Made (29 page)
Corrado tensed at the shift in conversation. The Boss knew the answer to this question. "We had our first date two weeks ago."
"That's not what I asked. I want to know when it
started
."
When did it start?
Such a loaded question.
Was it a few months ago, when he'd stood in the foyer at the DeMarco house, convinced the sound of her voice would be the end of him? Or was it a week later when he'd gone to ask for the Boss's blessing, only to be shot down? Or maybe it was after that, the night of the fair, when that last part of him opened up and let her in.
Or maybe… maybe it was much, much earlier.
"I guess you can say it started when we were kids."
"So you've loved her for half your life."
Love
. The
word made his head swim
. "Feels like my entire life."
"And how do you feel about that?"
Corrado cut his eyes at the Boss. "You're asking me about my feelings?"
Antonio laughed, relaxing in the pew. "Yeah, I guess I am."
Corrado remained silent, gazing around the quiet church. He understood why the Boss visited at this hour. There was something reassuring about being tucked inside the thick fortress walls and high vaulted ceiling. He felt so minuscule sitting there, a tiny fleck in a much bigger universe, unnoticed and maybe even overlooked. And while nobody truly wanted to be forgotten, an unseen man remained unscathed.
"Feels like a lifetime isn't near enough," he answered finally. "Especially
my
life."
Antonio nodded as if he'd expected that answer. "I was your age when Celia was born. I wasn't ready to be a father. Most days I think I'm still not ready. It's been eighteen years since then… so you can say I've loved that girl for half my life, too. I'm only thirty-six, Corrado, but when I wake up in the morning I feel old. I feel like I'm on the way out."
"You're one of the youngest bosses in history."
"Doesn't matter. Nobody stays in power for more than a few years.
Nobody
. I've been running things for a decade now. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I got another decade in me. If I'm damn lucky, I'll even live to see my fiftieth birthday.
Any more than that?
Well, there isn't enough luck in the universe to make that happen." Antonio laughed darkly. "I can have most anything I want in life. I have no problem stealing from others. But the one thing I want most, I can't take. You can't steal time. You can't rob God. And that pisses me off more than it should."
A hint of emotion cracked Antonio's voice.
"So every Sunday, I sit right here," Antonio continued. "I sit here, and I wait. I don't even know what I'm waiting on. Maybe I want Him to save me. Or maybe I just do it to fucking spite Him. But I'm here, because there's only one in this universe more powerful than me, and I'm not a coward. I'm going to face Him."
Those words brought up a memory, a conversation Corrado had with his father the first time he laid eyes on Antonio DeMarco at the casino in Las Vegas. Corrado had been shocked his father had a boss.
"We all got someone we answer to."
"
Who
does he answer to?"
"I don't know, kid. God, maybe?"
Antonio spoke again, pulling Corrado out of his mind with a question. "Have you told her?"
"Who?"
"My daughter," he said. "Have you told her you love her?"
"She knows."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you
told
her."
"No."
"You ought to."
His voice was quiet as he mumbled, "I know."
A door across the church opened, a man appearing, his roman collar shining under the hint of morning sunshine sneaking through the stained glass windows. Antonio's expression brightened. "Father Alberto."
"How are you, my child?"
"Same as ever." Antonio slapped his arm around Corrado's shoulder. "You meet Corrado yet?"
Father Alberto approached. "I've seen his face in the crowd the days he graces us with his presence."
"Ah, well, I'm sure he'll be doing that more often now that he's dating my daughter."
Corrado tensed as both men eyed him with interest.
"Absolutely, sir." He glanced at the priest. "Father."
The priest walked away, motioning for Antonio to follow. The Boss stood. "Confession time." He paused, studying Corrado. "I'll love my daughter as long as I live, but I need to know someone will love her as long as
she
does. So if you ever decide to be that one… if you decide you
want
to marry her? You have my blessing… as long as you promise never to leave her behind."
Corrado was flabbergasted. "Thank you, sir."
Antonio shrugged it off, laughing as he turned around. "Just don't let her
suffocate
you too much."
"Here's the situation," the lawyer said, monotone voice nearly putting Corrado to sleep as he shifted through a file, the jacket of his brown suit bunching up around his frail shoulders. "The DA is offering probation for the lesser charge of simple assault."
"A plea bargain?"
"Yes."
"I'm not doing it."
The lawyer sighed impatiently. "It's a generous offer."
"I'm not pleading guilty."
"Look, Mr. Moretti. They charged you with two felonies. You're looking at years in prison and thousands of dollars in fines for this."
"No, you look, Mister..." Corrado had to peek at the nameplate on the desk to remember the public defender's name. "...Jackson. I'm not pleading guilty when I did nothing wrong."
"You pistol-whipped two men and left them for dead."
"They deserved it."
"And I'm sure the judge will
love
that defense."
Corrado didn't care what they thought. "I'll take my chances."
"I get it... you don't want to plead guilty... but it's in your best interest to avoid a trial."
"I agree."
"So we're on the same page?"
"Absolutely," Corrado said. "You're going to get them to drop the charges."
Corrado had been optimistic, but his hopes were dashed two weeks later when the judge ordered the case to trial. Studiously, he showed up to court the day of the proceedings, sitting beside his annoyed lawyer who wanted to be anywhere but there.
They selected a jury in less than four hours. The prosecution began, telling a tale of a violent boy who savagely beat two guys to the brink of death. They jumped right in, calling their first witness: the guy who had held a gun to Celia's head.
"You're going to have to testify," the lawyer muttered to Corrado, slouching in his chair as if he were trying to slink away. "Otherwise, their story is the only one the jury will hear."
"I'm not worried," Corrado said, watching as the man was sworn in. "It won't get that far."
The lawyer shrugged it off, turning his attention to the witness stand. The prosecutor stood—a stern woman with dull blonde hair—and approached the witness. "Marcel, can you tell me what happened the night of July 27
th
?"
Marcel Jones. Corrado knew his name, had memorized it the day the article ran in the newspaper.
"Yeah, uh, my friend and I were walking to the store, you know, for a drink…" He nervously cleared his throat. "…
and
we came upon this guy. He pulled out a gun and I thought he was
gonna
shoot us. We tried to fight back, but he overpowered us."
"And the man who attacked you," the prosecutor said. "Do you see him here in the courtroom today?"
Marcel cleared his throat, leaning closer to the microphone. "Nope."
A wave of murmurs flowed through the courtroom. Corrado stared straight ahead as Marcel spoke again. "I
ain't never seen the defendant before.
I don't know who he is."
The prosecutor requested a recess to regroup, but it was downhill from there. Their case ripped apart, every witness they called recanting, denying knowing anything.
It only took twenty minutes for the
not guilty
verdict to come in.
Corrado waited a few weeks, letting the hype die down, before he paid Marcel a visit. Under the cloak of darkness, while he slept in bed, Corrado broke into his house and slit his throat. The other man received a pass, a reprieve, but not Marcel. He had manhandled Celia.
Nobody
would ever get away with doing that.
The house appeared exactly the same.
The long dining room table was still cloaked with a thick white tablecloth, faint discolored splotches on the edges of it that bleach hadn't covered. The wall, despite countless scrubbings, still bore the faint orange tint of a plate of lasagna being hurled at it. A broken crystal vase sat on the mantle, a deep crack the whole way around it from where it had been haphazardly glued together.
A Moretti family heirloom.
Corrado hadn't ventured upstairs, but if he had, he knew he'd find claw marks on the banister leading to the hallway, ruts dug into the wooden floor outside of his childhood bedroom, telling tales of horror he kept mostly to himself.
He hadn't been to Las Vegas in about two years, hadn't stepped foot in this house or even heard his mother's voice. And yet, here he was, eating off the chipped china as her laughter echoed through the room, charming everyone around the table except for him.
He knew the true ugliness it disguised.
As if she sensed his thoughts, a small hand landed on his thigh, rubbing soothing circles along his slacks. Dropping his fork, not even the slightest bit
hungry,
he reached under the table and placed his hand on top of hers. He squeezed gently, showing his appreciation as his gaze drifted to the seat beside him.
Celia sat poised, an attentive expression on her face, but he saw the faded look in her eyes as she tuned out the conversation. Glancing away from her, Corrado scanned the other seats. The DeMarco's sat across from them—Antonio and Gia, along with Vincent, who appeared to be little more than bored by the celebration, his elbow propped up on the table. To Corrado's left sat his sister, beside her an anxious Michael Antonelli. Unbeknownst to Corrado, who had taken no interest in his sister's life after moving, Katrina had started dating Michael, and the diamond ring gleaming from her left hand told him all he needed to know. It was modest, half a carat at most—nothing like the one Celia wore.
As the thought passed through his mind, Corrado absently toyed with the hand in his lap, fiddling with the ring on her finger. Six weeks after receiving Antonio's blessing, after making enough money to afford a ring, Corrado popped the question. He hadn't put much planning into it, merely took her to dinner and pulled the ring out over dessert.
Celia had been mid-story, rambling on about a friend of hers who Corrado couldn't even remember meeting, as she devoured a piece of tiramisu. She'd just shoved a forkful in her mouth when he flipped open the small black velvet box.
As soon as the five-carat diamond caught the light, Celia inhaled sharply… and started choking.
She dropped her fork, coughing viciously as her face turned bright red. Concern wiped away every ounce of nervousness as he jumped up. She held her hands up to stop him, getting herself under control as she grabbed his water and took a drink.
Once she seemed to be okay again, he retook his seat. The red in Celia's cheeks spread down her neck as blush overtook her skin.
"What are you doing?" she asked, the words barely audible.
Corrado glanced between her and the ring. "Asking you to marry me."
She gawked at him as he stared back, awaiting some kind of response. Tense moments passed of strained silence before she roared with laughter. "That's it?
That's
your proposal?"
He shrugged a shoulder.
She continued to laugh, shaking her head. Corrado's stomach twisted. This wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. After a minute, she leaned toward him, her eyes fixated on the sparkling ring. "Why?"
Why
.
That godforsaken question.
This time he had an answer.
"Because I love you."
As if some magical spell fell over her, Celia's expression softened, tears springing to her eyes.
She continued to stare at him.
Why wasn't she saying anything?
Looking away from her, he glanced down at the ring and closed the box when her hand shot out, covering it. "I love you, too, Corrado.
Of course
I'll marry you."
The date was set for July 15, a mere three weeks away. Everything was all ready, planned to Celia's liking. All that was left between now and then was surviving their current engagement party.
He tried to focus on the present as the sound of his mother's grating voice again tore through the room. He glanced at where she sat at the head of the table. She wouldn't even yield to Vito with the Boss present.
"And then," Erika said as she waved her glass, the red wine swirling around. Her third drink, maybe the fourth that Corrado saw, but that didn't account for what she drank before they arrived. He heard the slur of her words. She toed dangerously close to her limit. "That Samantha Mallory knocked on my front door, all three-feet of her little blonde self, and informed me that she was here to date Corrado. Can you believe it? This seven year old girl declaring her love for my teenage son."
Everyone around the table laughed with the exception of Corrado.
"It was a sight to behold," Erika continued. "I told her, 'honey, I get it, I know my Corrado's a handsome creature, but you're a little young for him'. And she cried—boy, did she cry! I hated having to break that girl's heart. But can you believe it?
At seven?
My kids didn't even know what love was at that age!"
Unable to take anymore, Corrado shoved his chair back, tossing his napkin over his plate.
Nobody said a word when he strode from the room. A stark silence followed him as he made his way to the kitchen. The lights were on, something baking in the oven, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. Corrado walked over to the window.
A moment later he heard the clicking of high heels. He caught sight of Celia's distorted reflection in the glass, smelled her perfume as she approached. Wrapping her arms around him from behind, she laid her head against his back. "See? I knew you had girls throwing themselves at you."
He grasped her arms, pulling her to the front of him. He hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head as he whispered, "it's all lies."
"What?"
"That never happened." He'd never heard of a Samantha Mallory. "She's lying."
"Why would she do that?"
"Who knows," he muttered. "Maybe she doesn't know the difference between fiction and reality."
"She seems so…" Celia paused as Corrado pondered the possibilities.
Horrible
?
Bitter
?
Deceitful
? "Normal."
A sharp laugh escaped his throat. If his mother were the definition, he wanted nothing to do with
normal
.
The two were still standing there, hugging in silence, Corrado's cheek resting against the top of her head, when the door to the kitchen ever so slightly opened, a frail form slipping in almost undetected. His eyes darted that way, sensing the movement, and caught a pair of startled green eyes.
The second their eyes connected, her gaze dropped to the floor.
Maura.
Two years had aged the young girl a lifetime. Signs of weariness showed on her face, the liveliness that had once twinkled in her hopeful eyes dimmed to a dull flicker. She had gotten taller, the dress that used to drag the ground now hovering high above her ankles. Her fiery red hair was tame, her clothes clean and skin bathed. Even makeup coated her face, hiding what Corrado assumed were remnants of bruises that his mother wouldn't want anyone to see.
"Sorry," Maura apologized. "I didn't know anyone was in here."
Celia withdrew from Corrado's arms at the sound of the female voice, spinning around to face the girl.
"I, uh…" Maura stammered, motioning toward the stove. "You know, before it burns."
He stepped away, not wanting to hinder her, and tried to drag Celia with him, but she wouldn't budge. Celia smiled brightly, instead taking a step toward Maura.
Corrado started to protest, but silenced his objections. Who was he to tell her what to do?
"I'm Celia," she said, holding out her hand. Maura gaped at it, wide-eyed, and Corrado grimaced when confusion took over Celia's face. As much as he didn't want to, he knew he'd have to explain.
'A helper', Vito had always called them. 'Sometimes you need a little help and there are people out there made for that.' He'd never come out and said it, choosing to stick to his lies of omission, but Erika had no qualms calling a spade a spade.
Slave
.
She had spat the word so many times that even the venom lacing it had made her own flesh-and-blood flinch. Human trafficking was the underground worlds darkest secret.
La Cosa Nostra
didn't deal in it directly, but it was undeniable that some of the money filtering into the organization came from the slave trade. Antonio had a
'don't ask, don't tell'
policy.
If you don't see it happen, you can pretend it never did.
"Celia," Corrado said, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Maura."
"Hello." Maura's voice was meek, her eyes never quite meeting either of theirs.
Before Celia could respond, Maura sidestepped her extended hand and pulled a pie out of the oven, setting it on the counter before slipping right back out the kitchen door.
It took less than thirty seconds.
She had gotten good at evading.
Celia stared at the swaying door before facing Corrado, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who was that?"
"Maura."
"I got
that
much. Who is she?"
Lie by omission?
Or tell the ugly truth?
"She's a slave," Corrado said tentatively. He couldn't lie to her.
A vast array of emotions took over Celia's face, flashing in her expressive eyes. Shock. Disbelief. Dismay. Horror.
And then came the rage.
"You have a
slave
?" she hissed.
"My
mother
has one," he corrected her, but it did nothing to lessen her anger.
Her pointer finger shot out, jabbing him hard in his sternum. "What kind of sick, twisted bitch keeps a girl as a slave?"
Corrado grabbed her hand as she jabbed at him again. "Not so normal anymore, huh?"
After dinner, guests dispersed as others arrived, a steady flow of people streaming through the house—extended family, business associates, friends of friends. Everyone who was anyone made an appearance, coming out of respect.
The men gathered around with cigars later in the evening, half-f glasses of expensive liquor covering the table. The air became a haze of harsh smoke, constricting Corrado's view of his cards.
Wadded bills lay in heaps as the men played five-card draw. Bets were elevated to extraordinary heights as they bickered, throwing down cards and drawing more. Corrado played along, folding even when he held a winning hand.
His heart wasn't in it.
Vito raised the bet to $800. Antonio called the hand.
Corrado folded. He was done.
Picking up his glass, he swirled it around briefly before bringing it to his lips and taking a small sip. Not usually one to drink, he needed something to ease his nerves—nerves that had frayed the second he stepped back into this hellhole.
The faint trace of alcohol simmered in his bloodstream, relaxing his shoulders. The others drank heavily, a bottle continuously flowing, empty ones replaced. A few of the men grew belligerent, especially mouthy Michael Antonelli.
It pushed Corrado's thoughts toward his mother again. He hadn't seen her in a while, the women having excused themselves hours ago.
Corrado didn't bother waiting to find out who won the hand. He bowed out of the game, clutching his glass of scotch as he left the dining room. He strolled around, finding his mother and Gia chatting away in the living room, but there was no sign of Celia. He headed into the foyer, pausing and staring out the front door into the darkened yard, before glancing toward the second floor.
Leave it to Celia to make him go up there.
Hesitantly, he ascended the stairs, his free hand skimming along the rough banister, in no hurry as he strolled down the scuffed hallway. He paused when he reached his childhood bedroom and leaned against the splintered doorframe.