Made (5 page)
Without a single word spoken, the man left.
"They say if you give a man an inch, he'll demand a foot," Vito said, "but I find if you steal a foot from a man, he's grateful to be given an inch."
Corrado still didn't understand—not really—but one thing was sure to him then. His father may not have been James Bond, but he was definitely someone special. He felt like he had witnessed Bruce Wayne put on his Batman suit for the first time.
And that left Corrado spellbound.
They spent all afternoon in the casino office, sipping drinks as a steady flow of men visited. Each brought with them stacks of money, very little spoken beyond the occasional small talk. Corrado made himself at home, scooting his chair closer to the desk... closer to his father.
He had no idea where the money had come from, or why they were giving it to Vito, but as stacks and stacks of envelopes piled up in the desk drawer, all Corrado thought about was how the electricity should never go off again.
His dad was
rich
.
"Cactus Cooler," Vito muttered, picking up the half-empty can from the corner of the desk.
Corrado's third soda of the day.
"Your mother would kill me if she knew I let you drink so much of this crap."
"I don't think she'd care," Corrado said.
"Oh, she would,"
Vito
insisted. "She has issues—there's no denying that—but family means a lot to her."
Impulsively, Corrado touched his face, knowing the bruises and red marks were still visible.
"Yeah, I know,"
Vito
said, as if he had read Corrado's mind. "She has a funny way of showing it, huh?"
Vito stood then and strolled over to the door, grabbing his hat from the coat rack. "Come on, lets get out of here. I'm starving, kid, and somewhere in this town there's a juicy steak with my name on it."
Every day that week, Corrado went to work with his father at the casino, where the two sipped on drinks and bonded. Corrado drew on scraps of paper while Vito conducted his business.
He's a casino worker
,
or maybe some kind of banker.
He even entertained that his father may be a politician.
Maybe he's the mayor of Las Vegas
! But nowhere in the bustle of day-to-day activity—the exchanges of cash, the silent meetings—did Corrado ever once entertain the word
Mafia
.
Everyone knew the Mafia was bad, and well, Corrado believed his father was the greatest man alive. His father splurged and took him to fancy restaurants all week long, spoiling him with junk food like never before, grinning proudly when he showed him off. His father was the most passive person he knew, especially compared to his mother.
Erika whirled wildly like a tornado, whereas Vito drifted along like a spring breeze. Never once had his father raised a hand to him, or anyone else that he'd ever seen. He'd lost his temper a few times, like when he'd gotten home and seen the aftermath of the beating, but even then, he'd restrained himself from hurting anyone.
Thoughts of that evening, his mother's assault when he'd stolen money from her, slowly faded from Corrado's mind. The bruises and welts eventually disappeared, the sting long gone. Corrado waited, and waited, for his father to leave again, for them to tell him he had to go back to school, for life to return to how it had been, but the day didn't come. Days turned into weeks, and they settled into a new routine, one where Vito became a permanent fixture.
And his constant presence pacified Erika.
Corrado couldn't remember a time when that ever happened before. His family felt like a real family, a happy family, and it was all because of his father coming home.
If Corrado hadn't idolized the man before, he did now.
"
On tonight's show, Italian-American Civil Rights League founder Joe Colombo will be joining us to—
"
"Rat!" Vito spat as he sat up, his back straight, his eyes narrowed at the television. "He's gonna start singing like a canary!"
They were all gathered around in the living room like they did every other night at that time, watching
The Dick
Cavett
Show
. Vito and Erika lounged on the couch while the kids lay on the floor, sharing a bowl of popcorn.
"Can you believe it?" Vito said. "The balls of this fucking guy!"
"Relax." Erika rubbed his back. "He isn't there to talk about—"
"It doesn't matter," he said. "You don't go talk on national television! You just don't! You
gotta
be careful! This ain't
careful
!"
Corrado stared at the screen, confused as to what upset his father. He'd never heard of any Colombo guy before and didn't know what it mattered. What was the big deal?
"Turn it off," Vito declared, his voice hard. "Right now."
"But it's Dick
Cavett
!" Katrina whined, staring at their father with pleading eyes.
"I don't care," Vito said. "We don't watch that man anymore."
"But—"
"You heard me, Kat!" Vito shook his finger at her, his eyes ablaze. "Never again!"
Corrado reached for the dial and changed the channel, tuning to Johnny Carson instead. Katrina huffed, snatching a handful of popcorn as she turned her attention back to the television.
No one said a word through the program, and Vito's posture remained stiff. He bounced his leg, his expression
hard
as he seemed to stare through the television, not truly watching it. The show wasn't even over yet when his rough voice shouted out. "Go to bed, kids."
Katrina started to argue, but Corrado grabbed her arm and shook his head, warning her not to do it. She pushed away, shooting daggers at him, as she stomped upstairs.
Corrado slowly made his way upstairs behind her and hadn't even gotten to his room when he heard his father yelling. Corrado's shoulders tensed, waiting for his mother to yell back, but his father's voice was the only one he heard. He couldn't understand what he said, Italian words flying from his lips too fast and furious for him to translate, mixing with names he'd never heard before. He stood there in the hallway, too intrigued to move, when a creak on the stairs captured his attention. Turning, he saw his mother appear on the second floor, as his father's voice grew louder downstairs.
"Did you see it? Can you believe it? What
kinda
cockroach goes on television like that?
Digraziato
!"
Erika raised an eyebrow at Corrado. "Didn't you hear your father? Go to bed."
"Yes, ma'am," he muttered, heading into his room before she had to say anything else to him.
There was a soft, timid knock on the casino door the next afternoon. Vito hollered for them to come in, his eyes fixed on a newspaper on the desk. He had been tense all morning, not acknowledging Corrado the whole drive into Vegas, not even offering him a drink when they arrived.
The door opened, a young guy in a gray suit stepping inside. "You wanted to see me?"
Vito cringed as the man addressed him.
"Hey, kid, do me a favor, will you?" Vito glanced across the office at Corrado, speaking to him for the first time as he ignored his visitor. Corrado was doodling on a time sheet he'd found on the desk.
Corrado looked at his father curiously. "Sure."
Vito opened the bottom drawer—the one overflowing with envelopes of cash—and pulled out a small bag. It clinked and clanked as he pushed it across the desk. "Run this over to the cashier's cage. Tell them it's from Moretti. Wait there until they give you the cash."
Corrado snatched up the bag, surprised by how heavy it was. Casino chips—white, green, and mostly red, but some black. He held it with both hands, lugging it past the visitor.
"Here you go, shorty," the guy said, holding the door open.
The casino was busy. Corrado weaved through the crowd, heading straight for the cages at the front of the building. He was the only kid in the place, since they weren't allowed on the casino floor. Gamblers towered above him as he waited in the line, having seen his father cash out chips a few times.
When his turn came, he struggled lifting the bag so the cashier could reach it. She eyed him peculiarly like she wanted to object, but the moment he said 'Moretti' her expression changed. Quickly, studiously, she counted the chips and handed him a stack of bills.
"Thank you," Corrado said, taking the money.
The cashier smiled sweetly. "You're welcome."
Corrado strolled straight back to the office and immediately opened the door. He took a step inside, freezing and dropping the cash with a gasp. Groans echoed through the space as his father pinned the man in the gray suit against the wall, a pistol shoved beneath his chin. Blood oozed from the guy's mouth, his cheek swollen from a blow to the face.
Vito didn't notice Corrado, too wrapped up in the situation. "I'll kill you right now! I swear I will!"
"I'll have it tomorrow!" the man cried. "I will!"
"You said that yesterday," Vito spat. "I should've blown your fucking head off then."
"Please," he begged. "I'll have the money. Just give me one more day! That's all I need!"
Corrado's heart raced. "Dad?"
The moment his voice sounded, Vito grew rigid. His head snapped in his direction, a fire in his eyes Corrado had never seen before. Almost as if by some instinct, Vito turned the gun on him. "Don't you know to fucking knock?"
A gun. His father had a
gun
. And it was aimed at
him
.
Panicked, Corrado bolted right back out the door, slamming it behind him. He stood in the hallway, on the verge of hyperventilating as he leaned against the wall.
He'd been wrong. Maybe his father wasn't a spring breeze. Maybe the man was actually a hurricane.
Minutes passed before two guys came running down the hall straight toward him. Corrado pressed himself tighter against the wall, trying to be invisible, not wanting to be seen. Not wanting to be in the way. The men barely noticed him as they ran into the office. Within a matter of seconds, they returned carrying the man. He was bloodied, his eyes closed and body limp. The men quickly left with him, disappearing out a back door.
Vito strutted out of the office then and lingered in the doorway, concealing the pistol in his jacket. He pressed his hand on the top of Corrado's head, ruffling his hair. "You really gotta learn to knock, kid."
Corrado swallowed thickly. "Is he, uh...?"
"Dead?" Vito asked. Corrado nodded hesitantly as Vito led him back into the office. "Nah, he's just taking a little nap."
Vito sent Corrado on numerous errands over the next few days to get him out of the office. It started small—cashing out chips, grabbing drinks, and delivering paperwork—but before long he was passing messages and covertly placing bets. More visitors came and went during that time, some on their own accord, others carried out through the back door.
Corrado didn't question it, but his curiosity grew and grew. Not a banker, not a casino worker, and definitely not a politician... what could his father be? Vito didn't hide so much from him anymore, openly toying with his gun a mere few feet from Corrado.
Police officer? No.
Maybe he's a secret agent, after all
.
One thing was for sure, though. After that first time, after what he had seen, Corrado never forgot to knock on a door again.
They were sitting in the office one afternoon when there was some commotion out in the hallway. Vito's eyes darted to the door as his hand flew into his coat, gripping his pistol. He started to react when the door shoved open, a man Corrado didn't recognize appearing.
He looked as old as Vito, with darkly tanned skin and jet-black hair slicked back on his head. He was sturdy with a mustache and wore a dark suit. Something about him drove Corrado to attention, an air of superiority surrounding the man. He held his head high, no hesitation, nothing but confidence as he stepped inside the office without awaiting an invitation.
He wasn't like the other men who visited. He showed no fear.
Corrado expected his father to get angry, seeing as how the man hadn't knocked, but Vito seemed taken aback instead. His hand released his weapon as he stood, shoving his chair back. "Mr. DeMarco, uh, sir."
Corrado blinked a few times at the uncertainty in his father's voice. He'd never heard him stammer before.
"Moretti," the man said, his voice flat, all business.
"I didn't know you were coming."
Mr. DeMarco said nothing. He stared at Vito before shifting his gaze toward Corrado, a bit of unfriendliness in his expression. "What is it, take your kid to work day? Did I miss the memo? I would've brought mine."
"No, I just figured..." Vito trailed off, switching his attention to Corrado mid-thought instead. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some loose change. "Take a walk, kid. Grab yourself one of the coolers. I'll come get you later."
Wordlessly, Corrado grabbed the money and headed out.
"Sorry, Boss," he heard his father say when he stepped into the hallway.
"It's fine," the man said. "He just shouldn't be here for this."
Corrado had no idea what
'this'
was and had no intention of sticking around to find out. That guy made his dad more like pesky Robin than powerful Batman. He strolled through the casino, heading toward a small restaurant in the lobby. A closed sign hung at the entrance, but a bartender lurked behind the bar.
Contemplating, Corrado slipped inside and approached the bar. The bartender glanced at him with surprise when he climbed up on a stool. "You Moretti's son?"
Corrado nodded.
"Figured," he replied. "What can I get for you?"
"Do you have Cactus Cooler?"
The man frowned. "Sure don't. I have Coke, though."
"That's okay."
Corrado spilled out his handful of change on the bar, but the bartender ignored the money, pouring a Coke. "It's on me."