Made (12 page)

"Where'd you get that bike?" she asked.

"I stole it."

The words flowed from his lips so naturally. He hadn't intended to lie. What was the point? But it certainly sounded better than the truth.

What was the truth? He wasn't sure. He'd been paid for being a Moretti. Was that normal?

"Take it back," she said, waving her hand as she headed back inside. "Now."

"Yes, ma'am."

He had no intention of returning the bike. He had bought it, earned it fair and square, and no one would take what belonged to him.

The next few weeks found Corrado sinking deeper and deeper into a life he still knew little about. Just as Charlie had predicted, Corrado's last name alone propelled the Fillmore Crew to notorious heights in the streets. Mr.
Barzetti
wasn't the only one calling now… whenever anyone needed a petty job done, they went straight to them.

Michael and Shawn still did the brunt of the work for chump change while Charlie and Corrado collected the big bills. Every week the money increased, from $200 to $300, from $300 to $400.

Corrado never breathed a word of it to his father, despite their request every week to pass along their regards. How could he? He hadn't seen him. Vito hadn't been back since dropping them off.

"Here you go, boys," a young waitress said, sliding a steaming hot pizza onto the table in front of Corrado. "Enjoy."

"Thanks," Charlie said, shooting her a wink as he grabbed a slice. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

She just rolled her eyes and walked away.

"Girls love me," Charlie declared.

Corrado took a bite of his slice. Girls most certainly did not love Charlie. He was gangly, his head too big for his body, his teeth too big for his mouth. He had dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, and skin that constantly seemed to be burned.

Distracted, Charlie slipped away from the table, hauling pizza with him as he chased after the waitress. Corrado stuffed himself with half a pie before heading out through the arcade, strolling straight to the Duck Hunt game. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd watched his father earn a perfect score, and Corrado was determined to match it someday.

Popping a dime into the slot, Corrado grabbed the gun and aimed. He pulled the trigger as ducks flew past, hitting about half, the other half going unscathed.

When the game ended, he put in another dime.

And another.

And another.

And another.

He played over and over, until his trigger finger ached. Although he was there, present in the arcade, his mind went elsewhere. He thought about his father, his mother,
his
sister… his life, the abuse, the anger… Celia, North Carolina… and he thought about Zia.

Zia
.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Duck after duck fell, the game dinging again and again, as everything inside of him flowed out. Numbness coated every inch of his body, his eyes fixed forward as he went blank. He was attuned to everything—every movement, every noise—but his mind was gone.

He felt nothing.

He was in the midst of his twentieth game, down to the last few ducks and near a perfect score, when something slapped him on the back. Corrado's finger slipped, the gun shifting.

The last duck flew right on by.

And just like that, every ounce of emotion flooded his system, overwhelming his senses. Colored splotches appeared in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision.

Something inside of him snapped.

Dropping the gun, he spun around. With no hesitation, he swung, a loud crack echoing through the arcade as his fist connected with something. Pain shot up Corrado's arm as a person flew backward, dropping hard.

Dead silence overtook the arcade. Everyone stopped and stared. One, two, three seconds passed before a horrifying cry echoed nearby. The sound jolted everyone into motion. Corrado blinked a few times, his vision clearing, and saw Charlie lying on the floor. His jaw was already swelling, cocked at an unnatural angle, as blood poured from his mouth.

Corrado stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination. He'd never hit someone before. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his stomach churn.

"Charlie?" he called, stepping closer. "Are you okay?"

Charlie tried to talk, but he could only let out unnatural groans. People helped him off the floor, saying he needed a doctor, as someone yelled for them to call the police.

Police
. The word ran through Corrado, chilling him to the bone. It seemed to have a similar effect on Charlie because he furiously shook his head, crying out in pain from the movement.

"No," Charlie ground out. "I'm fine. It was an accident."

Charlie pushed away from the crowd and headed for the exit. Corrado followed, catching up with him as he climbed on his bike.

Before Corrado could say anything, Charlie turned to him. "I'm sorry, Moretti. Really."

"For what?"

"For whatever I did," Charlie said. "I'll make it up to you, I swear I will."

Charlie rode away, leaving Corrado standing there, baffled.

He
was sorry?

Corrado rode his Schwinn home in time for dinner. As he neared the house, whipping his bike onto the long driveway, he skidded to a stop in shock. There, parked in front of the house, was his father's Lincoln.

Carefully, Corrado dropped his bike beside the porch and headed inside. Maura busied herself setting the table and avoided his gaze as he flopped down in his usual seat, not waiting to be called. He sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Maura as she worked. She had a black eye, the bruise fading to a greenish haze, and she limped, her face grimacing from the pain.

He thought about asking what happened to her, but he already knew.
Erika Moretti strikes again
.

Katrina and Erika both appeared at eight o'clock on the dot. Smiles graced their faces, fresh nail polish gleaming from their nails. Tags were still affixed to Katrina's navy blue dress, and his mother uncharacteristically wore a pair of high heels around the house.

"Well, well," Erika said, taking her seat, her eyes on Corrado. "It's kind of you to grace us with your presence."

He'd missed more dinners than he'd shown up for that week.

Vito strolled in last, his face a typical mask of indifference. He slid into his seat and started to eat without offering a greeting. He was dressed immaculately in a black three-piece suit.

"Nothing to say, son?" his mother pressed.

Instead of speaking, Corrado reached for his fork, cringing as pain shot through his wrist. His knuckles were bruising, twice the size of normal. He tried to pull his hand back away, to hide the injury, but he wasn't fast enough.

His mother noticed.

She jumped up, moving at the speed of light. It startled Corrado, and he momentarily froze, giving her the chance to snatch a hold of him. Her hand grasped his, squeezing, her manicured nails biting into the sensitive skin.

An involuntary yelp escaped his throat.

"Hurt?" she asked mockingly.

He ground his teeth together, refusing to respond.

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

She squeezed harder. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing," he said, yanking his hand away. Crippling pain ripped up his arm as he shoved away from the table. He stormed out, his feet stomping on the stairs as he went up to his room and slammed the door.

It was only a matter of time before someone came after Corrado. He sat at his desk, rocking in his chair, his heart pounding rapidly as he stared at the door. Mere minutes passed before heavy footsteps methodically headed his direction. Vito.

He wasn't sure whether to be relieved. His mother would've flipped, and the violence he tolerated, but his father...well...

Corrado wasn't sure what his father was capable of anymore.

There was a light tap on the door.

"Come in," Corrado muttered.

Vito stepped inside and strolled over to Corrado's bed, sitting on the edge of it, facing him. Corrado purposely kept his gaze away, avoiding him.

"Look at me," Vito ordered.

Corrado turned, his eyes meeting his father's.

"I know what you've been doing."

The coldness in Vito's voice washed through him. "You do?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't know? I told you, kid—I run this town. You can't be out there running my streets without me knowing, especially using
my
name to stake your claim."

"I—"

Vito held his hand up to stop him. "Do you know who I am?"

Corrado's brow furrowed. "You're my father."

"I am, but above that... before that... I'm Vito Moretti. And when you're out there, using my name, associating yourself with me, they
ain't
thinking about your father. They
ain't
thinking about the guy who got you that Sox bat for your birthday one year. They're thinking about Vito Moretti, the man they heard stories about."

"What stories?"

Vito stared at him, as if contemplating how to answer. "You remember the movie
The Haunting
we watched? You know, the one about the mansion that drove those people crazy and killed them?"

Corrado nodded. How could he forget? It was, by far, the most intense movie he had ever seen.

Granted, he wasn't allowed to watch many…

"Let's just say those men would rather face that house than Vito Moretti. They have a better chance of surviving that way."

A chill shot down Corrado's spine at those words. He tried to keep his composure, but his alarm was obvious.

"I ain't telling you that to scare you," Vito said. "Well, yeah, I am. You ought to be scared.
Because when you use my name,
that's
what you're using.
And if you're using it, you
gotta
be prepared to back it up. And kid? You
ain't
prepared. I know it, and they know it. And all it takes is one guy with big enough balls to call you out on it."

"But I'm not trying to—"

"It don't matter," Vito said, cutting him off. "I got a reputation that proceeds me. And if you
wanna
be out there, doing what you're doing, you need to do it with your own name. You need to build your own legacy.
And if you can't?
Well, then you
ain't
got no business being out there. Understand?"