Made (34 page)

"I found the one," he whispered into her hair.

"Favorite Sinatra song?"

"Yes," he replied. "But I meant
you
."

Corrado grabbed her, lifting her into his arms, and ignored her feeble protests as he carried her upstairs. He set her back on her feet right inside the bedroom, swinging her around so her back was to him. Slowly, methodically, he tugged the zipper down on her dress, his knuckles grazing her spine and pausing at the small of her back. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed the material down her arms as he caressed her skin.

Her dress dropped to her ankles.

He unfastened her bra, removing every last stitch of clothing from her body. Celia stood in place, allowing him to undress her,
goosebumps
coating her flesh wherever his hands touched.

Backing up, Corrado surveyed her. A blush tinged her bronzed skin as she wrapped her arms around herself. Corrado grasped her wrists, pulling her hands away when she tried to shield herself. He stared at her, stunned to see the uncertainty in her eyes.

"You're not nervous this time, are you?" he asked, half-teasingly, half honestly wanting to know. She'd been so confident, unwavering before.

"It's the way you're looking at me."

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like you look at the
Taj
Mahal
.
Or the Sistine Chapel.
You're staring at me like you stare at the Mona Lisa."

"I've never seen those things."

"It's like you've never seen something so beautiful before."

"I haven’t."

She shivered at his words. "
That's
the way you're looking at me."

"And that bothers you?"

"I can't live up to it," she said. "You can't put me on a pedestal. I'll only fall."

"You'll never fall," he said. "Not if I'm there to catch you."

A small smile infused her lips, despite the self-doubt still lurking in her eyes. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Say things so matter-of-fact and make people believe them?"

"It's not hard when what I say is true."

"There it is again."

He returned her smile, raising an eyebrow. "Do you believe me when I tell you there's nothing more beautiful in the world than you?"

She hesitated. "You make me want to."

"It's true," he continued. "You're the woman the Italians write their poetry about."

Her blush deepened. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm not," he said. "My life is ugly, Celia.
I'm
ugly."

"You're not," she insisted.

He ignored her. "I'll never deserve you, I'll never be good for you, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be
enough
. And the simple fact that you're letting me proves your beauty. Because your beauty, Celia, is more than skin deep." He let go of her wrists, the palm of his hand cupping her flushed cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, before running down her neck and across her chest. She sighed, her eyelids fluttering at his touch. "As beautiful as you are on the outside—and you are—it's what's beneath it that's the most beautiful of all."

"What's so special about me?"

He stared at her again. How could she even ask that?

"I've shown you parts of the monster inside of me."

"You're
not
a monster."

"I've shown you it," he said as if she hadn't interrupted, "and it doesn't terrify you. People look at me, and I can tell they're unnerved to be even breathing the same air as me, as if whatever's inside of me is contagious.
But not you.
You're not afraid to be with me. You're not afraid to let me inside of you. You're not afraid of catching my
disease
."

She grimaced at the way he spoke. "There's nothing wrong with you, Corrado."

She meant it. He could tell by the sincerity in her voice.

He hoped with everything that she always felt that way.

"Your light is the only thing in this world not tainted by my darkness," he said, his eyes leaving hers to rake down her flushed body. "The only effect I seem to have on it is to turn it a slight shade of pink."

"It's because you're still looking at me that way."

He laughed lightly, his focus returning to her face, noting her cheeks growing even redder. "
Luna Rossa
," he whispered. "My very own blushing moon."

He kissed her briefly before his lips left hers, trailing kisses along her jaw and to her neck. She tilted her head to the side as he made his way to her collarbones, before going lower.

Right there, in the middle of the bedroom, Corrado dropped to his knees. Celia stared down at him, breathing heavily, confusion in her eyes that faded at his wordless declaration of love. Her eyes closed, a shuddering breath escaping her parted lips, her hands gripping his hair as his lips found her body again, tasting her flesh.

She whimpered. Her knees trembled.

"I believe you," she said.

    
22

Very little made Corrado uncomfortable.

Although he had long ago learned to detach, he wasn't immune to feelings. He loved his wife—God, did he love her—and he loathed his mother more than anything. His emotions spanned the entire spectrum, but discomfort was one of those rare sensations that crept up on him.

And no moment,
no
situation, made him quite as uncomfortable as standing in the foyer of his house, clutching the door wide-open, with a young Maura on his front step. Vito stood beside her, frantically puffing on a thick cigar as his gaze darted around the neighborhood.

"Well, here you go, kid." Vito took a step back. "She's all yours."

"She's Celia's," Corrado clarified, but his father was already halfway to the idling Lincoln.

Corrado wasn't sure what to say. He stared at the girl, expecting her to do whatever she was supposed to do—whatever she
usually
did—but she just stood there, eyes downcast as if the grungy stone step were the most interesting thing she'd ever seen.

Maybe it was, Corrado thought. Maybe she wanted to clean it.

"Come inside," he said finally, growing impatient.

Maura stepped past him, into the house, and stopped in the foyer. She stared at the floor there, too, still not reacting. The wooden floor wasn't spotless, but it had been swept recently. What was so interesting about
it
?

Frowning, Corrado glanced outside as the Lincoln pulled away.

Something struck him…

He addressed Maura, who
still
wasn't moving. "Where are your belongings?"

Her low voice barely constituted a whisper. "What belongings?"

"Your things," he clarified. "Your clothes and… things."

"I have none."

His father had dropped her off with nothing except the clothes on her back.

Oh well
.

He had come to Chicago with the same. He supposed she didn't need much. He surveyed her, assessing. Some clothes, certainly, and a new pair of shoes, as her sandals were at least half a size too small. She could have used a hairbrush, too.
And a razor.
And some soap.
And probably some other sort of feminine things eventually.

He grimaced at the thought and shut the front door, harder than he intended. Maura recoiled at the slam, taking a few steps away from him, pressing her back flat against the wall.

At least she's
doing
something now.

"So, uh…" Where was Celia? She should have been home from the grocery store by now. "…I'll be in my office, but don't bother me unless it's an emergency."

He walked away, heading straight to the first floor office, and sat down behind his desk. He had no work to do—not that he even did much work in this room, anyway. His work was out in the streets, and there was no paperwork to be filed about it. He was still merely a street soldier, despite his coveted position on the Boss's personal payroll.

That would change soon, though. It was only a matter of time.

He mulled over that, scanning through the day's newspaper, when he heard movement around the house. Doors opened, drawers slammed, whispered voices filtering through the cracks. He continued to read until the office door flung open without so much as even a knock. On alert, Corrado's eyes darted over top of the paper, but the person who stood in front of him was hardly a threat.

Hardly a threat, but yet something in Celia's eyes made him tense. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" she ground out, glancing out of the office before focusing back on him. "She was standing in the foyer with her head down."

"Still?"

"How long has she been there?"

He shrugged, glancing at the clock. "Thirty minutes, maybe."

"Just standing there."

"Yes."

"Alone."

"Yes."

"In the foyer."

"Yes."

She shook her head, throwing up her hands in disbelief. "Completely useless."

"She seems that way."

"I wasn't talking about
her
," Celia said, jabbing her finger in the air at him.

Dumbfounded, Corrado stared at the empty office doorway when his wife stomped back out. He folded up the newspaper and tossed it aside before following. Celia's voice sounded out from the kitchen, much more passive than it had just been. Corrado strolled that way, leaning against the doorframe. A dozen or so paper bags were scattered around, things lying on the counters as Celia put the groceries away. Maura helped, digging through the bags as Celia told her where everything went.

"Did you need help?" Corrado asked.

Maura flinched at the sound of his voice, green eyes meeting his for only a second. Celia, on the other hand, didn't even look his way. "I have help."

"Wonderful."

"
Wonderful
," she sneered, mimicking him. "Unbelievable, I swear."

Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. "I don't understand."

"I know you don't," Celia said, "and that's the problem."

He watched as his wife continued to put away the groceries, Maura working right along beside her. He wasn't sure what else to say, so he said nothing.

The phone rang after a minute, drawing Corrado into the living room. He picked up the receiver. "Moretti speaking."

"Corrado!" Antonio's voice greeted him. "You hungry?"

"No."

His curt response made Antonio laugh heartily. "Ever the honest one. How about you get hungry and meet me at Rita's? Thirty minutes."

The line went dead.

Hanging up, he headed upstairs and put on a tie, grabbing his jacket and revolver before heading back down. He paused at the kitchen again. "I'm leaving."

The anger melted away when Celia saw him dressed and ready to go. "Be careful."

He merely nodded. Careful was the name of the game.

It took a little over thirty minutes to make it to Evanston with traffic. Antonio was already seated at a table beside a young Sicilian guy named Amando Donati. The guys called him Manny, a sort of play off his name that doubled as a dig at his private life. Manny, a quiet masculine guy who always wore a short
beard,
had married an aging stripper, despite their ten year age difference. Manny took her in and supported her and her four kids, no questions asked. The guys jested him about it, calling him a nanny, but Manny took it in stride.

Corrado respected that—he didn't care about anyone's personal life as long as they kept it at home.

Manny worked as Antonio's chauffeur, a bodyguard whenever Antonio felt the need to travel with one. His presence told Corrado this was business, not pleasure.

Corrado slid into a chair across from the Boss, grateful not to be chastised for his tardiness, and ordered his usual: spaghetti with meat sauce. Antonio made small talk, joking all through the meal, the smell of the food not enough to spur Corrado's appetite to life. After they finished, Antonio cleared his throat and turned to Manny. "Amando, you mind giving me a minute with my son-in-law?"

"Of course not, Boss." Manny stood and walked out.

As soon as he was gone, the air around the table shifted, the relaxed atmosphere gripped by tension. Corrado eyed the Boss curiously, but Antonio carried on as if he couldn't sense the change. "How are things at home?"

A personal question.
He hated these. "I have no complaints."

Antonio smiled, a strained sort of smile that carried no warmth. "Vito said he dropped your present off."

"Yes."

"How's that working out?"

"Again, no complaints."

"You never have any complaints," Antonio said, his expression more genuine now. "I'm just a little concerned, naturally. You already have heat on you from that detective. You don't need anymore trouble."

"I'll make sure she doesn't cause any."

"Good, good."

"Is that what this was about?" Corrado asked, wondering if he'd be called out of his house to talk about the girl.

"Of course not." Antonio reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small photograph and slipped it across the table to Corrado. It was a picture of a family, a man and his wife with their son. The older couple was strangers to Corrado, but the boy… he recognized him.

John Tarullo.

"You know them?" Antonio asked.

Corrado stared at the boy's face, an image flashing in his mind, those familiar eyes watching him from the door of Dolce
Vita's
the night he'd killed Luca. "I recognize the boy."

"Little Johnny," Antonio said. "Good kid, never a problem."

A weight lifted from Corrado's chest at the kindness in Antonio's voice. At least he wouldn't have to kill his wife's friend.

"His father, on the other hand…" Antonio let out a dry laugh that resulted in a cough. "He's got to go."

Corrado slipped the photo into his pocket with a subtle nod.

"Knew I could count on you," Antonio said, standing to leave. He only made it a few steps before leaning down, close to Corrado, and added, "There will be another ten grand for this one if you make it hurt."

Make it hurt
. He'd never requested that before. "Yes, sir."

Antonio slapped him on the back and left.

Corrado pulled out his wallet and tossed some cash on the table to cover the bill before walking out.

It was dark when Corrado left the restaurant. He strode down the block, bypassing his car, to the nearest phone booth. Stepping inside, he closed the door and grabbed the phone book, searching through it for the name Tarullo. He found half a dozen in the area and scanned the listings. Antonio hadn't told him the man's name.

He grabbed the picture from his pocket, flipping it over, but only found 'Tarullo' scribbled on the back. He shoved it away, returning to the phone book, and started at the top of the list.

Feeding coin after coin into the payphone, he dialed the numbers one by one, putting on his friendliest voice. "Is Johnny there?" he asked whenever someone answered. Again and again he heard he had the wrong number, no Johnny lived there. Maybe the man was smart enough to keep his number unlisted.

He reached the final one, simply listed as
Tarullo,
V. Corrado dialed the number, leaning against the booth as it rang.

A woman's voice answered, soft and polite. "Tarullo residence."

"Is Johnny there?" he asked.

"He's working tonight," she replied.

Ding, ding,
ding
.

"Working, huh? You know when he gets off?"

"I'm picking him up at ten o'clock."

Bingo
. "Great."

"Can I take your name? I'll tell Johnny you called."

"No, it's all right. I'll get up with him later."

Corrado hung up and stared at the phonebook, noting the address.
19934 Barton Ave
.