Made (41 page)
"Get a loan from a
bank
."
"With what credit?" she asked. "I don't even have a job. I have
nothing
in my name. I couldn't even get a bondsman to work with me because of it!"
"Then you should've left me in there."
"I refuse," she said, narrowing her eyes as she pointed at him. "You belong at home, with me. I'm not leaving you to rot in some stinking jail cell when I can do something about it."
A rush of anger surged through Corrado, but he clenched his hands into fists, forcing it back. He wouldn't yell at her. This was his fault, not hers. "What were the terms?"
"Five points a week," she replied. "For five-hundred thousand."
He stared at her as he did the math in his head. Five percent interest was an extra $25,000 a week. "
Who
did you get it from?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Answer me," he demanded. "Who gave you those terms?"
"Pascal Barone."
That was the last name he had expected to hear. "You asked him for money?
Him
?"
"Nobody else had that much on hand."
Corrado's voice came out with broken, ragged breaths. "You know better than this, Celia. There's no way I can pay that much back anytime soon. I'm in his debt now."
"No, you're not," she said. "
I
am."
She climbed in the car, slamming the door, and started the engine. She sat there, clutching the steering wheel, glaring at him through the windshield. Corrado shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat, not saying a word as she drove to her parent's house. The mansion on Felton Drive was lit up, surrounded by dozens of cars, as music and loud voices rattled the windows.
New Years Eve
.
"I'd rather go home," Corrado said, staring at the house.
"Yeah, me, too," Celia grumbled. "Too bad we can't."
She got out, slamming the door again, and headed for the house without him. Corrado once again followed, blindly tying his tie in the darkness, attempting to pull himself together to face the Boss.
Once Celia stepped into the house, her expression shifted, a forced smile straining her lips. She greeted people, offering hugs and handshakes, as Corrado trailed behind, reaching out to grasp her hip.
When they neared the den, Corrado glanced inside, seeing the Boss gathered with the usual made men. Pascal was present, puffing on a cigar, relaxed, not a care in the world.
Fire raged beneath Corrado's skin.
Antonio caught Corrado's eye. The man said something to those gathered around as he stood, carrying his glass of scotch. He walked out, merely casting Corrado a pointed glare, as he headed straight for his office.
Corrado pulled Celia closer to him and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead before letting go. Concern shined from her eyes, but she said nothing as he followed her father.
Corrado stepped into the office behind Antonio and shut the door as the man took his seat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a cigar, clipping the end and lighting it.
"So, murder, huh?" Antonio said casually, his voice betraying his hard expression. "Do they have any evidence?"
"They have the gun."
"How'd they get it?"
"It was on me the night it happened," he said, "when I was arrested."
"Ah, I heard about that," Antonio said. "You assaulted a made man. Why was that?"
"He's a rapist."
Antonio stared at him blankly. Unaffected. "He's also a murderer and a thief, but you don't see me beating him up for it, do you?"
"If he did it in your home, yes, I think you would."
"Do you?" Antonio asked. "Do you
think
so, Moretti?"
"Yes, sir."
"You think you know me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then tell me… what am I thinking now?" he asked, sitting forward. "What do I want to do now?"
He hesitated. "I don't know."
"Well, I'll tell you," Antonio said. "I'm thinking about how I'd like nothing more than to skin you alive, how I want to cut your balls off and shove them down your fucking throat for fooling me."
Corrado blanched.
Fooling him
?
"I gave you my blessing to marry my daughter under the assumption that you wouldn't ever leave her. And here you are, facing twenty to life for murder because you let your pesky little feelings cloud your judgment, and you got careless. I don't like careless, Corrado. I don't let careless in my family. I'd rather my daughter be a widow at nineteen than spend her days with a
jamook
. And right now, that's how you look, fighting a made man like you're the fucking morality police."
Corrado remained silent. The Boss hadn't asked a question, so he wasn't going to speak.
"Sit down." Antonio waved at the empty chair. "I want to ask you something."
Corrado carefully sat down.
"What do you think about my son?"
That wasn't the question Corrado expected. "Vincent?"
"Yes, Vincenzo," Antonio said. "He
is
my only son."
Something about the way he said that made Corrado bristle defensively. "He's a good kid."
"A good kid," Antonio repeated
,
his lips twisting contemplatively as he puffed his cigar. "He concerns me more than my daughter, and she's the one always finding trouble. That girl got detention in school, broke curfew, talked back to me, fell in love with
you
..." He let out a dry laugh. "My son, though. He worries me. I asked him the other day, I said, 'Vincenzo, what do you want to do with your life?' And you know what he said?"
"What?"
"Be a doctor." Antonio shook his head. "He wants to go to medical school."
"That's honorable."
"What did
you
want to do?"
"I'm doing it."
"Before you knew about the life?"
"I wanted to be like my father, so I guess I wanted to do it before I even knew what it was."
"Now
that
, to me, is honorable," Antonio said. "That's how I was. I followed in my father's footsteps, too. So what's wrong with me? What's wrong with
my
footsteps to make my boy want to go to medical school instead?"
Corrado had no answer. He scarcely understood Vincent.
Antonio put out his cigar and downed the rest of his scotch in one large gulp. "Go thank Pascal for saving your ass again, since he funded your release, and then you're free to do what you want with your night."
"Yes, sir."
He stood to leave, heading straight for the den. Pouring himself a drink, he threw it back, letting the burn soothe his nerves, before approaching Pascal. "I appreciate you helping my wife."
Pascal glanced at him. "I know you're good for it."
Corrado extended his hand to shake Pascal's. He let go just as Vito walked over to him, throwing an arm over his shoulder, forcing another glass of scotch on Corrado.
"Murder in the first," Vito said. "I'm not sure if I wanna laugh or lecture you, so I'll just have a drink with you instead."
Corrado took the glass, clinking it to his father's, before downing the bitter, golden liquid. Shuddering, he set the glass down. He hardly felt like celebrating tonight. "If you'll excuse me, I haven't spent any time with my wife in days, and well..."
Vito waved him away. "Don't let me hold you up. You take care of your business, kid."
Corrado strode away, mingling through the crowd as he searched for Celia. He found Vincent sitting out back alone, drinking from a glass. Vincent grimaced, shivering with disgust as he took a swallow.
Alcohol
.
"I'm not twenty-one yet," Corrado said, "so I
know
you're not."
Vincent's back stiffened. "I saw you drinking."
"True." Hesitating, Corrado sat down on the step beside the boy. "I figured someone who wanted to be a doctor would be more law-abiding."
Vincent laughed dryly. "I see you've been talking to my dad."
"Yes."
"You going to mock me, too?"
"No," he said. "I don't believe your father mocked you either."
"He was offended," Vincent said. "Like I'm not allowed to have my own life."
"He just can't understand you."
"He doesn't even
try
."
"Antonio's a good man," Corrado said. "You're fortunate to have him as a father."
"You're only saying that because he's not your dad."
"Look, maybe you don't want to be like him, but you should appreciate having a father who cares what kind of man you'll be."
"He thinks being a doctor is stupid."
"No, he doesn't. He just can't stand you thinking
he
is." Corrado stood back up. "
You seen
your sister?"
"She's upstairs." Corrado started to walk away when Vincent spoke again. "You're not gonna tell on me for drinking, are you?"
"I'm not a rat, Vincent. Never have been, never will be."
Corrado headed upstairs, wandering down the quiet hall to the old bedroom Celia used to occupy. She sat on the end of the bed in the room, staring at nothing in the darkness. He faltered in the doorway, taking in the sight of her frown, her shoulders slumped. "You're angry at me."
Celia's eyes drifted to him as he approached. "I'm not."
"Then what's wrong?"
"I'm scared."
He stopped right in front of her and brushed some wayward hair from her face before grasping her chin and tilting her head up. Genuine fear glistened in her dark eyes. It made his chest tighten. "Don't be."
She grasped his hand. "I can't lose you, Corrado."
"You won't."
She didn't believe him. It was written all over her face.
"I love you," he said. "I'll do whatever it takes to make this go away."
Whatever it takes.
The beginning of 1982 found Corrado doing just that.
Every waking minute was spent working, doing every job imaginable for a bit of extra cash. Hundreds of thousands poured in every month but went back out as fast as he made it. He passed money along to the organization in exchange for help from connections. He hired the best criminal defense team in the city, financed lab work from the smartest scientists, paid the most respected expert witnesses to stand in his corner, hoping to discredit the prosecution and make the murder case go away. The assault charge from the fight had been dropped when Pascal refused to cooperate, so the lawyers argued his arrest was unfounded, therefore anything found on him that night had been seized illegally. But given he had no permit to carry a weapon, the evidence stuck.
When going legit didn't help, he called in favors, making deals in the dark as his wife slept soundly beside him. So peaceful, so trusting… he had told her she wouldn't lose him, and he was determined to make it so.
The trial started in early spring of that year. As soon as the jury was seated, Corrado calculated how to sway the verdict in his favor. The trial flew by, deliberations taking longer than the testimony. Every day that passed, every hour that dragged by, every tick of the clock found him more on edge. Celia paced the house, bordering on tears every time the phone rang or someone knocked on the door.
A week later, the jury deadlocked. A mistrial.
The prosecution immediately filed to retry him, the process starting all over again. He worked even harder this time around, hemorrhaging money, the trial slowly bleeding him dry. He could barely afford to make the interest payments to Pascal, much less pay off the loan. Every week that passed, every dollar he shelled out, found him just as much in the man's debt as before. Pascal knew it, too, and continually took it upon himself to call all hours of the night for menial jobs.
Corrado's resentment grew. He would stand in Pascal's living room, glaring at the man as he lounged on the couch, his arm draped over the shoulder of a young girl—a new one every time. Pascal would fondle her, make her go down on him as they discussed business, and Corrado—the good little soldier he knew he needed to be—would stare him square in the eye as it happened, unflinching. He waited him out, let him push him around, swearing one day he would see justice. As soon as he earned his place in the organization, as soon as Antonio
made
him, his first order of business would be formally requesting he be allowed to blow the cockroach's brains out.
Soon
.
The second trial, like the first, fizzled out with a hung jury.
"Well?" the judge said. "How does the prosecution plan to proceed?"
The district attorney conferred with his associates, heated whispers swaddling the courtroom. Corrado spotted Detective Walker in the gallery, glaring at him. A smile threatened to tug Corrado's lips as he nodded in greeting, only looking away when the DA stood up to speak.
"Your honor, the prosecution isn't prepared to make a decision at this time. We're going to need some time to assess whether or not to retry the defendant."
"Think long and hard," the judge said, his voice with an edge of aggravation. "Because if this happens again, I'm in the right mind to grant a full dismissal. This has gone on long enough."
Corrado stared at the judge when he banged his gavel. The judge, mid-sixties with graying hair and drooping eyes, leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face in exhaustion. He was clearly fed up with his job, out of patience and bordering losing respect for the process.
Maybe I shouldn't have bothered with the jury. Maybe I should've gone after the judge instead
.
The Omen
.
Corrado stood in the doorway to the living room, staring at the glowing television as the movie played. He watched, transfixed, only vaguely aware of the quiet murmuring from the couch nearby. It was the middle of the night—midnight, maybe one o'clock—and he had just got home from collecting money for his father.
"Sweet, huh?"
Celia wrapped her arms around Corrado, laying her head against his chest. Corrado hugged her, his eyes remaining on the television.
"It's a horror film," Corrado said. "Most people find that scary."
"I'm not talking about the movie. I meant
them
."
Corrado glanced down at his wife, following her gaze over to where Vincent and Maura sat together, whispering in the darkness. Vincent's arm was draped over her shoulder as she snuggled against him. "They're hogging my couch and not even watching the movie."
"You're such a hopeless romantic, Corrado Moretti," she deadpanned. "It's amazing more women don't swoon over you."
He shrugged a shoulder as his gaze shifted back to the television. The nanny stood on the ledge at the birthday party. Celia shifted around in Corrado's arms, glancing at the television when the woman jumped.
Celia gasped, her body tensing. Horror rocked the characters on the screen before shifting to a close up of the little boy's passive, unaffected face. "What the hell's wrong with him?"
Corrado pulled her closer to him. "Maybe he's a Moretti."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," Corrado muttered, moving her hair aside to kiss near her ear. "I'm pretty sure he's supposed to be the anti-Christ."
"That little boy?" Celia shuddered. "He's awfully cute to be evil."
"That's supposed to be what makes it so terrifying."
"Supposed to be?" Celia asked. "Come on, that kid doesn't scare you?"
Corrado couldn't restrain his amusement at her sincere question. She honestly thought he might be scared. "No more than every other kid does."
Celia jabbed him in the ribs as he chuckled. He laid his head on top of hers and closed his eyes as he inhaled, breathing in the scent of her perfume.
"You'd make a good father, you know," she said, the words barely audible as she whispered them into his chest. He opened his eyes, still holding her there, but didn't respond.
What could he say?
Soft giggles sounded out from the couch as Corrado turned his attention back to the television. Celia, realizing he wasn't going to respond, loosened from his hold. "Do you think they'll be okay together?"
"I think the anti-Christ plans to kill them."
Celia laughed. "Again, not about the movie."
Corrado pulled Celia away from the living room, into the hallway, out of earshot of Maura and Vincent. They hadn't been paying them any attention, too wrapped up in their own little world on the couch, but he didn't want to take a chance of them overhearing what he had to say.
"Well?" Celia asked, hands on her hips.
"She knows too much."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said—she knows too much. She's seen too much, been around for too long."
Confusion lined Celia's eyes. "What?"
"They won't forget that."
"Who?"
"The people who make sure we keep our mouths shut."
"Huh?"
He shook his head. "Don't make me spell it out for you, Celia."
She stared at him, confusion melting away. "Are you suggesting the Mafia won't let her have a life because she knows some of their secrets?"
"That's what I said."
"That's
not
what you said," she declared. "You were talking in riddles like this is some game, when it's not."
"I know it's not," he replied. "But it's also none of our concern."
"None of our concern?" She scoffed. "She lives with us! I can let her go free if I want, and maybe I want to, okay? Who's going to stop me?"
He admired her determination, even if it were gravely naïve. "You're playing with fire. Your father—"
"I can handle him," she said, matter-of-fact.
She was being absurd, but he said nothing. He had to let her fight her own battles.
Denying her would only make it worse.
The next afternoon, Corrado sat in the DeMarco den as Celia ranted and raved in front of her father. Antonio relaxed in his favorite chair, swirling a glass of scotch around, the ice clinking against the sides. His eyes focused intently on his daughter, emotionless, as he absorbed every word from her animated voice.
"And Maura's such a nice girl," Celia said, smiling brightly. "I've never met someone as sweet as her before. She's trustworthy, too. So just…
loyal
."
She quieted, batting her eyelashes. Antonio stared at her for a moment before the loudest, most boisterous laughter burst from him. He slammed his glass down on the table beside him, spilling some of the liquor, as he waved her off, unable to contain himself.
Corrado's stomach twisted in knots for Celia.
Expression falling, Celia gaped at her father. "What's so funny?"
"You're talking about that slave girl. She's Irish, Celia.
Irish
!"
"So?"
Wrong thing to say.
As soon as the word came out of her mouth, every ounce of amusement sucked out of the room. Antonio's laughter cut off like a needle ripped from a turntable, his eyes darkening. "Those people killed my parents…
your
grandparents. And you call her
loyal
?"
"She's not like them."
"They're all the same,"
Antonio
said. "Every one of them."
"You're wrong," Celia said. "You don't know her."
"And I don't want to."
"But I like her," Celia argued. "She's my friend. Doesn't that matter at all?"
Antonio tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. He stared at his daughter like he would stare at a stranger who walked into his home unwelcome. His voice was low when he spoke again, a bitter edge as he ground out the words. "You're spoiled, Celia Marie. I spoiled you, and based on the fact that Corrado let you come here, that he let you say all this to me, I'd say your husband spoils you, too."
Celia's eyes narrowed. "I don't need his permission.
Or
yours."
Antonio wasn't dissuaded by her declaration. "This here? This isn't happening. Whatever plans you're conceiving in your head stop now. You're my daughter, and I love you, but this isn't happening."
"But—"
"That's final."
He left no room for argument. Celia gaped at him before her face clouded with anger. She stormed out of the room, heading straight for the front door, slamming it behind her as she stomped outside. Corrado didn't move, remaining in his seat as Antonio's eye shifted to him. "You said that girl wouldn't be any trouble."
"I guess I underestimated your kids."
Corrado nodded at Antonio as he stood to leave. He barely made it to the doorway when the man spoke again. "
Kids
?"
Corrado's footsteps faltered.
"You said kids," Antonio said, stressing the 's' on the end. "What don't I know, Corrado?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
Antonio studied him for a moment before standing. "My office. Now."
Corrado's stomach sunk.