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Every muscle in Corrado's body seized up, locking him in place, as everyone else threw their hands up defensively. Men retreated, footsteps frantic, while a few ducked for cover.
Vito dove at Erika and struck her from the side the second she squeezed the trigger. The bang of the gunshot was loud, a small fiery explosion ripping from the end of the pistol as Vito threw her to the floor. The bullet zipped right past Corrado, crashing as it struck the mantle to his left. The vase shattered, exploding into dozens of fragments. Stinging tore through Corrado's cheek as a shard sliced his skin, but he didn't react.
He didn't even move.
The world was stricken by slow motion, the picture a haze, sounds diluted by a soft buzzing. Numbness coated Corrado like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head as he watched his mother struggle to break free, frivolously screaming. Vito pried the gun from her hands, shoving it across the room. It skidded along the floor, slamming into an adjacent wall, as she thrashed.
"You love him more than me!" she screamed, the words breaking through Corrado's fog. "You're supposed to love
me
!"
Vito yanked Erika off the floor, wrapping his arms around her, but she wouldn't be confined. Fists struck him hard as she escaped his grip, slapping him once across the face before storming away.
Corrado still just stood there.
There's no faster way to kill a celebration than by almost putting a bullet in the honoree. People fled the house, muttering goodbyes. In less than a minute the place became a ghost town, all the money still scattered along the table, forgotten as men made a hasty exit. Only a few enforcers remained, holding their post around the Boss until they were sure he was safe.
Vito tried to go after Erika, but Antonio shoved him back into the dining room. "You get that woman into rehab."
Vito blanched.
"You get her clean, and you get her sane," Antonio continued, "because if you don't, I'll kill her myself. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"We came here because you said it would be fine. You broke your word, Vito. This isn't
fine
."
"Look, she's just—"
"Don't go sticking up for her now. We all saw what she did!"
"She wouldn't have really—"
"The
only
reason Corrado's alive right now is because you hit her when she squeezed the trigger!" Antonio clutched his hands into fists as he paced. "I knew something like this would happen.
Knew
it. I hoped it wouldn't; I wanted to have faith in you, but I guess I was wrong."
Vito's brow furrowed. "Huh?"
"If you can't control a woman, Vito, how can I trust you running a whole crew?"
Horror flashed in Vito's eyes, the sight of it drawing Corrado out of his fog. The Boss was the kind of man who held a grudge until it festered beyond reasoning. Being demoted meant you were dispensable, and that made you as good as dead.
Corrado inhaled sharply, the rush of dry air burning his chest, as he broke his stance. He suddenly became acutely aware of his stinging cheek, a slight ringing in his ears from the gunshot. Reaching up, he brushed his hand along his face, wincing at the small gash in his skin. Blood gathered along the wound, but nothing substantial. He'd survive. "No harm done."
Vito and Antonio both quieted when he spoke up.
"Your mother damn near killed you," Antonio said.
Corrado shrugged. Wasn't the first
time.
Antonio groaned with irritation, glancing around the abandoned dining room at the leftover guests. It seemed to strike him then that his son was missing. "Vincent?"
No answer.
"Maybe he went outside," Vito suggested.
Corrado didn't contradict that. Vincent had slipped out when Vito headed to the kitchen to diffuse the situation, and Corrado had a sneaking suspicion where he'd find the boy now.
"He needs to go back to the hotel," Antonio said, gaze shifting to Corrado. "You mind finding him and taking him?"
"I'll need a car."
Antonio looked at Vito expectantly, and Vito's expression fell even more. He remained silent, never offering his Lincoln, so Antonio pulled out the keys to his
DeVille
. "Take mine. Vito and I have some more talking to do."
Corrado strode out of the room. He checked the hallway and kitchen, finding both empty, before begrudgingly taking the steps two at a time, heading for the dreaded second floor yet again.
This time he didn't stop.
He found another small staircase at the end of the hallway and headed up it, stopping only when he reached the dusty attic. The electricity didn't power the top of the house. The sweltering room was illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the old window, a missing pane of glass letting the stifling air cycle in and out.
Sitting right in front of the window, in a glowing patch of natural spotlight, was Maura, her legs tucked beneath her, her dress fanning out around her. In front of her, casting long shadows along the floor that nearly reached Corrado's immaculately shined shoes, stood Vincent, his fists shoved into his pockets.
Vincent stared down at her, his grievances soundlessly airing on his face, while Maura cried. She didn't look at the boy, almost as if she didn't see him, but her soft voice betrayed her oblivious appearance. "You know what I am."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't."
Vincent was adamant, no uncertainty in his tone as he spoke those words: he didn't care. It surprised Corrado, hearing him sound so downright confident. Vincent's decisions were usually influenced by resentment, the rebellious streak of an insecure teenager, going left to prove a point whenever his father told him to go right.
A part of Corrado wondered if this were the same—did he seek out this girl, this little Irish slave, to spite his father? She was the complete opposite of everything Antonio would want for his son.
"Vincent," Corrado said, his level voice magnified in the vacant space, making the girl flinch.
Defensively, Vincent stepped in front of Maura. "What?"
"I'm supposed to take you back to the hotel."
Vincent stubbornly shook his head. "I'm not ready to go."
"Not your decision to make," Corrado said. "Antonio's orders."
Vincent's eyes narrowed, a flash of defiant anger stirring. "He can't make me go."
Corrado admired his tenacity—it rivaled Celia's, a DeMarco family trait. And much like his sister, he wouldn't win. Not against the head of the family. "Can't he?"
Vincent's expression softened at the question, subtle sadness washing away the rage. "Please don't make me leave."
"Not my decision either," Corrado said. "You know that."
"This is bullshit." Pleading hadn't helped.
Back to rage.
"I shouldn't have to leave if I don't want to."
"Why would you want to stay?" Corrado certainly didn't. "There's nothing here."
"Because I… I just do, okay? Is that so hard to understand?"
"Yes."
Groaning, the boy threw up his hands. "You people…"
"We people say it's time to go," Corrado stressed, getting irritated at having to stand there. "Don't make me drag you out of this house, because I will."
Vincent argued but cut off mid-word when Mara reached over and placed her hand on his leg. The simple touch, barely a graze against a pair of gray slacks, shocked Corrado into temporary awe.
"Go," Maura said. "You need to leave."
"What?""
"I don't want you here." Maura pulled her hand away from him. "So leave."
"But—"
"Please."
Maura's voice cracked when she squeezed out the word, her shoulders slumping as she folded into herself. Vincent stared down at her, but once again she refused to meet his gaze.
"I still don't care," Vincent ground out.
Maura didn't respond as she started crying again.
"Vincenzo," Corrado said, using the boy's real name, ignoring the fact that he grimaced at the sound of it. "Let's go before you make it worse than it already is."
Those words were the catalyst that finally forced Vincent to move. Grumbling to himself, he trudged past Corrado, shooting a longing look back at Maura before stomping down the stairs. Corrado gazed at the crying girl before turning his back to her and walking away.
Vincent waited for him in the foyer. Argumentative words seeped out from the dining room, Vito trying to defend himself while Antonio ripped into him. Corrado frowned, knowing he could do nothing to help his father, when there was a loud crash, the sound of something being thrown in the kitchen.
Vincent cringed at the noise.
"Go out to your father's car," Corrado said, gazing toward the doorway. "I'll be right there."
Vincent walked out, the screen door slamming behind him, as Corrado slipped into the kitchen. His mother grumbled to herself, a bottle of wine in one hand as she threw dishes into the empty sink with her other. She swayed as she took a step, drunkenly stumbling over her own feet. Instinctively, Corrado's hand shot out and caught her by her arm, keeping her upright. Erika snatched her arm away, nearly knocking herself over again.
"You're all worthless," she slurred. "There's a fucking mess, and that little bitch Maura is nowhere to be found. I don't even know why she's still here. She does nothing but eat my food and use my water and breathe my air. She's worse than even you. You never did anything but take up space, too."
He ignored the insult.
"I ought to get rid of her. Every slave I've had has been useless." Erika laughed bitterly. "Especially that first one… she deserved what happened to her."
Resentment brewed inside of Corrado as he glared at his mother. Smudged mascara lined her bloodshot eyes like day-old bruises, remnants of her red lipstick smeared around her mouth, the hue of fresh welts on a child's skin from a leather belt. Wrinkles marred her once pretty face, now covered with imperfections, her skin as wishy-washy as a corpse. Even from the distance Corrado smelled the sour scent of old alcohol seeping from her pores.
"What?" Erika spat, taking a sip of her wine. "Something you wanna say?"
There was something he wanted to say, all right.
Someday, you'll pay for everything you've done, and when that happens, I'll feel not an ounce of compassion.
Because I can't.
And it'll be your own fault, because you made me this way
.
There was no threat to his thoughts. It was the simple truth as far as he was concerned. The sky was blue. The grass was green. And someday, Erika Moretti would pay for her sins.
"Goodbye, mother."
Turning away, he strode out of the house and climbed in the Boss's
DeVille
.
"And I thought
my
mom was bad," Vincent muttered.
Corrado didn't bother responding to that. Silence choked the car during the drive into the city limits. It wasn't until they'd reached The Flamingo and parked that Vincent forced more words from his lips. They came out strangled, like he'd tried his hardest to keep them inside, but they wouldn't be restrained. "What's going to happen to her?"
"My mother?"
"No. Maura."
Maura
.
Corrado ran his hands down his face in frustration. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Vincent asked doubtfully. "What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know." What else could that possibly mean?
"But you're supposed to know," he argued. "I thought you knew everything."
Corrado glanced at him, expecting to find the boy sneering with bitter sarcasm, but sincerity shined from Vincent's eyes. "Look, kid—"
"Do
not
call me that," Vincent interjected. "I'm almost as old as you. I'll be a man soon."
"Being a man has nothing to do with age."
"Spare me the philosophy lesson," Vincent said. "I just want to know what's going to happen to Maura."
"You don't know the girl. Do you even care?"
"Yes."
There was that steadfast confidence.
"She'll die."
Vincent recoiled. "She'll
what
?"
"She'll die. We all will someday."
"Okay,
Socrates
. Thanks for nothing."
And there was the bitter sarcasm.
"I don't know what's going to happen to her," Corrado said again. "And I don't really care to know."
"But I
do
."
"You shouldn't."
Vincent groaned. "You sound just like her."
The conversation was going nowhere, and Corrado was getting a little exhausted with the meaningless back-and-forth. "Let me give you some advice that my father once gave me."
"Huh?"
"It's best you don't get attached."
Vincent glared at him. "That's terrible advice."
"It's worked for me."
Corrado stepped into the small lobby bar in The Flamingo and slipped onto an empty stool on the end. The bartender stopped in front of him. "What can I get you?"
He answered without even looking up. "Anything."
He'd drink piss warm moonshine right then to dull the memory of the night.
