“Huh.”
“Do you know anything about that?”
“Maybe.”
She continued to stare at him, questions clouding her confused eyes. She wouldn’t ask, and he knew it. He appreciated her restraint. But this time, he felt she deserved an answer. This time, he felt she needed to know.
Leaning down, he softly kissed her mouth, a bit of her red lipstick smudging on his dry lips. She laughed, wiping it away with her free hand as he whispered, “I didn’t do anything except help him.”
48
Later that night, a call for a three-alarm fire went out through the emergency wire. Firefighters raced to the scene and filled the parking lot, trying to combat the vicious blaze in the darkness but to no avail. Fire ravished Luna Rossa, completely gutting the building and obliterating the landmark social club.
The massive pillar of smoke could still be seen across town come daybreak, but Corrado was none the wiser. He remained snuggled up in his bed at home, his strong arms wrapped around his wife as the two of them slept late for the first time in years.
It wasn’t until the police knocked on the front door of the Moretti residence that Corrado learned the news: his life’s work had gone up in flames, stolen from him by arsonists. They promised a full investigation, but Corrado didn’t need one. He knew right away who had done the job.
Finally, after all that time, the Irish had exacted their revenge.
Had anyone else been in charge, a full-scale war would have broken out in Chicago then, demolishing the Windy City as the factions hunted one another, determined to take each other out, but Corrado was smarter than that.
After a few botched jobs and a failed assassination attempt on Corrado’s life, the feud ended swiftly with a massacre at an underground gambling game run by O’Bannon. Men swarmed the place in the middle of the afternoon, disarming and slaughtering the gamblers one by one. The Irish never knew what hit them.
For good measure, and maybe a laugh or two, Corrado’s men set the building on fire before they walked away.
The media called it the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre Part II even though it happened in the late fall. The headline on the front page of the newspaper the next day read REPUTED MAFIA BOSS TAKEN IN FOR QUESTIONING, but was followed up shortly by THE KEVLAR KILLER WALKS FREE AGAIN. Everyone knew he had ordered it, but Corrado had a solid alibi, one nobody could dispute: He and his wife had been meeting with contractors, finalizing plans to build Luna Rossa once again.
ng up the knife, Corrado eyed it intently, running his fingers carefully along the blade. “Before we’ll welcome you in, you first have to bleed for us. Nowadays it’s usually a simple prick of the trigger finger, a tiny droplet of blood on a piece of paper. Painless, leaves no lasting scar, no mark identifying them as a man of honor. But back in my day, it was real. Did you know that?”
Carmine swallowed, trying to wet his painfully dry throat. “Yes, sir.”
“So did you bleed for Salvatore?”
“No,” he said. “All he wanted was my word.”
Corrado continued to gaze at the knife. “Give me your hand.”
For a brief second, Carmine blanched in fear, but there was no hesitance in his steps. He knew there couldn’t be. He extended his right hand and Corrado grabbed it, roughly yanking him closer and pinning it against the desk.
“A man’s word means as much as his blood,” Corrado repeated. “Sal only wanted your word, but I require your blood.”
Carmine squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the knife against his skin. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay silent as the jagged blade cut into him. It slowly sliced across his palm, a searing burn igniting his hand as it tore into his flesh.
When it was over, Carmine opened his eyes again and relaxed, but he was too soon. Corrado grasped his hand tighter, violently closing it into a fist. Stabbing pain shot up his arm and he couldn’t hold back the strangled grunt that forced its way from his chest. Tears of agony stung his eyes, but none fell down his cheeks.
“You asked me to give Haven away, and I agreed,” Corrado said, still holding him there, “but I wasn’t just talking about walking her down the aisle. You want her? You love her? You’ve bled for her. She’s yours.”
He pushed him away from the desk and pulled out a rag to wipe the blood from his knife. Carmine clutched his wounded hand to his chest, keeping it fisted. After Corrado’s knife was clean, he placed it back in the drawer.
“I’ll give you the girl, but you can’t have the organization,” Corrado continued. “You’ll never prove yourself worthy of the oath, and nothing you can do will change my mind. You’ll never be a man of honor. You’re not cut out for this life, and I refuse to just hand it to you like Vincent had it handed to him.”
Carmine stared at him as those words sunk in. He had no clue what to say, or if a response was even warranted. His words weren’t cruel, no anger was in his voice. It was emotionless, spoken matter-of-factly. He would never be one of them. That was that.
“As far as I’m concerned, your personal debt to La Cosa Nostra has been satisfied,” Corrado said. “You owe nothing more.”
Carmine blinked rapidly. “That means . . .”
Corrado waved dismissively. “It means you’re free to go.”