Made (44 page)
Vincent's steps stalled, his hands in his pockets, prepared to pull out the money. "What?"
"Get out," Antonio said again. "You knock on that door and wait for permission before you walk in this room. You hear me?"
Vincent nodded slowly. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Antonio said. "Get the hell out and knock."
The boy hesitated before striding back out of the office, shutting the door as he went. Sighing dramatically, he knocked on the door, waiting for acknowledgment, but no response came.
"You gotta be kidding me," Vincent muttered, knocking again.
Corrado struggled against the urge to laugh. It wasn't that he got pleasure from Vincent's frustration, but… well… it was nice to see someone else being hassled.
Vincent knocked twice more before Antonio called out, "who is it?"
Closing his eyes, Vincent leaned his forehead against the door in annoyance. "It's me… Vincent."
"Who?"
He groaned. "Vincenzo."
"It's open."
"Of course it is," Vincent muttered, opening the door.
Antonio relaxed back in his chair, gazing at his son when he entered. "What can I do for you?"
"I have your money."
Surprised passed across Antonio's face. "
My
money?"
"The ten thousand."
"Oh, Vincenzo, that's Corrado's money." Antonio waved toward the hallway. "Come on in, Corrado. Join us."
Slowly, Corrado stepped into the room as Vincent pulled money from his pocket and set it on his father's desk. Antonio watched, curiosity in his eyes, as they boy splayed it all out.
"That's all of it," Vincent said. "That's it."
Antonio snatched up the cash, arranging it all in a thick stack before shoving it in an envelope. "That may be all of the money, but that's certainly not
it
."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I said get the money, Vincenzo, and we'd negotiate."
"Negotiate," Vincent repeated. "What does that even mean?"
"It means there are terms to this sale," Antonio replied, his expression serious. "You might not like them, but your purchase requires a warranty."
January 21, 1983, on the evening of his eighteenth birthday, Vincenzo Roman DeMarco was inducted into
La Cosa Nostra
.
His initiation broke tradition. He hadn't earned his place. He hadn't worked in a crew. He hadn't proven himself. His hands were spotlessly clean. He was inducted based solely upon his family name, and he did it to be with the girl he loved.
Corrado hadn't been there—he wasn't a made man, so he hadn't been invited to the sacred initiation—but he heard the story. Nobody had questioned it. Nobody had objected. Another DeMarco, embraced with open arms, welcomed and wanted.
Loved
.
While it happened, Corrado had been across town, sticking up a jewelry store with some other guys in his father's crew.
Guys who had robbed, and murdered, and extorted.
Guys who had earned their place time and again.
Guys who, as usual, were disregarded.
Corrado seldom fell victim to the cardinal sins—greed, maybe, and occasionally pride—but a rare one simmered in his veins, tainting his bloodstream like spiked punch… one the DeMarco kids seemed to bring out of him too much for his liking.
Envy
.
It should have been
him
.
Why wasn't it him?
The question nagged him, again and again, over and over, for days following Vincent's initiation. A few men had been brought in, nominated for membership, and the books were set to close again. It would be months, maybe years before they reopened.
Hadn't he earned it?
It was a question he wouldn't ask out loud. He
couldn't
.
A week later, after the last scheduled man had been inducted, they found themselves at Rita's, gathering around plates of food and bottles of expensive wine.
Celebrating, Antonio had said.
Commiserating, Celia called it.
Corrado leaned toward agreeing with her. He remained
ill-tempered
, but he showed up as expected.
The Boss's son-in-law.
Antonio greeted him as soon as he walked in, pride on his face as he slapped him on the back. "How's my favorite son-in-law?"
"I'm your only son-in-law," Corrado replied.
He had moved past being Vito's kid and unknowingly stepped right into another shadow... a bigger one, this one with no blood to fuel the bond. He was family, technically, but not literally. He was nothing more than a title by marriage, given to him by the woman on his arm.
The bitter reality was like gasoline sloshing through his veins.
Vincent sat quietly through dinner, him and Maura across from Corrado and Celia. Maura's first outing with the
DeMarcos
. Corrado could tell she didn't want to be there any more than some of the others wanted her there. She had been included at Vincent's insistence… a fact that made the boy's own mother refuse to attend.
If they thought Antonio had been hard to crack, Gia was impossible. No son of hers would lower himself to be with someone like Maura, she had said. And if Vincent chose to slum, she wouldn't stand around and watch.
Corrado stared at Vincent the entire dinner, studying him, as the boy tampered with the wound on his right hand. The jagged slice across his palm started to heal, red and somewhat inflamed. Painful, Corrado gathered, from the grimace on Vincent's face whenever he closed his hand into a fist.
Corrado felt no sympathy.
Vincent believed he had fought to get there, sacrificed, but Corrado saw it different. Once again, the boy had it all handed to him... freely given what Corrado had worked hard for but got denied.
The sting of rejection ran deep.
"You're quiet, Corrado," Antonio said, gazing at him from his seat at the end of the table as dinner wound down.
"I'm fine," Corrado said.
"You don't seem fine."
"I am."
He swirled the spaghetti around on his plate. He hadn't eaten a single bite. He wasn't hungry.
"How's business?"
"Fine."
"You pay off your debt yet?"
Corrado's eyes cut down the table to where Pascal sat beside the Boss, relaxed, smirking, drinking a glass of wine. He had—for some reason—been invited to Vincent's celebration, forcing Vincent to sit at the same table, beside the woman he loved, near the man who had raped her. A cruel test of will power. "No."
"No?" Antonio raised his eyebrows. "Why haven't you made good on your loan?"
"
My
loan," Celia chimed in. "I borrowed the money."
"Quiet, honey," Antonio chided. "The men are talking."
Celia narrowed her eyes at her father, muttering "asshole" under her breath, barely audible, but Antonio heard it, based on the amused smile curving his lips.
"Well?" Antonio continued. "Why haven't you paid it off?"
"I'm working on it, sir."
"Apparently not hard enough."
"It's a lot of money."
"That sounds a hell of a lot like an excuse." Antonio turned to Pascal. "How much does he still owe?"
"Five hundred and seventeen thousand."
All hints of amusement died from Antonio's eyes. "That's more than he borrowed."
"
I
borrowed," Celia muttered.
"Interest," Pascal explained. "He was short a few weeks, missed some all together."
Antonio tensed, his muscles rigid as a sharp edge accented his words. "How many points was the loan?"
"Five."
"Generous," Antonio said. "Most would've charged ten."
Pascal shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "I'm just that kinda guy, you know? I help out when I can."
Vincent scoffed under his breath.
"You need to work harder, Corrado," Antonio said. "This isn't acceptable."
"Yes, sir."
The subject seemed to be dropped, all men turning back to their food, but Celia's harsh laughter ignited it again. "Work harder? You know what's not acceptable, Dad? The fact that
all my
husband does is work. That's it! That's all he ever does!"
"Celia," Corrado warned, his voice low.
"Don't."
"Listen to your husband," Antonio said, sipping his wine. "He doesn't need you fighting his battles."
"Of course he doesn't," she continued. "But he respects you, so he'd never go against you, even though sometimes
someone
needs to."
"That's why I married your mother."
"Whatever," Celia said. "Mom's the president of your fucking fan club."
Corrado cringed at her profanity-laced outburst as Antonio set his glass down, glaring at his daughter. "You don't speak like that, young lady."
"You say worse all the time."
"That's because I'm a man," he said.
"Oh, stop with the double standards already," she spat, jumping up from her chair, wagging a finger. "I'm an adult. I can speak any way I want."
Antonio slammed a hand down on the table, shoving his chair back to stand. "Not in front of me!"
Their back-and-forth bickering went on, neither backing down. Corrado glanced across the table at Vincent again. The boy sat so close to Maura their arms brushed together, both staring down at their plates. Corrado turned away from him, too, his eyes drifting to the vast glass window covering the entire wall of the restaurant.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, he caught sight of the black Ford creeping to a stop in the street, the faint glow of the streetlight illuminating the side of it.
Corrado's heart stalled for a fraction of a second. He didn't move, didn't blink,
didn't
breathe
as he stared at the car, the world around him falling into slow motion. Adrenaline spiked his blood, intoxicating his senses, as numbness coated his skin.
The passenger side window slowly rolled down.
The flash of the gun muzzle sent the world into fast forward.
Corrado's pulse kicked into high gear, his heart thumping so hard, so erratically, he barely heard the arguing anymore. The abrupt eruption of gunfire shattered the window, as the noise ripped through the air. Antonio turned toward the street, barely having a chance to react, when bullets tore into his chest, knocking him backward over his chair.
Celia screamed, the high-pitched shriek making Corrado's blood run cold. Quickly, he snatched a hold of his wife and threw her to the ground, forcing her to safety. People ducked for cover, crying, as they dove beneath the table. Corrado didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess. His body reacted, as instinctual as taking air into his lungs. He was on his feet, reaching into his coat for his gun, as Celia screamed for her father, crawling over to him.
Corrado's feet moved, carrying him to the broken window, as he squeezed the trigger, back to back. The shots struck the lingering car, tearing through the metal and shattering glass, as bullets whizzed by him, so close he felt the rush of air. His ears rang mercilessly as he expelled every bullet from his gun.
He squeezed the trigger again and again, scarcely aware that nothing happened but the subtle click of an empty gun. The car tires squealed, smoke filtering around the back of it as it fled the scene. Before it disappeared into the darkness, Corrado noticed the flash of green on the back windshield, a sticker affixed to the corner.
A shamrock.
Corrado slipped the gun back into his coat as he turned to their table. Chaos reigned, men scattering and running for the door, as Corrado's eyes scanned the room, seeking out his wife. He rushed to her as she hovered over her father, sobbing. "Daddy! Oh God, Daddy!"
Corrado's blood ran cold, the image of the bullets striking Antonio flashing in his mind. He fell to his knees beside them, pulling Celia away from her father, expecting the two of them to be covered with blood, but there was none. Celia struggled against him, but Corrado overpowered her, pinning her arms against her sides as Antonio took in a deep inhale. His eyes opened, blinking rapidly as if stunted.
"Don't move, Daddy!" Celia cried, scanning the restaurant. "Somebody call 911!"
"Nonsense," Antonio ground out, his voice strained as he tried to push himself up. "I'm fine."
"You were
shot
!"
"Don't be ridiculous," Antonio said as he sat up.
Corrado loosened his hold on Celia enough for her to slip away. She reached for her father, tugging at his shirt, ripping it open. Buttons popped off, flying around them, as Celia exposed his black-clad chest… a bulletproof vest.
"Really?" Celia shoved her father. "I thought you were
hurt
!"
"I am." He winced, reaching up to grasp his chest over his heart. "I'm just not dead."
Corrado stood, relieved, and glanced around at everyone else. Vincent peeked out from under the table, his body pinning a shaking Maura beneath him. Vincent's eyes were glazed over, his mouth hanging open, as he stared at Corrado with awe.
"It's safe now," Corrado said.
As safe as it will ever be, anyway
.
"How did you…?" Vincent shook his head and pulled Maura into his arms. "You just walked right into the line of fire. They could've killed you!"
"They didn't."
"That's because they shoot worse than fucking storm troopers," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Bullets flew all around you. Jesus, it was like watching a bad movie."
Vincent pulled Maura tighter against him, leaning down to whisper to her, consoling her, reassuring her, although the boy looked anything but comforted himself. Corrado turned back to his wife as she clung to her father, refusing to let go, despite him being safe.
Antonio hugged her, his gaze drifting to Corrado. "You saved my life."
"The Kevlar saved you."
Antonio stared at him. "I think I'd rather have you."
Corrado moseyed downstairs, rubbing his tired eyes as he headed for the front door. The morning breeze hit his bare skin, sending a small chill down his spine as he glanced out, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. He scanned the porch, his vision blurry, and came up empty.