Made (64 page)

She appeared to be sleeping.

The wound wasn't visible from that angle, but he knew what it looked like from experience. There would be a hole on the back of her head about the size of a quarter, concealed by her hair. From the outside, it wouldn't seem so bad, but the damage to the brain had been irreparable. She would've died instantly.

Both men stared at him as he nodded. "That's her."

"Name?"

"DeMarco," Corrado replied. "Her name's Maura DeMarco."

"Middle name?"

"I don't think she has one."

"Do you know her maiden name?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Her date of birth?"

"Sometime in the spring."

"What year? How old is she?"

Corrado glanced in the officer's direction, seeing he was eyeing him unusually. "She's in her thirties."

The officer jotted some notes down in a file as he shook his head. "You know, for being family, you sure don't know much about her."

Corrado turned back to Maura. The man had a point. He had known her for decades, had shared a home with her for part of his life, but he didn't
know
her. He never had. He knew little about the girl she had been and next to nothing about the woman she had become.

He couldn't understand her, couldn't grasp why she had done the things she had done, what motivated her, and Corrado realized, standing there, studying her peaceful expression, that it was his own fault he didn't know those things. He hadn't
tried
to understand her.

He hadn't tried to get to know her.

Corrado wondered what she felt in her last moments, what memories flashed through her mind. He saw it so many times in the eyes of men, their lives playing out like a silent movie those seconds before their last breath. Had Maura been forced to relive every bitter moment, every painful memory of torture that Corrado had stood back and watched in silence?

What was it she thought about when she took her dying breath?

Antonio had always feared Maura would be the end of Vincent. Vito argued it would happen the other way around. Corrado never knew which man to believe, but it didn't matter. At the end, they were both right.

Killing one meant killing the other.

Maura's blood had been on Vincent's hands.

Literally
.

But Vincent, too, wouldn't be coming back from this.

Corrado was reminded of a story he had heard long ago:
The Steadfast Tin Soldier
. The eccentric tin soldier loved a paper ballerina, despite everything that stood between them. The soldier put on a brave face and stayed strong, suffering silently through trials and tribulations, because it was what a soldier did. But his passive acceptance of his life steered him straight to his doom. Had he spoken up, they might have survived, but remaining silent, restrained, led to tragedy.

But while death can take away life, love is eternal. The soldier may have been consumed by fire, his exterior melting, but his heart remained, part of him left behind in the ashes.

Corrado stared through the window, peering at the ashen face of the lost paper ballerina, knowing, not far away, in a cold hospital room, a tin soldier gradually melted away, flames shredding him.

The man covered Maura with the sheet again before wheeling her away from the window. It was the last time he would ever see her, Corrado realized.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

    
EPILOGUE

So much had happened since the day Corrado gazed at Maura through the thick glass in the cold morgue. Celia had left him for almost a year to help raise her nephews while her brother drifted. Vincent's bloodthirsty quest for retribution, to get justice for what he had lost, ultimately led to him murdering the
Antonellis
.

Frankie and Monica Antonelli, that is. The others—Michael and Katrina—had died years later at Corrado's hand, the same afternoon that Miranda hung herself. The entire family had been wiped out except for one: the little girl at the center of it all.

Corrado himself even died once amid the violence, shot in the chest multiple times by Ivan Volkov. He spent six weeks in a coma after being revived. Celia stayed at his bedside as the doctor checked in on him. They told her not to expect much. The longer Corrado was down, the less chance he'd ever come back. He warned her there could be mental issues. They expected problems - sensory sensitivity, inability to express emotions. They said Corrado could lose his sense of humor and become socially inept. He'd lack communication skills and make people uncomfortable.

Little did they know, Corrado had been that way his whole
life.

Most people didn't get another chance, not where mortality was concerned, but Corrado had managed to escape death
twice
since his birth.

He knew he wouldn't see a third.

Death surrounded them.
A lot
of death.
Celia kept the articles still, stuffed into her old scrapbook. Between his countless arrests and trials, his name had graced the paper more times than he cared to count. His current trial, the RICO case that resulted in his first authentic 'not guilty' verdict, had filled her scrapbook until there were only a few pages left.

Not everything had been bad, though.

2005 proved to be a year of miracles.

Erika Moretti drank herself to death.

The White Sox won the World Series.

And Vincent succeeded where everyone else had failed.

He brought Haven home with him, where Maura had always wanted the girl to be. She found freedom, but it came at a steep price: Carmine had to sacrifice his future.

He fell in love with the girl.

Like father, like son
.

Corrado had always been a fan of horror movies.
Nightmare on Elm Street; Halloween; Psycho; The Exorcist; Night of the Living Dead
.
He'd watched them all.

Something about a plot driven by suspense, which played on the average person's worst fears, intrigued him. People feared the unknown, the monsters that lurked in the shadows, the ones that were rarely seen. It got their adrenaline flowing, their hearts pounding.

None of it scared Corrado, though. Not anymore. Not since he was a child and learned the truth about life. He feared no monsters. Nothing caught him off guard. No one pounced when he didn't expect it.

Having said that, however, there was one movie that horrified him, that haunted him for weeks after watching it.

Groundhog Day
.

The idea of a single day that never ended, one that played out again and again, tapped into one of his only fears in life: the idea that this was it. That he would continue on, just as he was, no rest, no change in sight.
More days, but no
different
days.

What you see is what you get
.

It was the one thing about being a
made man
that unnerved him. There was no moving on from the Mafia. Nothing came next. This was it.

Someday, he'd be killed. There was no doubt in his mind.

But the dying didn't frighten him.

Living, with no tomorrow, did.

It was how he felt some days, how he felt at that moment, as he pulled his car into the parking lot of
Luna Rossa
. Sonny and Cher didn't play on his radio, but the song was the same, anyway.

He parked near the entrance and climbed out, buttoning his suit coat to conceal his gun as he strode through the door. It only took seconds to find who he was looking for… his staff had called to inform him the man was lurking. He sat at the end of the bar, a glass of ice water in front of him, as his eyes scanned the place.

He was watching.

Listening.

Hoping.

Pity for him, he'd find nothing.

He spotted Corrado as he approached, his expression a mixture of arrogance and annoyance. The man hated him, loathed his existence, but a part of him loved the fact that he was untouchable to Corrado.

Or so he
thought
, anyway.

"Special Agent Cerone, what a surprise," Corrado said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Corrado didn't have to be a mind reader to know what the man was thinking: he could go to Hell,
that's
what he could do.

"Mr. Moretti," he said in greeting. "I'm just enjoying a drink."

"You can have water anywhere." Corrado motioned for the bartender. "I'd like a double Scotch and bring Agent Cerone here the same."

"That's not necessary," he interjected.

"Nonsense," Corrado replied. "It's on the house."

"I shouldn't," he said.

"You should. Unless, of course, you're on duty."

The agent gave him a knowing look.
Of course
this was business.

It always was.

"What business would I have here?" he bluffed.

"You tell me," Corrado said. "While I was incarcerated on your trumped-up RICO charges, I was audited, my club surprise inspected
twice
, and they even tried to revoke my liquor license. It seems the government has it out for me, Agent Cerone."

"Well, I assure you, Mr. Moretti, we don't harass people. We only involve ourselves in situations if there's just cause."

"Good, because as flattering as it all may be, I've done nothing to warrant the attention. My employees are paid well and have better insurance than even your government supplies you with."

"You must do a lot of business to be able to afford that," he replied, glancing around at the other patrons. "Must be a slow night."

The bartender returned with their drinks and Corrado picked up his. "I do quite well for myself, but yes, it's a slow night. It's a special occasion, after all."

"Special occasion?" The agent raised his eyebrows as he picked up his water, ignoring the scotch. "What would that be?"

"There's a party tonight in honor of my exoneration."

"Celebrating an injustice. Yeah, that sounds like your kind."

The man might have been a nuisance, but at least he was sometimes entertaining.

It was a pity Corrado would probably have to kill him someday.

"You know, you're not the first officer to have a hard-on for me," Corrado said. "Years ago, a Chicago detective made it his mission to take me down."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"My father killed him."

Agent Cerone, mid-drink from his glass, choked on a gulp of water. "Is that a threat?"

"Don't be absurd," Corrado said. "My father can't kill you. He's already dead."

The agent sat there, clutching his glass, aggravated.

"You know, a wise man once told me never to trust a guy who orders water at a bar."

"Why's that?"

"Because they're there for the wrong reasons." Corrado downed the rest of his scotch before discarding the glass. It was the only alcohol he would be drinking tonight, but he needed the burn to pacify his nerves. "Have a great night, Agent Cerone. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon."

It was supposed to be a night of celebration, a night of honor, a night about
liberation
. It was supposed to be the start of a new beginning.

Things don't always go as planned.

As soon as Corrado stepped through the door of the mansion in Lincoln Park, bitter voices greeted him. Twenty-year-old Carmine DeMarco stood right inside, ferociously staring down a smug Carlo Abate as the men spat insensitive words at each other.

It was starting already.

After his mother's death, after waking up in the hospital, Carmine wouldn't talk to anyone for months. But now, years later, the boy never knew when to shut up. Carmine was a loose trigger, and he was testing a man who knew how to apply just the right amount of pressure.

If Salvatore were a salamander, then Carlo was a venomous snake. He had been initiated into
La Cosa Nostra
less than a month after Antonio had passed away, the first man brought into the fold under Salvatore's reign. It was the first of a string of questionable actions that marked a downturn for the organization. A group prided on honor and respect had been marred by deception, friends killing friends, brothers taking down each other.

Corrado had once been Antonio's secret weapon, the one he turned to when jobs needed done, off the record, neat and clean. Carlo, it turned out, was Salvatore's right hand. He did the Boss's dirty work, but instead of cleaning up messes and keeping order, he was the one creating havoc.

Antonio had often chided Corrado for assuming to know his thoughts, for assuming he knew
him
, but the fact was that Corrado knew the man's soul.

He knew his heart.

And he knew Antonio never would have stood for any of this.

The night felt antagonistic… or maybe the things Corrado knew contaminated his impression. He humored all the congratulatory words, all the while keeping his eye on Carmine. The boy drank heavily, throwing back shots as effortlessly as water, even drinking straight from the bottle.

Corrado had little patience for alcoholics.

The crowd thinned eventually, associates and soldiers clearing out while others gathered in the den. At a few minutes past nine, Carmine strolled over to Corrado, staggering.
Drunk
. “I’m leaving.”

“Good." The boy needed gone.
Now
. “Go home. Sober up.”

Corrado retreated to the den, relief washing through him, soothing his nerves, but it was short lived.

Carmine strolled back in.

No
. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Ah, he was, but I requested he stick around,” Salvatore said, taking his usual seat and motioning toward the chair beside him for Carmine to sit.

The men chatted, sharing their usual conversation banter, mulling over business deals, but the words were lost to Corrado as his mind drifted elsewhere. Nothing they said would matter tomorrow. An unfamiliar panic stirred in the pit of his stomach, a sense of uncertainty. He had walked in the house on the offensive, prepared and ready for whatever was to come, but suddenly, he had been thrown on the defense.

Carmine wasn't supposed to be there.

He was supposed to be at home.

This time, he was supposed to be
safe
.

Instead, the boy sat there, right beside his godfather, continuing to suck down liquor as if his body needed it as much as air. The men talked murder, obnoxiously boasting, while Corrado remained silent. He had single-handedly killed more men than everyone else in the room combined.