Made (55 page)

"Good," he said. "I got something that needs taken care of. Come to my house."

The line went dead. Without saying another word, Corrado hung up the phone and set his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box.

As usual, she was right.

"Like I said…" Celia kicked her feet up on the couch, shifting away from him, her attention returning to the movie. "…
this
doesn't count as my rain check."

The house was pitch black when Corrado got back home in the wee hours of the morning. The cold, stale air hung eerily silent. Corrado walked to the living room to start a fire, not close to being tired, knowing Celia would be asleep at this hour.

He stepped into the room and reached for the light switch when movement on the couch caught his eye. He froze, heart thumping wildly, as he stared at the form in the darkness. The light from the window, a nearby streetlight, gave enough of a glow for him to make out her features. "Celia?"

"Who is she?"

Her tone was icier than the house.

"Who?"

"Don't do that," she said, a quiver in her voice. "Don't treat me that way, Corrado. Be a man and tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me!"

He flicked the switch, wincing at the sudden bright light, as he stepped closer to the couch. Celia jumped up, her hair a mess, makeup wiped off. She didn't cry… no, not anymore… but she had. Her bloodshot eyes were puffy.

"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."

"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."