Sempre: Redemption (43 page)

Vincent bowed his head and made the sign of the cross, his mouth moving furiously as he spoke to himself. Praying, he realized. His father was praying.

“No!” Carmine screamed the word as realization dawned—it was a fucking kamikaze mission.

Vincent turned, his eyes falling on him briefly before he stepped into the wide-open yard. Corrado dropped to the ground instantly, roughly grabbing Carmine as he tried to get to his feet. He pinned him down with his body as the loud spray of bullets ripped through the night. It was deafening. Carmine’s head thumped ferociously with every loud bang as the frantic explosion of gunfire lit up the yard.

Carmine screamed, begging his father not to go through with it, but it was too late. There was no turning back. He had made his bed and he was prepared to lie in it . . . he was
ready
to lie in it.

But Carmine wasn’t fucking ready. He never would be.

He tried to push Corrado away but his uncle wouldn’t budge, shielding him as the spray of bullets flew all around them. Two guys dropped nearby, their bodies convulsing, and others ducked for cover to fire back. In the midst of the chaos, Carmine lost track of who was where, bodies dropping and people running, painful screams mixing with the gunfire.

A shot ripped through Vincent’s stomach and he stumbled, his finger leaving the trigger briefly as he lost his grip, giving the others enough time to recover. They fired in succession, a bullet tearing through Vincent’s shoulder as another one struck his calf. He dropped to his knees, swaying as he tried to stabilize himself. Vincent pulled the trigger again, more people hit with the wild spray of bullets.

The gunfire stopped abruptly as the cartridge was spent. Vincent shrugged the weapon off his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. He sat back, his head dropping and body shaking as he stared at the trampled grass. Someone stood up near the house and Carmine panicked because his father was unarmed, but Corrado reacted instinctively. He fired off a shot, the bullet hitting the man straight in the temple.

Carmine yelled for his father but Corrado shoved him farther into the ground, busting his face on the concrete to silence him. He cursed, blood seeping from his nose, as sirens blared in the distance. Someone yelled, “Police!” as others fled, scrambling to disappear into the night.

Corrado finally let go of him when the crowd dispersed. Carmine pushed away from the ground and glanced across the yard as his father crawled toward the side of the house. Corrado started toward him as Vincent stopped at the corner, sitting back on his knees as he grabbed his discarded pistol.

“Vincent!” Corrado yelled, panic in his voice.

Vincent glanced in their direction, the breath leaving Carmine when he saw his father’s face. The color had drained away, his skin the ashy pale hue of death, his eyes dull and lifeless.

Vincent said something quietly, not loud enough for Carmine to hear, but whatever it was made Corrado’s footsteps falter. The sirens grew louder and Corrado shook his head, stiffly, angrily, but Vincent nodded with determination.

“Get out of here, Carmine!” Corrado yelled.

Carmine started across the yard toward them, ignoring his uncle, but nearly buckled from fright when his father raised his gun and pointed it below his chin. “No! Dad, no!”

Vincent’s eyes drifted closed, his finger shaking violently on the trigger.

Corrado bowed his head with a long sigh, his voice quiet.
“Perdonami.”

Forgive me
.

Without hesitation, Corrado raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. A hoarse scream vibrated Carmine’s chest, painfully clawing its way from his throat, as the final bullet tore through his father’s skull. Vincent dropped backward, his body limp on the grass. Carmine collapsed at the same moment, unable to move any farther as sobs rocked his body.

Corrado walked past him and approached the pool. He grabbed Carmine’s gun and took his own, wiping them off with his shirt before dropping them into the deep chlorinated water. His eyes scanned the property then, surveying the carnage. Bodies were scattered everywhere, puddles of blood all around.

The sirens wailed louder, lights flashing as police raided the property. Corrado raised his hands in the air and dropped to the ground before they had to tell him, and Carmine rolled onto his stomach to assume the same position.

Carmine was in a complete daze as they were handcuffed. Corrado lay beside him in the grass, muttered to himself in Italian. It took a minute for Carmine to register that he was praying, and Carmine lost control of himself at the sound. A loud sob escaped as they placed a sheet over his father’s lifeless body, blood soaking through and turning the crisp white to a vibrant red.

Carmine tried to silence his cries when they pulled Corrado from the ground to lead him away, but it was senseless. He was distraught.

“Seven deceased, including Dr. DeMarco,” an officer said. “Still waiting on confirmation of the other six.”

“Get a move on it,” a second man responded, his voice vaguely familiar. “Anyone inside?”

“Just the trafficking victim DeMarco said would be here,” the man said. “The girl wouldn’t speak to anyone, though, so we don’t know who she is.”

“Give her some time. She’ll come around once she realizes she’s safe.”

Footsteps approached, the familiar voice calling Carmine’s name. He glanced up, coming face-to-face with Special Agent Cerone. He crouched down and unlocked Carmine’s handcuffs, sighing as he grabbed his hand and eyed the wound. “Get the medic to come look at his injury, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stared at Carmine for a moment as he sat up. “We’ll have to take you in for questioning, but you’ll be out by morning as long as you cooperate. Do you want to make a statement now?”

He wiped his face, trying to get rid of the tears, and groaned when it did nothing but smear blood on his cheek. “Abby,” he said quietly. His throat burned from screaming, the word barely audible.

“Abby?”

“The girl inside,” Carmine said. “Her name is Abby.”

T
he interrogation room at the Cook County police station smelled like someone had attempted to clean up week-old piss. Corrado grimaced as he took a deep breath, the harsh stench of ammonia and bleach burning his lungs. Gazing across the metal table in front of him, he eyed the federal agent with distaste.

Agent Cerone started to speak, but Corrado cut him off before he could get started. “I wasn’t there. I was home, I was alone, I was asleep, and nobody saw me.”

The agent gaped at him. “
I
saw you tonight, Mr. Moretti.”

Corrado raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“You were even arrested at the scene.”

“Was I?”

“Is there something wrong with your memory?”

“Maybe,” Corrado said. “I suppose I don’t recall a thing from tonight, then.”

Corrado forced a look of indifference on his face as Agent Cerone stared at him with disbelief. The agent pulled himself together quickly, gritting his teeth as he flipped through pages of notes. He had hundreds of documents, but nothing to prepare him for facing Corrado. “You know, Vincent DeMarco was a good man.”

“Was?” Corrado asked. “Did something happen to him?”

The agent shook his head exasperatedly. “You’re really going to play ignorant, aren’t you?”

Corrado merely shrugged.

“As I was saying, he was a good man. I judged him wrong. He wasn’t callous or selfish. He cared about his family, would do anything for them. And I got to thinking . . . maybe you’re the same way. Maybe I was wrong about you, too.”

The corner of Corrado’s lips turned slightly with amusement. “I doubt it.”

The agent stared at him for a moment before genuinely laughing. Corrado was much too street smart for the psychological tactics to work on him. He had been through it all before and knew their tricks. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Out of curiosity, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It goes against my religion.”

His brow furrowed. “How?”

“Only God can judge me. I certainly don’t trust a machine to do it.”

“You only have to worry if you’re untruthful. Do you plan to lie?”

“No, I prefer to sit, thank you.”

The agent sighed. “When did you get to be so sarcastic?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Corrado said. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I see I’m wasting my time,” Agent Cerone said. “Anything you want to say before we end this?”

“Just that I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

Agent Cerone gathered his things, not the least bit surprised. “Of course. Hang tight. It’ll take a while to get you released, but we should have you out in plenty of time for the funeral.”

“Whose funeral?”

“Vincent’s.”

“Vincent’s dead?”

The agent shook his head. “At least you’re consistent. But yes, he is. They should be alerting the next of kin any moment.”

As Agent Cerone stood to leave, Corrado’s expression fell. He was much too weary to keep up the charade. He sat still in the seat and stared at the far wall as his stomach twisted again . . . this time with something much closer to anxiety. He hardly noticed the stench anymore, his grief strong enough to overpower it.

“Wait,” he said, stalling the agent’s footsteps.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“I need to make a call.”

The agent sighed. “Your lawyer’s already next door with Carmine DeMarco. I’ll send him over as soon as we’re done there.”

“I don’t need to call my lawyer,” he said. “I need to call my wife.”

“Your wife can’t help you right now.”

Corrado glared at the man. “She’s going to think it’s me.”

“What?”

“You said they’re going to be making the notification soon. As soon as they show up at my door, she’s going to think it’s me.”

A debate played out on the man’s face momentarily, his lips twitching into a frown. “Her brother, her husband . . . it’ll hurt either way. They’ll explain it to her.”

“I made her a promise that I’d never leave her again,” he said. “I don’t want her to think I broke it, even if it’s only for a minute.”

The agent’s brow furrowed. “How could you promise her that? Living the life you live, you’re bound to break it someday.”

“I won’t,” he said. “There’s nothing I won’t do to keep my vows.”

“Even if it means killing?”

Corrado just stared at the man, and he stared right back. The agent broke first, though, a deep sigh reverberating his chest as he looked away. Frowning, he released Corrado from the interrogation room and led him to a small cubicle, where he picked up a black phone and handed it to him. “You have five minutes.”

Corrado dialed his house number, listening as it rang and rang. He was on the verge of giving up when he heard Celia’s voice on the line. Although she spoke hesitantly, he could detect no distress. Worried, but not heartbroken. She hadn’t been told yet. “Hello?”

“I didn’t think you were going to answer.”

Celia let out a deep sigh. “Corrado, why does the caller ID say the Cook County Police Station?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Does it end with you getting arrested again?”

“No.” He glanced down at himself, eyeing the handcuffs secured to his wrists. “Not technically.”

“Do you need me to get you out?” she asked. “I don’t think I can come up with bail money until morning, although we might have—”

“Celia, stop. I’m not calling about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Carmine!” she gasped. “Oh God, what did he do? Is he okay?”

“He’s . . .” Corrado shook his head. “Carmine will be fine. This isn’t about him. It’s about his father.”

There was nothing but silence on the line for a moment. Had he not detected her steady breathing, he might have suspected she hung up.

“Celia, Vincent is—”

“No.” She cut him off. “Don’t say what I think you’re going to say. Don’t . . . just don’t say it, Corrado.”

“I’m sorry,
Bellissima
.”

Before she could react, before he could say another word, the federal agent reached over and pressed the button on the phone, effectively ending the call.

“You have a lot of nerve,” Corrado seethed, his voice a low hiss escaping from between his angrily clenched teeth.

“You wanted to tell her and you did,” the agent said. “I didn’t have to give you that much.”

Disoriented, Carmine’s surroundings twisted and distorted as the interrogation room spun, the dark gray walls slowly closing in around him. Even though frigid air blew out of the vent above him, chilling his taut skin, his body felt like it was engulfed in fire. Teeth chattering, his flushed skin poured sweat, making his torn and bloody shirt stick to him uncomfortably.

Carmine tried to sort through everything that had happened, but he couldn’t think straight. It was all just too much. Agent Cerone and another man, whose name Carmine couldn’t remember hearing, sat across from him, while Mr. Borza sat to his right. The lawyer urged Carmine to cooperate, but the flickering fluorescent lights made it impossible for him to concentrate.

“Who fired the first shot?”

“I don’t remember. It happened too fast.”

“How many people were shooting?”

“I didn’t know. A few.”

“Did
you
fire a gun?”

“No.”

“Did Corrado Moretti?”

“Uh, I can’t say. I told you, it all happened too fast.”

“Well, what did you do when the shooting started?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right. Nothing.”

“And you didn’t see what happened?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Gunshots.”

“How many?”

“A lot. I didn’t count them.”

“Who was involved in the shooting?”

“I don’t know.”

“So it
could’ve
been Corrado?”

“It fucking could’ve been Jimmy Hoffa.”

“I’d rather you keep the sarcasm to a minimum. This is a serious situation.”

“I’m not being sarcastic. I told you I didn’t see. I don’t know who shot first, who shot who, who’s dead, and who’s still alive. All I know is what I did.”