Made (58 page)

He paused as he opened the front door, watching as she winced in the afternoon sunshine, backing away from the light as if allergic to it. "I used to believe you when you said that, but you're wrong. Somebody told me a long time ago that you were wrong about me, and I should've believed her. She was a better woman than you'll ever be."

"Who?"

"
Zia
," he said. "My
Zia
."

With that, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Vito's Lincoln was parked in the driveway, gleaming under the sun's rays. Every window had been shattered, the outside dented, scratches carved into the paint. Corrado ran his hand along the hood as he walked around it, the metal burning his fingertips. He let out a deep sigh, gazing at it, seeing his father's fedora on the driver's seat.

Reaching through the broken window, he grabbed the hat and placed it on his head, cockeyed. He gave one last look at the Lincoln before turning away.

"
Arrivederci
, Dad."

    
41

"This is absurd," Corrado muttered, pulling the oversized black hoodie on overtop of his plain white t-shirt. The temperature outside hovered in the mid-sixties. Sweat already started building beneath the layers.

He grabbed the bulletproof vest from the bench as Celia groaned. "Now
that
is absurd. Do I have to wear it?"

"Absolutely."

He motioned for her to come closer and she begrudgingly shuffled his way, a pout on her lips. He pulled the heavy vest on over her fitted white tank top, securing it tightly, before handing her one of his long-sleeve black button down shirts. She put it on, buttoning it the whole way up. It hung loose on her frame, but not as loose as the camouflage cargo pants she wore. She
drowned
in them.

Vincent's pants, apparently.

"You don't have to wear a vest," she whined, tugging at her heavy clothes. "Why do I?"

"I'm made of Kevlar, remember?" he joked, pulling on his favorite black leather gloves. They clung to his hands like a second skin while Celia shoved her hands in a pair of enormous camouflage gloves.

Vincent's again.

She continued to pout as Corrado grabbed the black knit hat and put it on her, tugging it down around her ears. His hands grasped the sides of her head as he stared her in the eyes.

"You're fierce," he said, kissing her forehead as he concealed his smile. She was a mere house kitten trying to wander into a lion's den. "I don't know what possessed you to want to do this, though."

"Daddy thought it was a great idea."

Corrado tensed. The Boss. "He's not coming, is he?"

"No, he said his involvement would be unfair."

Thank God
. "I can't believe he'd even
approve
of this."

She shrugged weakly, her shoulders bogged down from the armor. "He said it would be interesting."

Interesting, indeed, but still...
absurd
.

Corrado loosened his hold on her, gently smoothing her hair flowing out from beneath the hat, as he glanced around the dingy locker room. There were a dozen people besides the two of them. Corrado recognized them all—if not by name, by face. Nine men, including Vincent and Manny, the others just guys on his crew. The three women were less familiar... Sonny
Evola's
daughter, Manny's wife, and one of Celia's long-time friends.

Everyone was clad in layers of protective clothing and body armor. Corrado was probably the least prepared. "I'm just not sure about
us
doing this."

"Oh, come on," she said. "Don't ruin your party, Corrado. You've never had one before."

He regretted sharing that tidbit of information. "I'm not eleven, Celia. It's not a big deal."

"You're thirty," she said. "That makes it an even bigger deal."

She grabbed a protective mask and shoved it at him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to argue. Corrado took it, conceding. He still thought it was a terrible idea, but he wouldn't spoil her special day.

Even if it was
his
birthday.

He perched the mask on top of his head as he picked up the gun, getting a feel for it.
Paintball
.

"You know I'll kill anyone who shoots you," Corrado said, eyeing the weapon.

"You won't," she said playfully. "No murdering on your birthday."

"It's my party," he muttered. "I'll kill if I want to."

Celia laughed as an announcement came on, telling the players to report to the field. Corrado helped Celia secure her mask before situating her gun and ammo. Red paintballs.
Of course.

He had chosen green.

"Be careful out there," he told her.

Through the mask, she grinned excitedly. "You, too."

"Always."

The playing field was three acres of terrain, adorned with paint-splattered structures and bunkers. Dozens of trees were scattered around, giving plenty of places for everyone to hide. Dusk neared, vibrant lights shining down along the edges of the outdoor range, creating an ominous glow.

The loud whistle blew, signaling the start of the session. People scattered, diving for cover, as Corrado ripped off the bulky mask and pulled his hood over his head.
Game on
.

The pops of gunfire were sporadic, targeted. These men were trained. They didn't waste ammunition or shoot blindly. Corrado pressed himself against the side of a shed. His eyes studiously scanned the area, spotting movement around structures, heads peeking out from behind trees. He popped off shots, striking some guys in his crew within minutes.

The men went down first. Corrado and Vincent took them out easily, diving behind buildings and sneaking up on men from behind until it was just the two of them and the women.

Vincent and Corrado seemed to realize that fact at the same moment. Corrado swung around to face him, spotting him hunched beside a tall tree. Both men instinctively fired at each other, popping off round after round, striking structures and barely missing their targets as they expertly ducked out of the way, shielding themselves.

Vincent was a better shot than Corrado recalled him being.

Practice makes perfect
.

A shot from the slight right distracted Vincent, a bright red paintball splattering the building beside his head.
Celia
. The other women had chosen pink.

Vincent turned his gun to aim for Celia, but Corrado popped a shot off before he could even go for the trigger. A green paintball splattered his mask, obstructing his vision. The blast was so hard he jolted backward, dropping the gun.

Out
.

Corrado didn't waste any time after that. Back-to-back he knocked out the other three women, shots that intentionally grazed them, not wanting to inflict any pain. They stomped off the field, leaving just two.

Corrado and Celia.

Corrado headed for a bunker to his left, pausing there as his eyes scanned the terrain. Celia had been off to the right of him before, but she was stealthy. He wouldn't underestimate her. He spun in a circle, watching, waiting for movement, finding none and hearing nothing.

Was she hiding?

No, that wasn't Celia's nature.

She would come for him.

The sky had darkened, the surrounding lights casting even deeper shadows along the playing field. He continually monitored the area, straining his ears to detect even the slightest movement.

He had plenty of practice at this.

A minute passed, maybe two, before he heard it: the subtle crunch of feet against the ground, the rustling of grass,
the
shift of airflow.

Celia was right behind him.

Corrado spotted her a few feet away in the shadows. He raised his weapon, his finger on the trigger, but froze when she looked at him.

For the first time in his life, Corrado hesitated.

Celia scrambled for her gun, squeezing the trigger repeatedly.

Pop
.
Pop
.
Pop
.

Two paintballs flew right past him, but the third hit him straight in the chest, striking hard enough that he winced. The sting, like the snapping of a rubber band, lasted only a few seconds, but the burn ran deep as he lowered his gun.

She'd shot him.

Celia pushed up her mask as he touched his chest, feeling the red paint splattering his hoodie. "Did it hurt?"

"A little."

"Then why'd you let me do it?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"You had me," she said, matter-of-fact. "You could've shot me a dozen times before I even saw you."

"No, I couldn't have," he said. "I couldn't have shot you at all."

Smiling softly, realizing why he hadn't pulled the trigger, she strode over to him as she yanked off her gloves, tossing them to the ground. Her hand slipped beneath his shirts, running up his bare chest to where she'd struck him, eerily close to his heart.

The skin felt tender. Definitely going to bruise.

"I think you're actually made of spider silk, Corrado," she said quietly. "Tougher than Kevlar and so much more fascinating. I'm not sure the world could ever understand how complex you really are."

"Are you calling me Spider-Man?" he asked. "Because I have no plans to be anyone's superhero."

She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Maybe not, but you're
my
hero."

Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her. "Now you're being absurd again."

He hugged her, drinking in the scent of her perfume.

"Happy birthday," she whispered against his chest. "I hope you have so many more of them."

"I will," he promised. "And I'll spend every single one of them with you."

"What the hell?"

Frankie yelled as soon as he stepped inside his house. Something crunched beneath his shoes, tripping him as he leaped over an obstruction in the pathway. Corrado's brow furrowed as he stepped into the doorway, out of the intense heat and into the cool air.

A tiny little girl huddled away from Frankie's looming body. She sat on the floor, her back pressed against the bottom railing of the staircase, a slew of crayons spread out on the floor around a stack of paper.

"Miranda!" Frankie screamed, his face bright red with anger, the vein in his forehead throbbing. "Monica!"

He stormed off, straight out the back door, not giving Corrado another thought as he sought them out. Corrado remained in place, staring down at the child as she reached over and picked up the purple crayon, broken in half from Frankie stomping on it. She clutched both halves in her fists. "Am I in trouble?"

Corrado was thrown off-kilter when she asked him that question, her voice quiet but strong. His initial reaction had been to correct her terrible enunciation—trouble, not
twouble
—but he refrained. She dealt with enough grief.

His eyes turned toward the mess in front of her, the top page scribbled all over, colorful streaks on the wooden floor around it. She hadn't stayed in the confines of her paper. "Most likely, yes."

He turned back to the girl, surprised to find her looking at him. Her eyes caught his gaze, and she didn't look away. Something in her expression struck him as familiar. She had a soft, round face and wide brown eyes—eyes with way too much natural curiosity.
Definitely an Antonelli.

He waited for her to plead, for her to apologize, but the girl said nothing. She frowned, turning to her picture as her hand slowly, carefully, reached for the paper. She picked up a few pieces, folding them a bunch of times, before sticking them in the pocket of her pants. She reached toward the crayons next, grabbing the green and red, sticking those in her pocket, too. The entire time she watched him from the corner of her eye, her motions so slow it was almost comical… as if she believed if she made no sudden movement, he wouldn't notice she was taking any of it.

The girl left the rest there, exactly as it had been, even returning the broken crayon to the floor. She didn't move again until the back door flung open and Miranda rushed in. She snatched a hold of her daughter, picking her up and holding her close.

"I'm so sorry," Miranda said. "Miss Monica took her from the stables when I was working. I didn't know… I didn't think… please, don't punish Haven."

Haven
?

"Just get her out of here," Frankie growled.

"Yes, sir."

Miranda rushed toward the back door again as the girl wrapped her arms around her mother's neck, peeking over her shoulder. Her eyes caught Corrado's again. He stared back at her, feeling almost as if she were waiting for him to tell on her, like she was trying to intimidate him.

Good thing for her, he didn't rat out
anybody
.

Frankie grumbled when they disappeared, kicking the paper and crayons out of the center of the hallway. "Damn girl got marks all over my floor. Monica's always bringing her inside and letting her run wild, like she belongs in here."