposed.
All because of her.
It hurt, more than he ever expected such a thing to hurt. It felt like his body was giving out. Rebelling. Revolting. Like he was dying.
He never felt more
alive
.
But it was only for a moment. A simple moment where, for once, he felt normal, like maybe the world wasn't so horrible.
Pity it couldn't last.
Celia stood slowly, smoothing her dress, her expression unreadable. Without uttering a word, she walked away. Corrado followed, shoving his hands in his pockets as the cold air gnawed at his skin. He saw every single exhale from his wife's lips, the cloud of shaky breath speaking enough for her as she marched toward her father's
DeVille
in the parking lot.
He stopped in front of the vehicle. "You didn't drive my car?"
"It was impounded."
"You didn't get it out?"
Her eyebrows rose. "I was too busy trying to get
you
out."
"How did you?" he asked. "We don't have that kind of cash just laying around."
"I borrowed it."
"From where?"
She avoided his eyes, hesitating. His suspicion skyrocketed.
"Celia," he growled. "Tell me you did
not
go to a loan shark."
"What else was I supposed to do?"