Made (14 page)

    
8

They didn't call it the Mafia. No, the undignified term, according to Vito, tainted their image.

They called it
La Cosa Nostra
instead
.

The words flow beautifully from the tongue.
This thing of ours
.
It's a brilliant sentiment—belonging to something powerful. Corrado had jumped into it with preconceived notions, just like most others did. He went for the money¸ for the power, for the respect, and he stayed because, well… he stayed because he had to.

After they invited you in, after they embraced you, there was no walking away. It's a beautiful web of glorious silk, intricately woven together with deception, which draws you in like moths to a flame. But as soon as you're close, as soon as you approach, the web snatches a hold of you and refuses to let go.

And once you're stuck, the black widow comes and fucks you good before eating you alive.

Corrado learned that lesson quickly. Despite the allure of the words, there was nothing poetic about
La Cosa Nostra
. But there wasn't a single moment, as he settled into the life, that he regretted his decision to move. It wasn't pretty. But compared to his life back in Nevada?
His life with his mother?
Being in Chicago was a cakewalk.

It turned out to be monotonous at the beginning. At seventeen, a high school drop out, he was back to acting like that eleven-year-old kid, running errands and delivering packages for a few dollars here and there… money that disappeared in the blink of an eye as he regularly picked up the tab for everyone. He was a peon, a disposable messenger boy, a kid with no voice and no opinion. Corrado was the bottom rung of a ladder, one that got stepped on by those on their way to the top.

He was nothing. He was nobody to them.

But he never complained. He did what was asked of him, no matter the time of day, no matter how menial the task. If a
capo
wanted food at three in the morning, Corrado was out the door in less than five minutes, searching for a place still open at that hour. He picked up dry cleaning, filled shopping lists, and even made coffee. He did it all, because the alternative was doing nothing.

"Here, kid. Got a job for you."

The moment Corrado opened the front door of his rental house on Felton
Drive,
a thick manila envelope was shoved at him. He groggily stumbled a few steps as he clutched it, still half-asleep. Pitch-black night hung thickly outside, cold air prickling the bare skin of his chest. It was a cloudy, dreary night… or morning, Corrado thought, since it was well past midnight.

Had he not recognized his father's voice, he would've never known who delivered the package. Vito turned away, rushing from the porch and disappearing down the street. Corrado closed the door and strolled through the downstairs of his house, his bare feet dragging against the chilly wooden floor. Flicking on a lamp in the living room, he glanced down at the package, seeing an address scribbled on the front of it. No other instructions.

"Just great," he muttered, heading upstairs to get dressed. He threw on some black slacks and a gray button-down shirt, walking a fine line between lazy and presentable, exhausted but not knowing what situation he'd walk into it. It could be as simple as handing it through a crack in a door, or as extravagant as crashing a formal party. He had to be prepared for anything.

He just wanted to go back to bed.

Grabbing a jacket, he concealed the envelope in the large inside pocket before picking up his gun and heading out into the night. The shiny Ruger Mark II revolver slipped nicely in the holster in his jacket, hidden but fully loaded, just in case.

Unfamiliar with the address, he pulled the crinkled Chicago map from the glove box of the car he'd bought—a beat up, old black Mercedes. He unfolded it, scanning the neighborhoods until he found Kessler Street in the south side of the city. He drove there, creeping down the street until he located the address written on the package. It turned out to be a decrepit little brick building, more of a rundown business than a house, the windows boarded up, the outside crumbling.

Corrado parked along the curb in front of it, beneath a flickering streetlight, and climbed out of the car. He glanced around, studiously checking the neighborhood for any signs of trouble, but it appeared abandoned. He scanned the building, noting the exits and entrances as he approached the door. It seemed to be made of steel, a slide slot where a window usually would be.

He hesitated, finding no doorbell or knocker, before tapping on the metal. No sound came, no response or movement. He tried the knob, curious if it was unlocked, but it didn't budge. He knocked again—two, three, four times. Was anyone even here?

He took a step back, assessing, when a stirring caught his attention. It was subtle, the rustling of grass. His defenses went up, the hair on his arms standing on end. Reaching into his coat, he grasped his gun, whipping it out as he swung around.

Corrado was fast… but not fast enough.

A hard blow to the face knocked him off balance, his surroundings a blur as he stumbled. Before he could regain his composure, another strike knocked him back against the metal door, forcing the air from his lungs as someone pinned him there, an elbow going straight to his gut. A thick hand grasped his wrist, viciously pulling it backward, and Corrado gasped as a sharp pain shot up his forearm.

The gun was ripped from his flimsy grasp within a matter of seconds, the pressure restraining him releasing once he had been disarmed.

Corrado blinked, his hazy vision coming back into focus, as his own gun pressed to his forehead. "And who might
you
be?" a deep voice asked, strikingly calm.

Struggling to catch his breath, suddenly on the defense, Corrado gaped at the man in front of him. Corrado wasn't short or scrawny, but his assailant was a beast of a man, making him feel as puny as a stuffed bear. He was shrouded in darkness, an oversize hood covering his head, concealing his face. His free hand held a white plastic bag containing Chinese food containers.

"A friend," he managed to say, his jaw throbbing as he forced out the words.

"A friend," the man echoed, "of whose?"

"Yours."

"I have no friends." His answer was immediate. "Try again."

"I have something for you," Corrado said. "A package."

"Ah." The gun withdrew from his head and slipped into the man's pocket. "Why didn't you just say so?"

The man reached past him and unlocked the door, shoving it open. Corrado tried to move out of the way, but the man grasped his arm and shoved him inside, relocking the door behind them.

Heart beating rapidly, Corrado assessed the building as the man hit a switch, only one bulb working on a hanging light. The place was in shambles, even more so than the outside. The stench of chemicals and something rotting hung in the air. Chinese containers were strewn around the floor, dozens of them from a place called Lang Miens.

One room, Corrado noted. Furniture scattered throughout the space, a grimy couch and chair in front of a small television with an antenna; an old mattress in the corner with a pillow and blankets; a small heater beside a massive black trunk. Along the back, aligning the wall, were half a dozen gallon drums, some empty and tipped over, others sealed. In the back corner set a refrigerator.

He lives in this dump?

The man strolled over to the heater and lit it before removing his hood. Corrado's blood ran cold at the sight of the familiar withering, pale face and beady blue eyes.

Luca
Esponzio
.

Corrado had never met him before, and hoped never to have to. He'd seen his face, though, on the front of the newspaper. Reported serial killer, suspected in over fourteen disappearances, but they never found any evidence to prosecute him. People vanished into thin air after being spotted with Luca, never to be seen again.

"You say you have something for me?" Luca asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped toward Corrado, holding out his massive right hand. It was calloused and dirty, with a gold ring wedged on his swollen middle finger.

Reaching into his coat, Corrado pulled out the envelope and handed it over. Luca opened it right in front of him, skimming through a stack of cash before pulling out a photograph. Corrado caught a quick glimpse of it, recognizing the man in the photo as a mobster in New York: Johnny Canella.

Luca stuffed everything back into the envelope as he plopped down on the couch and tossed it beside him. He pulled out his dinner, expertly using chopsticks to eat. "You like Chinese food?"

Corrado watched him curiously. "Occasionally."

"You should give Lang Miens a try." He motioned to the container. "Best Orange Chicken in Chicago."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that." Luca waved him off. "Unless you have something else for me, I recommend you leave."

Corrado turned at the dismissal, taking a few steps toward the door before hesitating. "Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"My gun."

A sinister smirk twisted Luca's lips. "
M
y
gun now."

Corrado's stomach twisted in knots. Vito had handed him that gun after the incident at the casino, telling him to keep it, that it was lucky. Although Corrado didn't believe in luck, the gun was special to him.

Other than the long ago fractured bat, it was the only thing he remembered Vito ever
giving
him.

He wanted to argue, to demand it back, but a voice in the back of his head told him to retreat.

Corrado slipped into his car and drove away, his hands trembling against the steering wheel. He went straight home, arriving before dawn, the sky lightening but the neighborhood still startlingly dark. On his porch sat a figure, the soft orange glow of a lit cigar illuminating his father's face.

Vito glanced up as he approached. "You make out okay?"

Corrado shrugged. "I survived."

Vito flicked ashes onto the sidewalk as Corrado sat down beside him. "Looks like you're getting a nasty bruise on your cheek. You didn't draw on him, did you?"

Corrado rubbed his jaw, wincing. "Yeah, I did."

"You can kiss that gun goodbye." Vito chuckled under his breath. "Guess you'll know better next time."

He narrowed his eyes, studying his father.
Next time
? Vito peeked at him, seeing the questions in his eyes… questions he wouldn't ask. He knew better.

"The crazy bastard's good at what he does," Vito explained. "Nobody's better. And if he
ain't
working for you, he's working against you. Remember that."

Vito stood, clasping his son's shoulder and laughing lightly to himself. "Better find yourself another gun somewhere, kid."

No, he wanted
his
gun. And he would get it back someday.

A few days later, Corrado watched the news when a familiar face flashed on the grainy screen. Johnny Canella, reputed mob associate, had been reported missing, vanished from his bed as he slept beside his wife.

A chill shot down Corrado's spine. Luca
Esponzio
struck again.

Less than two weeks later, Vito showed back up at Corrado's door in the middle of the night, again carrying a thick envelope. Corrado stared at it with disbelief before getting dressed and heading out, concealing his new dull black pistol in his coat. He'd bought it off one of the local thugs, the serial numbers scratched off, the trigger stiff and hard to squeeze. He hated the feel of it, missed the ease of his revolver, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.