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“You’re wrong,” Corrado said. “You missed one—an important one.”
“What’s that?”
“Never fraternize with the enemy.”
Corrado reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. Without warning, a lone gunshot exploded in the cellar, the loud noise bouncing off the thick walls. Carmine jumped back as the bullet ripped through the back of Remy’s skull, blood splattering the floor and walls around them.
The air left Carmine’s lungs, his knees weak as a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream echoed through the room. Carmine couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the polka dots of bright red now littering his white Nike’s. His friend’s blood . . .
Suddenly, unexpectedly, flashes of Nicholas assaulted his mind. For the second time, the overwhelming guilt of getting a friend killed consumed him.
Shell-shocked, Carmine watched as Corrado pointed the gun at Vanessa’s forehead. Sobbing, tears coated her flushed cheeks as she violently shook. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as Corrado pulled the trigger at close range, a subtle click ricocheting through the room.
Carmine felt the bile rising up and swallowed it back, not wanting to get sick. Vanessa continued to sob, her head down in defeat.
Grasping her chin, Corrado pulled her face up, forcing her to look at him. “I know where you live. I know where your father hangs out. I know where your little cousin Jessie goes to school. Your best friend Marie? I know where she works, and I’ve been to the church your grandmother plays Bingo at on Tuesday nights. You cross me again, you step foot near my club, and I’ll kill every single one of them before I slit your throat in your sleep. Capisce?”
Vanessa nodded furiously, hiccupping, unable to speak through her cries.
Corrado removed her restraints and took a step back. “Walk out of here calmly and hitch a ride home. Don’t speak a word of this.”
Vanessa jumped up, stumbling as she scurried up the stairs. Carmine watched in shock, his eyes darting between the door and his uncle. “You let her go? What if she calls the police?”
“She won’t,” he replied, putting his gun away before motioning for the other two men to dispose of Remy’s body. They quickly wrapped it up in a blanket and carried the bundle up the stairs. Corrado supervised it, turning back to Carmine once the body was gone. “Clean up this mess.”
Carmine ran his hand through his hair in a panic. “Me?”
“Yes, and make it fast,” Corrado said, starting up the stairs. “You know, in case I’m wrong and she opens her mouth.”
28
The long mahogany table filled the conference room, leaving hardly enough space for people to push out their chairs. It was cramped, the atmosphere stifling as Corrado breathed the same stale air as half a dozen other men.
He sat at the far end of the table with Mr. Borza to his right, the lone court reporter seated beside the lawyer. The federal prosecutor by the name of Markson sat on the left side with his two assistants, while a U.S. Marshal slumped half-asleep in a chair by the exit. Corrado wasn’t surprised they had enlisted security, given the nature of the case, but he was a bit offended they thought one pesky man would be enough to keep everyone safe.
The clock on the wall read 8:23 in the morning, nearly half an hour past the time the proceedings were scheduled to start. Tension choked the silent room as everyone stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open, for something to finally happen. No one seemed to know what to say, neither side wanting to be the first to verbalize what was becoming evident:
Vincent DeMarco was a no-show for his deposition.
The clock steadily ticked away, another ten minutes passing before Mr. Borza cleared his throat. “I think we can all agree this isn’t happening today.”
“Just give it a little longer,” the prosecutor said. “He’ll be here.”
“We’ve already given him thirty minutes,” Mr. Borza argued. “He’s clearly decided not to testify, after all.”
The prosecutor scoffed. “If he doesn’t show, it’s because something’s keeping him from being here.”
“Like what?” Mr. Borza asked. “Traffic? A flat tire? Those are hardly good excuses.”
“No, I mean something like your client.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Mr. Borza said, waving him off. “Mr. Moretti has been here with us all morning. You know that. He was here before even you.”
“Maybe so, but what about last night or the day before? What about last week?” The prosecutor turned his attention to Corrado, his eyes ablaze with anger and suspicion. “When was the last time you saw Vincent DeMarco?”
Corrado didn’t have a chance to consider responding. Mr. Borza shoved his chair back, slamming it against the wall as he stood. “You know very well my client is under no obligation to be here for this nonsense, much less entertain your absurd, paranoia-fueled questions! Contact me if your witness surfaces and we’ll reschedule this sideshow. Otherwise, we’re done.”
The lawyer stormed out of the room, all spitfire and rage, while Corrado stood, as calm as could be. “Gentlemen.”
