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“I’m not interrogating you,” she replied. “It’s just that this place is a disaster! It feels like an oven in here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to pick up after yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Too busy to open a window?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him, not satisfied with his answers. “What’s really going on, Carmine? What’s happening with you?”
He laughed dryly. “I have things to do, Celia. I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine,” she conceded. “This conversation isn’t over, though.”
After Celia left, Carmine threw on a shirt and shoes before heading back into the kitchen. He glanced in the freezer, frowning when he saw it was empty—no food, not even any ice, and more importantly, no vodka. He entertained the thought of stopping by the store to grab a bottle when his phone beeped, reminding him he had an unread message.
Hit Sycamore Circle tonight.
Carmine stared at it with dread. Sycamore Circle was in the north side of the city, an area he knew vaguely but only by name because it was well-known Irish territory. La Cosa Nostra respected the boundaries in Chicago, imaginary or not.
Carmine grabbed his gun before heading out of the house. He hopped in his car and started on the road to the north side of the city when his phone rang, Remy calling and telling him to pick him up along the way. Carmine detoured a few blocks to Remy’s house, honking the horn as he pulled into the driveway of the modest sky-blue house with the large porch and flimsy chain-link fence. A pit bull puppy ran in circles in the grass, yapping frantically at the intruding car.
Remy came out right away, flying off the porch and leaping over the fence before stealthily sliding into the passenger seat. The smell of marijuana lingered on his skin and clothes, the man’s eyes completely bloodshot.
“Man, this is crazy,” Remy said, relaxing into the seat as Carmine pulled away from the house. “Irish ‘hood? Shit’s about to get real.”
Carmine sighed. “Let’s hope not.”
The sun set as they drove to Sycamore Circle, meeting up with the other guys about a block away. They scoped it out, lounging in Carmine’s car with binoculars as music played from the speakers. Remy pulled out a blunt, lighting it and taking a long hit. He held it out and Carmine promptly grabbed it from him, dropping the binoculars. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smoked, the drug infiltrating his system and relaxing his taut muscles. Relaxing back into the seat, he closed his eyes, all of his worries leaving in a slow exhale of smoke.
The job was quick and easy, in and out in minutes. Not a single shot was fired, not a drop of blood spilled as the men surrendered the trucks without a fight. They had caught them off guard and completely unprepared. The last thing they had expected was for Sal to make a move in their territory.
* * *
Night had fallen long before, the air stifling from the late summer heat wave that had been tormenting Chicago for days. Corrado was sweating profusely, his back completely soaked, but he didn’t dare remove his suit coat until he was safely inside his residence. He let it drop to the floor right inside the door, exposing his white button-down that was splattered with fresh blood. He quickly unbuttoned it, wanting to dispose of the offensive material before anyone saw, but the light gasp from the stairs told him he was too late.
Busted.
“I thought you’d be in bed,” he said without even looking at her, more to explain than apologize.
“I was,” Celia said softly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He removed his shirt before making his way to the living room. He lit the fireplace swiftly, tossing the garment in. Burning soiled clothing and disposing of incriminating evidence was something he did so often he could accomplish it in his sleep.
He could sense Celia behind him, following, watching. He could also sense her trepidation, and he didn’t like it. Celia always found a way to understand.
“Is something bothering you?” he asked. “You don’t usually wait up.”
“I was worried.” She paused. “Well, I am worried.”
“It’s ridiculous for you to lose sleep,” Corrado replied. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”
Corrado watched as the flames consumed the shirt before turning to his wife. A frown tugged her lips, the subtle wrinkles forming on her face more noticeable tonight. He had just seen her a few hours before, but she appeared to have aged years within a single day.
