Made (36 page)

    
24

"Is it true?"

Out of breath, Vincent's chest heaved as he forced out those words, sweat dripping from his forehead, running down his flushed face. His dark eyes were wild, focused on Corrado, awaiting an answer.

Corrado stood at his front door, staring at the boy peculiarly. He had knocked feverishly, rousing Corrado from a light sleep on the couch. He had been up late working and in no mood for this. "You're panting."

"I ran here," Vincent said, raising his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. "So is it? Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is she here?"

"No," Corrado replied. "Celia isn't home."

"Not my sister. I know
she's
not here."

"Then why are you?"

Vincent groaned with aggravation and tried to step into the house, but Corrado shifted to block his way. Vincent glared at him, his mouth set in a hard line of determination.
Gutsy
.

Corrado knew it straightaway, off the boy's stubborn expression. He had assured Antonio that Maura wouldn't cause any trouble, but trouble sought her in the form of a teenage boy.

"You should go home, Vincent."

Those eyes narrowed even more. "I don't want to."

"Then go somewhere else," Corrado said. "But you're not coming in here."

The door slammed right in Vincent's face.

Corrado turned around in the foyer, catching sight of Maura down the hallway. She stared past him, eyes fixed on the closed door. She was much more put together than she had been when Vito dropped her off. Celia bought the girl an entire wardrobe and more pairs of shoes than even Corrado owned. They furnished one of the spare rooms with a nice bed and dresser, but she still didn't seem comfortable.

In fact, she seemed more distressed now than when she had first arrived.

Maura blinked a few times as her frown deepened. She looked as if she had something to say, but instead her shoulders slumped, her sorrowful gaze going to her feet.

"Don't worry," Corrado reassured her. "He won't bother you."

Every muscle in Corrado's body felt weak, strained from overwork and lack of sleep. Exhausted, he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom and fell into the freshly made bed with relief. He snatched up a pillow, snuggling against it as he closed his eyes, and fell asleep on his stomach, still fully dressed.

His hair tousling woke him up, a tingle across his scalp that jolted him. Eyes wide, he pulled away from the extended hand and sat up, stunned to see Celia perched on the edge of the bed. Her hand remained mid-air as she eyed him with surprise. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't."

A smile played across her lips. "Liar."

"You did."

She laughed lightly. He couldn't lie to her, and they both knew it. He would skirt around the truth all day long, but blatant lies were a kind of cheating—betraying the trust she had placed in him.

He had no qualms cheating usually—he would cheat the law, cheat the government, cheat death—but he wouldn't cheat his wife.

Or her father, for that matter.

"You must've been sleeping hard. I rarely sneak up on you."

He rolled onto his back, folding his arms across his stomach. "I need a vacation."

"You do," she agreed, reaching out to stroke his hair again. "
We
do. We need two weeks of just you and me, away from everything and everyone."

Sounded nice, but getting away was practically impossible when you couldn't even get a full night's sleep without being dragged to a job.

"Soon," he promised. "As soon as I can get away, I'm yours."

The declaration wasn't even entirely from his lips when the phone downstairs rang. Corrado's eyes closed at the sound of it, a slight pounding starting deep in his head. "I should get that."

"Stay." Celia pressed a hand against his forehead before running it through his hair. "Rest."

He wouldn't argue.

He didn't have the energy.

She strode out, pausing in the hallway near the stairs. "Vincent! Get that, will you? Take a message."

A dull murmur of a response came from downstairs.

Before the ringing even stopped, Corrado was on his feet. He met Celia in the doorway when she tried to rejoin him. "Did you say Vincent?"

"Yes."

"He's here?"

"Yes."

"I told him to go home."

"He did."

"Then why is he here?"

She shrugged. "I brought him back."

Corrado stepped past her, bounding down the stairs. Celia followed right on his heels. "Corrado, wait."

He kept going.

"Corrado," she shouted. "Slow down!"

She grabbed him when he reached the bottom of the stairs, getting a tentative grasp on the back of his shirt. Her other hand grabbed his arm, yanking him toward her. "Dammit, stop!"

His footsteps faltered at the fury in her voice. He turned just in time for her to jab him in the chest with her pointer finger. Grabbing her hand, he held it there, raising an eyebrow at her. "What?"

"Leave them alone."

"He shouldn't be here," Corrado said. "I told her he wouldn't bother her."

"Does it sound like he's
bothering
her?"

No, it sounded like nothing. Soft subtle whispers, the words unintelligible—if they were even words at all. It was nothing more than humming to his ears. "That means nothing."

He let go of her hand when she dropped her voice low. "Please, Corrado."

"Don't beg," he growled.

"Please," she said again. "Just leave them alone. That's all I'm asking."

Laughter rang out from the living room, soft and feminine, entirely unfamiliar. A sound Corrado had never heard before. He walked to the living room, pausing in the doorway. Vincent and Maura sat on the couch, facing each other, an entire cushion of space between them, but something about the way they spoke softly felt startlingly intimate.

Maura lit up as she laughed again at something Vincent said, her eyes peering straight into the boy's. Corrado turned away from them, avoiding his wife as he headed for the stairs.

"She's enjoying herself," Celia said when he passed.

"If she wants fun, buy her some toys."

"Toys?" she asked incredulously. "She's not a
child
. She doesn't need dolls. She needs friends."

He said nothing in response as he went back upstairs. He stopped when he reached the top step, seeing Celia standing at the bottom, watching him.

"Your brother has until dusk," Corrado said. "If he's not out of my house when the streetlights come on, I'll
throw
him out."

He spoke matter-of-fact, a harsh edge to his voice, but Celia beamed with satisfaction, as if she'd won something with his words.

    
25

Even in the most chaotic times, things can grow monotonous if you become desensitized to the madness.

Day in and day out, Corrado did everything asked of him, going above and beyond the call of duty. He saw the gritty streets of Chicago more than he saw the inside of his home, running all hours of the night, helping Vito with jobs—robberies, hijacks, overseeing gambling rings, collecting taxes—as well as fielding extra work from the Boss directly.

It's only a matter of time
, his father reminded him whenever the fatigue showed on his young face.
Only a matter of time before they put your name in the books, kid
.

With initiating would come a certain amount of
freedom.
Vowing yourself to them meant not having to constantly prove your worth… they already deemed you worthy. He'd be able to take a step back, be able to take a breath and relax.

But until then, he was at their beck and call, available anytime, day or night. He did it all without complaint, so accurately, so automatically, that it became as instinctual as breathing.

Corrado fought predictability, but he was a man of habit, finding little things that grounded him during the mayhem. He would stalk and eradicate, quick and easy, sometimes not as painless as others, and afterward, he'd stop by that same little store and buy flowers for his wife before coming home to her. It wasn't out of guilt—it was an act of balance.

A little of the good to even out all that bad.

He scarcely noticed after a while, as the tedium of it all kicked in, but he started bringing flowers home more and more. He never kept count, never kept a record, never even tried to remember, but the body count added up, the blood on his hands thicker and thicker.

Even at home he merely went through the motions some days. His small house dead center of Felton Drive fell into the trap, his once quiet sanctuary now anarchy.

He had underestimated Vincenzo DeMarco.

The boy was in and out of his house all hours of the night. Corrado would come home and find him there, making himself at home, after he had been told to stay away. Corrado would make him leave, sometimes physically forcing him out the front door, but without fail, the very next morning, he would be right back.

Corrado wasn't blind. He saw what was happening. He may not have understood—not completely—but he saw it. And he struggled against it. It was constant, round and round, over and over, another monotonous habit Corrado grew too numb to break. And while he clashed with Vincent, Celia grew distant, contradicting him every step of the way.

She would never condemn Corrado's life. She grew up in it. But she would never like it. She would never get used to his absences. When he came home at night, sometimes clutching a bouquet of flowers, she would give him a look of indecision.

"What did you do today?" she'd ask.

"Work," he would say, or, "ran errands for your father." He kept it vague, and she accepted his answers, but questions lingered in her eyes, the part of her that wanted details he couldn't bare the thought of giving.

"You know you can tell me anything," she would say. "I want us to be able to talk about everything."

He'd simply nod, grateful when she dropped the subject.

It neared the end of November and Corrado was out one night with his father, cleaning up from an underground gambling tournament. Corrado sat on top of one of the stained green poker tables, discarded chips splayed out all around him. Vito sat in a chair beside him, puffing on a cigar, tall stacks of cash piled up in front of him as he painstakingly counted every bill. It was late—two o'clock in the morning. Corrado glanced around, a small dim room beneath a local bar, a filthy concrete floor and faded brick walls, the air infused with the scent of piss and old beer.

You'd think the Mafia could find a better place to hang out in.

"Your mother's in the hospital."

The words came out of nowhere. Corrado's attention shifted to his father, all thoughts of the shabby hangout disappearing. "The hospital?"

"Yeah." He let out a deep sigh. "Doctor came out to the house and found her. Called an ambulance. She was having seizures."

"That's, uh…"

"Terrible," Vito said, finishing his sentence.

Corrado had been thinking something more like 'karma'.

"Anyway," Vito continued. "She's gonna be there for awhile, you know, getting real help now. I told her no more. She says she isn't drinking, that she just took too many of them pill the doctor gave her. An accident. But she agreed to stay in the hospital until they got her clean."

From booze to pills?
He wasn't surprised. "Okay."

Vito stopped counting and looked at his son. "Your sister's coming to visit."

"Okay."

"She'll be here next week," he said. "I thought maybe we could have Thanksgiving together, you know, like old times."

Like old times
.
The way Vito said those words, with a sense of hopeful longing, irked Corrado. "I don't know. It would be nice to have a holiday for once where people don't throw things."

The smile playing on Vito's lips faded away. He stared at him hard for a moment before shrugging it off and counting the money.

Corrado jumped down from the table. "I need to get going. I have court in a few hours."

"Yeah? For what?"

"I'm not even sure."

Along with the uniformity had come repeated arrests, every few weeks like clockwork. He had seen Detective Walker's face enough the past month alone to last a lifetime.

Vito laughed. "Good luck with that."

Corrado slapped his father on the back, squeezing his shoulder as he passed. "I'll talk to Celia about Thanksgiving."

Vito didn't respond, but his smile returned.

"Fine."

Corrado stared at his wife skeptically when she shrugged and said that word.
Fine
. "You don't mean that."

"Why don't I?"

"Because that isn't what I thought you'd say."

Celia dug through the cabinets in the kitchen, pulling out everything to make dinner. "You thought I'd say no?"

"Yes." He paused. "You
did
hear what I said, right?"

She turned to him. "Your sister's coming to town, and your father
wants
us to spend Thanksgiving together."

"Yes."

"Then yes, I heard you."

"And your answer is 'fine'."

"What do you
want
me to say?"

"I don't know. I just thought you'd be more opposed."

"They're your family, Corrado. And yeah, I'm not your sister's biggest fan, but she wasn't too bad at our engagement party."

"That's because my mother monopolized the crazy."

"Come on. There has to be
something
redeeming about Katrina. You two shared a womb, after all."

"Celia." He pulled her to him. "The fact that I'm her brother
is
the only redeeming thing about her."

Celia laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "As right as you may be about that, I think we should give her a chance. Who knows? She might surprise us."

He conceded. "Fine."

"Fine," she repeated, pulling away from him to go back to her work. "We'll have dinner here. Maura and I can cook."

The following week, a rainy Thursday afternoon in the suburbs of Chicago, the Moretti family gathered for Thanksgiving dinner. Celia was polite, the perfect hostess, greeting their guests with warm smiles and cold drinks. As soon as Vito stepped in the door, he snatched a hold of Celia and whirled her around in a circle, dipping her playfully, before pulling her against him and planting a kiss right on her lips. Corrado stood at the bottom of his steps, leaning against the railing, a bit of tension receding from his body when his wife laughed. "Oh, Vito… maybe I married the wrong Moretti."

She cast Corrado a teasing look.

"No, you picked the right one," Vito said, slapping his son on the back. "I don't look nearly as good in a suit as this kid."

Corrado's eyes drifted to the open doorway when his sister appeared. Katrina stepped into the house, wearing a black sleeveless dress, shivering slightly, as Michael paused to put down an umbrella. Setting it aside, he stepped in the house behind her, his hand on her hip.

"Katrina," Celia said. "Nice to see you again."

"You, too." There was no warmth to his sister's voice but no hostility either. Indifference. "Nice house."

Celia's smile brightened. "Thank you."

Corrado greeted none of them verbally, offering slight polite nods instead as Celia led the family toward the dining room. Dinner was already prepared, piled along the long table. Corrado went to slip into a chair beside his wife when Vito shoved him out of the way to take that seat instead.

"Your house." Vito motioned toward the head of the table. "Your seat."

Instinctively, Corrado had yielded to Vito. After all, Vito wasn't just his father—he was his boss of sorts.

Corrado took the spot at the head of the table and grabbed the carving knife. He stared at the turkey before gripping the knife and jabbing it straight down the top of the bird. Something cracked, bones breaking away as the blade wedged into the rib cage. Celia cringed while Vito laughed heartily, putting his arm around her shoulder. "It's already dead, kid. You ain't gotta kill it."

Corrado sloppily carved the turkey, cutting away big slabs of meat. They dug in once he finished, piling their plates high with food. Friendly chatter filled the air, mostly from Vito as he bridged the conversation. Corrado didn't have much to say, only speaking when spoken to, but dinner held none of the strain he was used to with his family. It was friendly. It was happy.

Corrado didn't like it.

"So, Michael," Vito said, relaxing back in his chair, arm once again around his daughter-in-law as he sipped a glass of wine. "I'm glad you decided to make the trip to Chicago."

The words, casual on the surface, ran deeper in Corrado's mind.

"It's good to be here," Michael said. "I've always been interested in, uh… Chicago."

Definitely deeper.

"Good, good… you know, your father and me are good friends," Vito said. "It'll be nice to have Frankie's kid around. I'm sure Corrado wouldn't mind introducing you to the city."

Corrado stopped eating. He didn't like where this was going. "I'm busy."

His clipped tone caused the women at the table to glare at him, but Vito brushed it off. "Nah… you're never too busy for family, kid."

Corrado chose to remain silent then, dropping the subject, knowing he couldn't argue against that point without it coming back to haunt him.

After dinner, Katrina and Michael settled into the living room with Vito, while Celia grabbed everyone drinks in the kitchen. Maura sat at the small table along the side, as she quietly ate a plate of food Celia had set aside for her. Corrado helped his wife, growing aggravated by the animated voices ringing through his house. It was obvious to Corrado that dinner hadn't been out of some warped sense of nostalgia. It was little more than a dressed up, dragged out business meeting.