Made by J. M. Darhower
"My gun," he muttered, concealing it as he bolted for the door. He slipped out of the restaurant, into the darkness, giving only a brief glance behind.
A brief glance, leading straight to a set of startled young eyes watching suspiciously from the pizzeria door.
Corrado parked in front of the mansion on Felton Drive and stepped out of his car, surveying the quiet property. Most of the house was dark at this hour, except for a bright light shining from the front room. Corrado shut his car door, a shiver running through him from the bitter cold, and wrapped his coat tightly around him. When he stepped up on the porch, the curtain ruffled, alerting him to the fact that he was being watched.
He approached the door and reached toward the doorbell, but stopped before pressing it. This late at night, it wouldn't surprise him if most of the family were already asleep. Not wanting to be rude, he instead tapped on the door.
Immediately, it opened a crack, a young boy appearing. Corrado blinked a few times, vaguely recognizing the face. "Vincenzo?"
His expression flickered to annoyance. "It's Vincent."
"Vincent," Corrado said. "Is your father home?"
Vincent narrowed his eyes, studying him, deciding whether or not to answer. He was about a foot shorter than Corrado and still had a slight baby face. Thirteen, Corrado tried to remember. Maybe fourteen. He hadn't seen him since that summer in North Carolina.
After a moment, Vincent opened the door the rest of the way and waved Corrado in. "He's in his office. It's just down the hall, last door on the right."
Corrado nodded his thanks and strolled down the hall as Vincent closed the front door again. The door to the office was cracked open, a soft glow of light spilling out onto the floor. Corrado pushed it open the rest of the way, seeing Antonio lounged in his black leather office chair. His eyes were closed, a pager lying on the desk in front of him.
Waiting for the news Corrado was about to bring.
Corrado stepped into the doorway, stealthily, but Antonio seemed to sense it. Intuitive. His eyes snapped open, his hand reaching into his desk with lightning speed and whipping out a small .22 pistol. He pointed it, no hesitation, as emotions played out in his eyes. Sheer terror turned to shock before fading to suspicion.
“How’d you get in here?” Antonio asked, the gun aimed straight at Corrado's face.
“Your son let me in,” he said. “He told me where to find you.”
Antonio cursed under his breath. Clearly Vincent wasn't supposed to invite people in.
“What are you doing here?” Antonio spat. “You had an order! Did you think I was fucking around?”
It took a second for those words to register with Corrado. The Boss thought he'd failed.
Corrado said nothing, the anger of being underestimated again swarming inside of him as he reached into his coat. Antonio watched apprehensively, his finger still on the trigger of his gun, appearing unnerved by his presence.
Corrado pulled the rag out of his pocket, grasping it in the palm of his hand as he took two steps forward. Antonio kept the gun trained on him as he set it on the desk before taking those same two steps back. It was calculated, careful.
He didn't want to get shot, after all.
Glancing down, Antonio balked, the gun wobbling and no longer aimed at him. Luca's middle finger lay in front of him, bloody and still fresh, a grotesque shade of purple framing the gold ring. Antonio stared at it, shell-shocked. "His fucking finger!"
He hadn’t expected it to be attached still.
“How…?” Antonio looked back at him. “You? How the hell did you do it?”
“I watched him for two days, studied him, until I could predict his next move. Then I just stayed one step ahead of him.”
Corrado turned to leave without waiting for dismissal when Antonio cleared his throat. “Hey, kid.”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
“Corrado,” he replied. “Corrado Moretti.”
Recognition dawned on the man's face. Corrado saw it in his eyes, practically heard his next thought: Vito's kid.
“Nice job, Moretti.”
Corrado shook his head. “A job is a job, sir. If you’re doing it right, there’s nothing nice about it.”
10
A horn blared in front of the house, loud and incessant. Corrado walked to the window and peered through the curtain, spotting the familiar black Lincoln in the driveway.
He opened the front door, not giving his father much of a look as he tried to fix his collar. His knot was sloppy, the tie completely lopsided.
Ties came in handy—last night had proven it—but he'd never get the hang of them.
The horn stopped blowing as Vito stepped out. "Un-fuckin'-believable."
Corrado groaned. "I know. I'll never learn to tie these things."
"I ain't talking about your damn tie, kid," Vito said, his voice high-pitched. Corrado glanced at him, wondering if it were excitement or anxiety fueling his words. "I wake up to the news that Esponzio is dead. Dead! The organization is gossiping like a bunch of little girls! Everybody wants to take credit, everyone's crew trying to step up, wanting the glory, you know? But nobody really knows who did it. My crew sure didn't."
Corrado remained quiet, his eyes still on his tie, but his mind absorbed his father's every word.
"But then I'm sitting at the house, and my phone rings, and it's the Boss. The Boss! He goes, 'Vito, I need you to do something for me.' And I'm down for whatever, you know? So I tell him that, and he goes, 'I need you to bring your son to me today. I wanna meet with your kid.' So I go, 'my kid?' And you know what he says?"
"What?"
"He says, 'yeah, Corrado.'" Vito's voice leveled out as he spoke his name, a staunch seriousness seeping in. "Corrado. At first I'm nervous, you know, because he's calling you in, but then something hits me—he knows your name."
Corrado gave up on fixing his tie and stared at Vito. "So?"
"So Antonio DeMarco doesn't care to know names. He makes a point never to learn them. Some days I wonder if he even fucking remembers mine. So I hang up the phone, and then it hits me. I know why no one can say whose crew killed Esponzio."
"Why?"
Vito pointed at him as he stepped forward. "Because it was you."
Corrado remained silent.
"Tell me you did it," Vito said, a hard edge to his voice. "Tell me you went out and killed that bastard after I specifically told you not to try it."
Corrado nodded slowly. "I did."
Every muscle in his body grew taut at the look on his father's face. He prepared for him to lash out, to rail on him for disobeying. Vito didn't like people disregarding him. But as quickly as the rage flared in Vito's eyes, it disintegrated as genuine laughter burst from his chest. His laugh was loud and boisterous as he grabbed Corrado, pulling him into a tight hug. He smacked him on the back, happiness oozing from him as he grabbed Corrado's face between his hands. Pride shined from his glossy eyes. "I knew you had it in you, kid. That's what I was talking about, you know. I told you to make a name for yourself, and you fucking did it."
Corrado didn't disagree, but his father was wrong. Antonio DeMarco may know his name, but he'd seen it in his eyes—he was still just Vito's kid.
"Come on." Vito stepped off the porch. "Can't keep the Boss waiting."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now. We got ten minutes to get there."
Corrado shut his front door, locking up the house, before following his father. He grew tense as they drove across town, sickness brewing in the pit of Corrado's stomach as they approached the neighborhood he'd lurked in three nights in a row. They cruised down the street, past police cars with lights still flashing, as yellow caution tape surrounded Lang Miens. He hoped his father would continue on, but Vito whipped the car into the first parking spot he found.
"Here?" Corrado asked incredulously.
Vito shrugged, cutting the engine. "The Boss picks the place. We just show up."
Antonio sat in a booth in the far back, away from the door but with a window view. His eyes were peeled outside, fixated across the street. Vito and Corrado slid into the booth across from him.
"It's something, isn't it?" Antonio said, turning his gaze to Corrado when they removed the caution tape. "You must have one hell of an adrenaline rush. Being here, so close, yet nobody knowing. Nobody saw. Nobody suspects."
Nobody. Corrado nodded, yet he knew it wasn't true. The suspicious eyes of the kid named John haunted his thoughts. He may not have seen it, he may not have known, but he suspected.
Corrado looked around for the boy, not finding him anywhere. There was no adrenaline rushing through him, no excitement, and no satisfaction. He felt very little.
It seemed all like a vague dream.
"I gotta tell you—I didn't think you'd do it," Antonio continued. "I still wonder how you pulled it off, but part of me doesn't wanna know. What I do know is that you got a God-given talent, and I wanna use that. I want you to use that. You get what I'm saying?"
Corrado slowly shook his head. "No, sir."
Antonio leaned across the table, closer to Corrado. His eyes were full of wonder as a small smirk turned his lips. He looked like a kid who just found the best prize on the bottom of his Cracker Jack box. "I want you to work for me. I'm offering you a chance, a way to the top, while we have an opening. You'll still have to earn your place, you know, join your father's crew, but aside from that, I'll have some special work for you."
He didn't spell it out, but Corrado got the message. He'd killed La Cosa Nostra's biggest hitman. Someone had to take his place.
"Okay."
Antonio raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"
"Okay." What else was he supposed to say? He couldn't refuse him. He hadn't been around for long, but he knew enough to know that when the Boss made an offer, it was actually a demand.
Antonio remained there, unmoving, staring at Corrado inquisitively. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Stay so detached," he asked. "I've yet to see any emotion from you. You show up, calm and collected, like we're talking about the fucking weather here."
"He's always been that way," Vito chimed in from beside him.
"I don't think I've even seen him smile," Antonio continued, shaking his head. "Hell, can you smile?"
"Of course I can," he replied. "There just isn't any reason to."
Antonio reached across the table and grasped Corrado's shoulder, squeezing it. "I like that about you. You don't bullshit. Most guys plaster on that fake smile, you know, always laughing like a fucking clown. You can't trust them if you can't tell when they're being genuine. But you... I can tell with you."
Corrado was unsure of what to say.
His lack of a verbal response made Antonio snicker again. Sitting back in his booth, he waved them away. "You fellas get on out of here. My family will be here soon for lunch, and well, you know..."
"I understand, sir." Corrado stood. "Have a good day."
Vito said goodbye before following Corrado. They strolled out of the restaurant as Vito pulled his car keys from his pocket and started down the block. They'd made it a few steps when a car pulled up to the curb, a door opening. The sound of laughter reached Corrado's ears, light and airy, like a soft classical melody. His footsteps faltered as he glanced toward the source.
Celia DeMarco.
Bright afternoon sunlight streamed down on her. Her white dress made her skin appear much tanner than he recalled. It was chilly out, so much so that Corrado detected a slight fog surrounding every breath, but warmth surrounded her like glowing light. Happiness radiated from her as she spun in a circle, yelling something back at whoever was in the car before heading toward the restaurant. She paused at the door, hesitating as she glanced Corrado's way.
Their eyes connected.
The woman in front of him was a far cry from the girl he'd met so long ago. Awkward knobby knees and gangly limbs had given way to a curvaceous body, her clunky braces gone, replaced with a dimpled grin, complete with perfect teeth as she smiled dazzlingly at him.
But still, her hair hung over her shoulder, sloppily braided.
Celia's free hand came up, cautiously giving him a small wave.
Corrado raised his hand, awkwardly waving back, the gesture making her laugh again… this time at him. For him. The stunning sound faintly reached his ears as she disappeared into the pizzeria, making every inch of his body tingle at the recognition.
Without realizing it, Corrado was smiling.
He stood there, dumbfounded, before his father grasped his arm and pulled him out of his stupor.
"Guess you found your reason to smile, huh?"
Corrado straightened his expression out. "It's just nice to see a familiar face."
"Is that all it is?"
"Of course. What else would it be?"
Vito opened his mouth to respond but shut it, instead shaking his head, thinking better of answering that. "Just be careful, kid."
"Careful," Corrado echoed. "Isn't that what I do for a living now?"
"There's a witness."
Corrado watched with surprise as he approached his house, seeing his father sitting on the front porch. It was late at night, around eleven o'clock, and Corrado was just coming in from a long first day of work. Or what Antonio DeMarco called work, anyway. It was more like twelve hours of shadowing and nursing a glass of scotch he had no desire to drink. "What?"
"One of our guys on the inside of the police department said there's a witness to the Esponzio hit," Vito said as he puffed on a cigar. "Some kid saw an Italian boy loitering in the area, described him as sorta tall, dark, curly hair, late teens, maybe early twenties. Said he was handsome."
Corrado's brow furrowed. Handsome?
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were describing you," Vito said, casting him a narrowed look. "You're handsome, I guess. Look like your father a bit, and he's a good looking bastard." Vito smirked at his own joke, but his humor faded as fast as it came on. "Can't be, though. Because you wouldn't have let anyone see you, right? Had to be some mistake."
"Had to be."
Vito flicked his ashes as he stood. "That's what I thought. Figured you'd clear it up, you know… make sure nobody could identify you."
"Absolutely."
Vito strolled away as Corrado muttered under his breath. Utterly exhausted, he wanted to go to bed, but he knew he couldn't. Not now. Not until the situation was resolved. His father hadn't said that, but he didn't have to. The implication was there.
Corrado drove straight to Dolce Vita Pizza. It was a Saturday, so the place was busy even at that hour. Corrado strolled inside, pausing right in the door to survey the crowd. It took a moment before he spotted the familiar boy off to the side, clearing off a small table.
Taking a deep breath, Corrado sauntered across the pizzeria and slid into one of the empty chairs. John went to say something, but froze when he got a good look at him. The color drained from his face as he stood up straight.
Casually, Corrado grabbed a menu from where it stuck out behind the napkin dispenser. He opened it in front of him and glanced up. "John, right?"
John hesitated. "Yes."
"Do you have a last name, John?"
An even longer pause. "Tarullo."
"John Tarullo," Corrado said, chanting the name in his mind, reciting it to memory. "You know, I can't seem to stop thinking about the other night."
The boy stiffened. "What about it?"
Corrado remained silent, surveying the menu. Settling on something, he closed it to face John. "I think I'll take that deep dish pie now. You wouldn't wanna disappoint me, right? Wouldn't hang me out to dry?"
&
"Good. Make it a small, with sausage and mushroom. Light on the sauce. You think you can get that for me? And a glass of water, of course."
"Uh, sure. Anything else?"
Corrado stared him down. "No, I don't think so. I think we're good here. Aren't we, John Tarullo?"
"Sure thing."
11
Beyond the bruises and welts, cleverly concealed by an ample flow of blood, a soul is as easily traumatized as a human body. No one sees it; No one knows. But the crack of a belt against flesh, the strike of bitter words laced with venom, ricochets and lashes away at what lies beneath. Cuts appear on the soul, strong and sturdy as the thickest tempered glass, until one day, one attack is too much for it to take.
The second the strike hits, everything shatters into a million tiny fragments. Shards poke through the skin and are plucked away, unknowingly disposed of, gone forever in the blink of an eye.
The person you were doesn't exist anymore.
And just as bruises fade, the body tries to heal the soul, rebuilding what remains like a puzzle, overlooking the pieces that were lost in the assault. Again and again it happens, more pieces missing, more gaping holes left behind. Sometimes the body compensates, trying to fill the void the best it can based on the memory of a long ago snapshot, but often it shuts down and closes off, building a wall. The strikes still come, vicious and unremitting, but they don't hurt so much.
It's not easy to hurt when you hardly feel anything anymore.
The remnants of the soul become lost, trapped behind the wall with whatever darkness had leached into the fractures. No one could touch it; No one could reach it. Not with a harsh tongue, and certainly not with a gun.
But sometimes, things find a way to slip through.
Sometimes it's a smile; sometimes it's a laugh.