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She smiled. “It’s hard to believe it’s been that long.”
“I know,” he said, glancing from her reflection back to his. “I’m showing my age.”
Celia laughed as he turned around to face her. “You’re still as handsome as the day we met.”
“And you’re even more beautiful.”
He leaned down and kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her lips on his own. She broke the kiss within a matter of seconds, though, and wrinkled her nose when she pulled away. “You’re quite a bit scruffier now, though,” she said, rubbing the prickly hair on his jaw.
“I didn’t feel like shaving,” he said. “Don’t have the energy today.”
“You do look tired,” she commented, her hand moving from his face to his hair. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Some.”
“You got in really late last night.”
“Yes.”
He gazed at her, seeing the questions in her warm brown eyes. Where were you? Where did you go? What did you do? Who were you with? Who did you hurt? They were questions that nagged her, always on the tip of her tongue, but she would never ask and he was grateful for it. He didn’t want to lie to her, and there was no way he could tell her he had stalked her only brother a mere few hours ago like he was prey, cornering him like a wounded animal in the same church they were headed to.
“Well, come on,” she said, looking away from him. “We still have to pick up Mom, and you know she hates being late. If we don’t hurry, she’s going to complain the entire time.”
Corrado stepped out of the bathroom, shutting off the light, and followed his wife out to the car. Neither said much on the drive to Sunny Oaks Manor where Gia DeMarco had resided for the past few years. Corrado was never fond of the woman and her harsh tongue, but he had the utmost respect for her.
nt glanced around. Corrado was blocking the main exit of the church. There was nowhere for him to go, no way to leave unless Corrado allowed him to pass. “It’s been six months since my last confession.”
“Six months,” Corrado repeated. “I’m sure you have a bit of repenting to do then.”
Vincent scoffed. “Probably not as much as you.”
Corrado let out a laugh as he pulled his hands from his pockets. Vincent’s hair bristled when he saw the black leather gloves. It was a sight he knew well, the sight of the man at work. He was like a reaper, a malicious spirit ripping the life from men before vanishing undetected, leaving no trace of himself behind.
Corrado’s victims rarely knew what hit them. Most never even saw him as he snuck up on them in the night, firing a single shot through the base of their skull, severing their spinal cord and killing them instantly. It was neat and tidy, painless and quick. He was in and out and on to the next thing within a matter of minutes. Corrado wasn’t in the business of torture . . . unless you made him mad.
When Corrado got angry, when he took things personally, a different side of him emerged. The ugly, green monster burst forth, ripping through his calm skin, and nobody was safe from his rage when that happened. He never made a mistake, never got sloppy, but the otherwise unruffled man was no longer merciful. He would tear a man to pieces, slowly, methodically, until everything left behind was no longer recognizable.
“Did Sal send you?” Vincent asked, trying to keep his voice even.
Corrado shook his head. “I came on my own.”
Not business. Personal.
Corrado took a step forward then, tugging his gloves to make sure they were on tight, and Vincent instantly took a step away. He did it again, and again, and again, like the two of them were doing a deadly tango.
“I don’t want to believe it,” Corrado said, “but seeing you here—seeing you like this—I can’t help but wonder if it’s true.”
“It’s not how it seems,” Vincent said.
Corrado shook his head. “It never really is, is it? But that’s irrelevant, and you know it. You crossed a line, and it doesn’t matter why you did it or what you planned to do on that other side, the fact that you went over there is inexcusable. Lupo non mangia lupo. How many times did we hear your father say that when he was alive? How many times? Wolves don’t eat wolves. We don’t turn on our own.”
“You’re right,” Vincent said. “If you can’t trust your own kind, who can you trust?”
“No one, according to your son,” Corrado said. “Non fidarsi di nessuno. Did you even stop to think about how this is going to affect him? How this is already affecting him?”
Thoughts of Carmine made Vincent’s chest ache. “Is he okay?”
“Of course he’s not okay. He’ll never again be okay! It’s his job to kill you!”
