Made (35 page)

Twenty-two minutes.

Corrado timed the distance between Dolce Vita's and the residence on Barton Avenue. Eleven minutes each direction. He would have less than a half hour to get in, get it done, and get back out again.

Plausible under normal circumstances.
He had killed men in under a minute, dead in the blink of an eye from a single shot to the back of the head. But Antonio's words complicated matters.

Make it hurt
.

The Boss wouldn't begrudge him if he stuck with a clean shot, quick and painless, but Corrado wasn't one to balk at a challenge.

A quarter after nine that night, Corrado parked his Mercedes down the block on Barton Avenue, just close enough to give him a clear view of the house. He sat in utter silence in the darkness, watching, and waiting, and watching some more.

At a quart till ten, a car in the driveway came to life and pulled away from the house. Corrado waited until it passed him before getting out, his glove-clad hands stuffed in his pockets so not to raise suspicion. The only hiccup in his plan would be if the man weren't home tonight, but those concerns were appeased when Corrado approached the house. The massive window to the living room was wide open, the blinds up, the curtains pulled aside. The man from the photograph sat on a recliner, snacking on a bowl of popcorn as he watched a movie.

So make it hurt... but
don't
let him scream.

And be invisible, so I'm not seen.

Corrado slipped around to the back door, finding it unlocked. He breathed deeply with relief as he stepped right inside the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and glanced around, still adjusting to the darkness. Stepping over to the counter, he pulled a chef's knife from the wooden block, gripping the handle, getting a feel for it. He had no time to waste.

Corrado slipped out of the kitchen, giving him a direct view of the living room. He glared at the back of the man's head, a mere few feet away, undetected. The itch to pull out his gun and put a bullet in his skull nagged at Corrado, but he swallowed it back.

The Boss would get what the Boss wanted.

Closing his eyes, he conjured up an image of the first death he'd ever witnessed. The brutality and hatred that surrounded him that day, the sheer horror he'd felt, and the heartbreak he'd been left with. He channeled it, letting it consume him, until the tips of his fingers tingled.

Opening his eyes again, he pounced, knife in hand.

The man caught a glimpse of Corrado in the reflection of the television and sat up straight, startled, but he wasn't fast enough to stop what was happening. Before he could speak—before he could
scream
—Corrado roughly grabbed a hold of the guys head, yanking it back toward the chair with his left hand, while he thrust the knife in the center of his throat with his right. The man flailed, gurgling, blood gushing from the wound as Corrado held it there, jamming the knife in deeper until he suffocated, choking on his own blood. The thick red ran down his chest, soaking his white undershirt. The bowl flew from his lap, hitting the floor, the pieces of popcorn coating the floor splattered with red.

In less than a minute, he stopped moving, his eyes glossing over as the flow of blood eased. His heart had quit. Corrado let go, leaving the knife wedged in his neck.

Quick, sure, but it had hurt.

Corrado's eyes shifted to the television at an equally grotesque scene.
The Exorcist
. He had to force himself to look back away.

As quickly as Corrado broke into the house, he slipped right back out. He took off his jacket and gloves, both soiled, and rolled them into a ball as he walked to his car under the cloak of darkness. He tossed them in a garbage bag in the trunk and tied it up before getting in the driver seat.

Starting the car up, he glanced at the time.

Five minutes to spare.

Without an ounce of hesitation, he drove away from Barton Avenue, heading back toward his neighborhood. He found a small store open that late at night and parked, avoiding the clerk as he headed into the little bathroom. Corrado scrubbed his hands before splashing water on his face.

The clerk eyed him peculiarly when he stepped back out. Corrado grabbed a box of raisins and a bottle of orange juice before approaching the counter. He pulled out some cash to pay but hesitated, spotting a display of fresh cut roses over by the door.

"How much for the flowers?"

"Three bucks."

"Give me some of those, too."

Corrado paid and picked up his things, grabbing some flowers on his way out the door.

Red, not pink.

Celia didn't like pink.

He made it home around eleven o'clock and walked inside, clutching the flowers, drink nestled in the crook of his arm as he popped raisins in his mouth, his appetite finally rearing its ugly head.

The house was dark, the quiet television in the living room emitting a soft glow. He walked that way, finding his wife sprawled out on the couch in a black nightgown.

Setting his drink on the coffee table, he sat down on the edge of the couch in front of her. His hand grazed her cheek, brushing her hair from her face. Her eyes opened. "Hey, you."

"Hey."

He held out the flowers, her expression brightening at the sight of them. "They're beautiful, Corrado. What are they for?"

"For being the light of my life."

She got up, darting from the living room, and returned with the flowers in a clear vase. She set them on the table as she sat back down. Corrado relaxed back on the couch and kicked off his shoes, munching on the raisins. "Want some?" he asked, offering the box to her.

She wrinkled her nose. "They're not smothered in chocolate."

"Why would they be?"

"To make them edible."

He laughed, shrugging, and finished off the box. As soon as he tossed his trash on the table, Celia snuggled against him. "What did you do tonight?"

"Went to dinner with your father."

"Really?"

He nodded. "What did you do?"

"Just hung out around here with Maura until she got tired."

"Where's she sleeping?"

She hesitated. "Our bed."

Corrado's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me the girl is asleep in
my
bed?"

"Our bed," she said again. "Where else was she going to sleep?"

"I don't know. I'm more concerned with where
I'm
going to sleep tonight."

"Well, I have no problem sleeping on the couch. And frankly, I didn't even know if you were coming home, so..."

Point taken
.

He pulled her in front of him as he stretched out, snuggling against her on the couch. He draped his arm around her, hand stroking her thigh and hip before slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown. It worked its way higher, caressing her soft stomach, as his lips found her neck.

She hummed. "That feels so good."

Those words were all the encouragement he needed. He slid her underwear down, discarding it on the floor, before unzipping his pants. He throbbed in his palm as he stroked himself, hitching her leg around him. Slowly, he slid into her from behind, groaning as he filled her.

Corrado stroked her clit, rubbing the sensitive flesh, bringing her to orgasm quickly as he thrust into her. As soon as her pleasure subsided, she dropped her leg and moved away. Corrado started to protest, feeling the loss the moment he slipped out of her, but she turned around and silenced him with a kiss.

Shifting onto his back on the couch, Celia climbed on top of him. She sunk down on his lap, taking him deeply inside of her. Shifting her hips, she rode him as his hands roamed her body over her nightgown, feeling her breasts, pinching her nipples through the flimsy fabric.

Celia grabbed his hands, pulling them away from her. She pressed them against the arm of the couch, holding them there. Corrado blinked a few times, glancing above him at their hands as she pinned him down.

He stared into her eyes, drinking in her serious expression. Anyone else and he would've killed them. Anyone else would be dead. But for her—and her alone—he offered a bit of control. He closed his eyes, letting her restrain him, letting her rock against him until he came inside of her.

    
23

The loud shriek echoed through the house, startling Corrado awake. He sat straight up on the couch, disoriented, as he heard frantic muttering coming from outside the living room.

"Oh no, oh God, this can't be. No… no… no… it can't be!"

"Celia," he called out, concerned as he climbed to his feet.

Celia bounded into the living room, clutching the morning newspaper. Her eyes were glassy with tears. He loathed the sight of them, vengeful at the thought of something hurting her. He'd kill whoever caused it.

"Tell me what's wrong."

She frantically held the paper up. As soon as he read the front-page headline, he knew what it was about.

Chicago Man Brutally Murdered in His Home

"Someone killed him," she cried. "They killed Daddy's best friend!"

Corrado had prepared for a lot of things. He wouldn't have even been surprised had she accused him of the crime. But those words astonished him. "Antonio's
best friend
?"

She nodded. "Daddy must be devastated! And Johnny... Oh God, Johnny! Remember Johnny from the pizzeria? This is his dad!"

Corrado stared at her as she shook the paper in his face, trying to process that information. He took the newspaper from her and stared down at it. "I thought Sal was your father's best friend. Or maybe Sonny..."

"They work with him," she said. "Virgil was different."

Virgil. So that was what the 'V' stood for.

"How was he different?"

"Daddy trusts Sal and Sonny. Daddy respects them.
But Virgil?
Daddy
loves
him. They're like brothers."

Love. Peculiar thing, the way Antonio DeMarco showed his love.

"They all grew up together," Celia continued. "Daddy, Sonny, Sal, Virgil. They went to the same schools, did everything
together.
Virgil decided to go his own way when the rest of them went into the business, but they stayed friends. Daddy's even godfather to his Johnny! Oh God, and now Virgil's dead…"

Celia grabbed the phone, still rambling, but Corrado knew the words weren't for him. Figuring she was calling her parents, he walked out to give her some privacy, heading upstairs to the bedroom to change. Yesterday's suit still clung to his body, soiled from sweat and sex, heavy with memories of sin and bloodshed.

He skimmed through the article as he walked. Virgil Tarullo, found dead in his home shortly before eleven o'clock by his wife and son. No sign of forced entry. No suspects. No one saw anything. Virgil was a picture-perfect family man who had no enemies.

He had a best friend instead
.

He stepped in his bedroom, shutting the door, when a sharp intake of air caught his attention. Looking up, his eyes met Maura across the room, a horrified expression on her face. He'd shut them in together.

He tossed the paper down on the dresser and reopened the door. "I forgot you were here."

"I, uh… sorry."

He held his hand up to stop her apologies. His bed was stripped bare to the mattress, his sheets and blankets and pillows in a pile on the floor. "Did you do something to my bed?"

"I slept in it."

"And?"

"And I thought… well… I didn't think you'd want to use these sheets after…"

After she slept on them
. She didn't finish, but he knew where that was going. "The washing machine is downstairs beside my office."

"Yes, sir."

She gathered it all up and lugged it from the room. He waited until she was gone before shutting the door again. After stripping out of his clothes, he headed into the bathroom to shower.

He stood under the hot spray, steam fogging the mirrors as the scalding water rained down upon him. His skin tinged pink as pins and needles crept across his back, the tingling burn seeping below the surface. He stood there, silent, stoic, letting the water wash away his sins.

A cool blast of air rushed through, chills sweeping over him. Celia climbed in the shower with him, a sharp scream piercing the air as she dodged the water. "Jesus, Corrado, that burns!"

Reaching over, he turned the knobs to cool the water down. Once it had chilled she stepped in front of him, into the spray. He wrapped his arms around her, letting the coldness soothe the burning of his flesh.

"I want to go see Daddy," Celia said. "Will you come with me?"

"Anything you want."

"I want Virgil back," she whispered. "I want him not to be
dead
."

"I can't give you that."

"I know," she said. "I know you would if you could, though."

He said nothing, continuing to hold her in silence for a moment, before finally letting go. He stepped out of the shower, leaving her to wash those thoughts away in peace.

A gloomy heaviness hung in every corner and walkway of the DeMarco residence, infiltrating Corrado's lungs with each breath he took. Antonio sat behind his desk as Sal and Sonny took their usual spots along the side of the office, sipping on scotch despite it being ten o'clock in the morning.

Antonio held a glass, too, not drinking it. He stared down at the golden colored liquid, swirling it around and around in his glass, lines of worry marking his troubled face. Distress was evident in all the men… never-ending frowns, bloodshot eyes, a silence that spoke louder than words could convey. Corrado stood in the doorway, unmoving, detaching, as he tried to make sense where no sense could be made.

Celia rushed toward her father, bolting around the desk. Sonny, usually on alert whenever anyone approached the Boss, barely even looked up. Antonio set his glass down as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, Daddy. I'm so, so sorry."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Antonio's voice was strained. "I can't believe it."

"I know," she said. "What his poor family must've seen!"

"They said it was gruesome," Antonio replied. "It's gonna take a fucking bulldozer to rid that house of that mess. Stabbed right in the throat, ten-inch knife. Said it pierced the chair behind him, like he was staked in the neck. Blood everywhere. Fucking ugly."

Celia let out a strangled cry. "God, who would do such a thing?"

Antonio's eyes subtly shifted to Corrado as he hugged his daughter, patting her back. "A savage."

"Is there anything I can do?" Celia asked. "Anything you need?"

Prying out of the hug, Antonio waved toward the doorway. "Your mother's making some food for the
Tarullos
… some lasagna and stuff that Ginny can heat up. Why don't you go ask her if she needs help?"

Gloom seemed to grow deeper when Celia left. Corrado remained there, unmoving, unwavering. He hadn't been invited to take a seat, but he hadn't been dismissed either. He scanned the men, trying to detect some sign of trouble, some indication of
anything
unusual, but their faces gave nothing away. The grief seemed genuine, tears gleaming in Antonio's eyes as he picked up his scotch once more.

"Sonny, Sal," Antonio said. "You mind giving me a minute with Moretti?"

"No problem, Boss," Sonny said, getting up and walking out. Sal lingered, finishing his drink before standing, eyes questionably scanning Corrado as he passed.

"Shut the door," Antonio instructed once the men were gone. Corrado obeyed before stepping further into the room. Antonio set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing. He avoided Corrado's gaze as he pulled out a thick envelope. Tossing it on the desk in front of him, he nodded for Corrado to pick it up. "A hundred grand."

Corrado slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had never been paid so much for a hit before—forty grand, fifty at most.

Antonio stared at him as a sly smile lifted the corner of his lips. "You're not going to ask any questions?"

He shook his head.

"This stays between you and me."

"Always."

Antonio's smile grew until a light, airy laugh left his lips. "Go on, get out of here."

Three days later, as autumn dawned, Virgil Tarullo was laid to rest in a small cemetery on the east side of the city. Corrado stood with his arm around his wife, holding her protectively.

Antonio stood beside them, with Gia and Vincent, Sonny and his wife to their right. Sal came alone, lingering off to the back, while Virgil's family took up the other side of the fresh grave.

They spoke ill of Corrado, calling him names, cursing him, damning him to Hell for what he had done… they just had no idea he was there to hear it. Their voices, their anger, their hatred washed over him, finding no way through his thick skin, unable to pierce his armor, as they grieved the man they had lost and condemned the one who had taken him away.

It had been a job, he told himself—a job that had paid for the black dress his wife wore, that had paid for the gas in the car that drove them, that had paid for the flowers Celia gave to the family before she hugged her friend, Johnny.

It was nothing personal.

Strictly business.