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“You, too, sir.”
Carmine closed his eyes as his uncle pushed another button, this time ending the call. They sat in silence for a moment before Corrado addressed him. “I’m not going to be around to keep an eye on you, Carmine, so you better stay straight.”
“Where are you going?”
“Jail.”
Carmine blinked a few times. “What?”
“They’re revoking my bail as we speak,” he explained. “They think I had something to do with your father going missing.”
After a strangled bout of silence, Carmine forced the million-dollar question from his lips. “Did you?”
Corrado waved his hand, turning back to his stack of paperwork. “You’re dismissed, Carmine.”
29
The moment Corrado stepped in his house later that night, the succulent aroma of marinara assaulted his senses. He took a deep breath, inhaling it as he strolled toward the kitchen. Celia stood in front of the stove, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up to her elbows and her usually pristine hair pulled back in a sloppy bun. A blue apron was tied around her, protecting her clothes from splatter as she stirred the homemade sauce.
Corrado silently watched her, a ghost of a smile tugging his lips. She hadn’t heard him come in and continued to concentrate on her cooking, oblivious to her husband’s presence. Corrado loved these moments, when Celia was in her element and the world around her faded away. She glowed radiantly, beaming like the sun as she floated along. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place—her ability to bring light into such a devastatingly dark world.
He would miss it. There was no doubt about it. His world would soon be a much colder place.
He let out a deep sigh, not wanting to think about what would come tomorrow, and Celia jumped at the noise. Dropping her spoon, she spun around and clutched her chest. “You scared me! I didn’t know you were home.”
Corrado’s smile grew, but he said nothing as he took a few steps toward her. Carefully, he untied the apron from around her waist, and Celia eyed him skeptically as he tossed it aside. He reached up and tugged on the band securing her hair, making it fall loose. It was messy, an unruly wave cascading past her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Celia asked as he took her hand.
“Taking you upstairs,” he said, “and getting you out of those clothes.”
She tried to dig in her heels to make him stop, but he was much stronger than her. “Corrado, hold on! I’m cooking!”
“So?”
“So my sauce might burn!”
“You can make more later.”
“But the stove is on!”
“Who cares?”
“Who cares?” she asked incredulously as he pulled her toward the stairs. “What if it catches on fire?”
“Then I’ll buy you a new stove.”
“It could burn down the whole house!”
“Then I’ll build you a new house.”
She laughed with disbelief. “It’ll burn down with us in it, Corrado.”
He glanced at her, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d let that happen?”
Her comeback was snappy. “Do you really think you could stop it?”
Corrado was momentarily silent, still clutching her wrist as they stood near the bottom of the stairs. He pondered her question. Did he think he could stop it?
