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Corrado nodded slowly.

"Good," Vito said. "Now tell me what happened to your hand."

Corrado flexed his fingers and grimaced at the pain. "I punched my friend."

"Your friend?"

"Yeah, Charlie Klein."

"Ah,
that
kinda friend. Did you hurt him?"

"I think I broke his face."

Vito laughed. "Must've been one hell of a punch."

"I didn't mean it. He didn't even do anything wrong."

"Don't fret it," Vito said. "But don't do it again. Only the weak use their fists. The strong use their words."

Corrado found that weird, coming from a man he'd seen beat Mr.
Barzetti
unconscious.

"Just remember what I said, kid." Vito stood and reached into his suit coat, pulling out a small white envelope. "This is for you. I promised I'd get it to you next time I made it home."

Vito held it out. Carefully, Corrado took it, staring at the front of the envelope as his father left the room. It was crinkled and worn, but he faintly made out his name written in pencil on the front.

Opening it, he pulled out the single piece of paper and unfolded it. A photo tumbled out from the paper, drifting to the floor. Corrado glanced down at it, seeing Celia's smiling face.

He turned back to the letter, seeing the careful cursive,
the i
's all dotted with little hearts.

Even before reading it, his cheeks grew warm.

Broken in two places.

Charlie's jaw was wired shut. He rambled on and on through clenched teeth, his words jumbled. Corrado could hardly understand him. He'd stayed home for days while his father was in town, trying to be on his best behavior, and had gone to the park as soon as Vito left. Charlie had rolled up on his bike, with Michael and Shawn in tow. Neither of the other boys said anything, but they'd been filled in on what happened. Their guarded eyes told Corrado that much.

"Six weeks," Charlie said. "For the next month and a half, I'll be eating with a straw."

Corrado frowned. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"Don't worry." Charlie waved it off. "These things happen."

No, they don't, Corrado thought. Friends don't put their friends in the hospital for no reason at all.

"What about school?" Corrado asked.

Charlie blanched. "My mom says I still have to go."

Summer break ended soon. Corrado was going into the seventh grade, as were Michael and Shawn, whereas Charlie was set to start high school. It wasn't much of an adjustment for Michael and Shawn, seeing as how they lived so far out in the desert that the school provided boarding for them, but Corrado dreaded it.

"Anyway, I have to go," Charlie said. "My mom's been on my ass. I'll catch you later."

Charlie rode off. Corrado expected the others to follow, but they remained on their bikes in front of him.

"Did you really mean to hit him?" Shawn whispered.

"Yeah, and where'd you learn how to fight?" Michael asked.

"We heard he flew like ten feet in the air."

"They said his jaw was practically hanging off by the time you were done with him."

Corrado shook his head. "It was an accident."

Shawn sighed. "Well, whenever Charlie gets better and the crew gets back together, we—"

Corrado cut him off. "I'm out of the crew."

Michael's eyes widened. "What? Why?"

"We had a good run, but it's time to move on. Time to grow up."

Time to make my own name.

     
7

Corrado sat back in the stiff wooden chair, his feet propped up on the corner of his father's desk. An old radio off to the side blared the sounds of a Frank Sinatra song, the speakers rattling as Corrado hummed along. His chair rocked on its hind legs, his hands clasped on the back of his head, his eyes closed as the lyrics washed through him.

My kind of town, Chicago is…

The office door opened, the chaos from the casino disrupting the melody. Corrado opened his eyes as Vito turned down the radio, so soft Corrado could hardly hear it anymore. His father stalked over, shoving Corrado's feet off the desk as he moved around him. The chair almost tipped as Corrado's feet hit the floor.

On his lap, Vito dropped a bag, the weight of it making him grunt. The black leather bag, round with a metal clasp, reminded him of one doctors carried when they made house calls.

Curious, Corrado peeked inside, finding it filled to the brim with old black $100 casino chips. There had to have been hundreds of thousands of dollars worth. "Do you want me to cash these in?"

"No," Vito said. "They ain't ours."

Corrado glanced in the bag again, seeing
Sands
written on the clunky chips. Sands Hotel was just down the strip, less than half a mile from The Flamingo. "Where'd you get them?"

Vito shot him a stern look. "You know better than to ask questions. Where I got them
ain't
none of your business. What is your business, what I want you to do, is run them down there."

"And cash them in?"

"Cash them in?" Annoyance flared Vito's voice. "Don't you listen? I said they ain't ours."

"Okay."

"Take them down there, and tell them you need to speak to Antonelli," Vito said. "They'll show you to his office."

Corrado stood, clutching the bag under his arm like a football.

"And make it fast, will you? I told your mother we'd be home for dinner tonight."

Dinner had long since passed. The clock near the doorway read a quarter after nine at night. His mother was likely already drunk and passed out in bed. "Yes, sir."

Corrado strolled down the hallway, heading for the back exit of The Flamingo to avoid the weekend crowds. Being as it was a Saturday night, the place was packed. He passed his father's bodyguards and nodded at them, but neither paid him any mind. They were busy staring out into the casino floor.

Corrado shoved open the door and slipped out into the dark backstreet, letting the metal door slam closed behind him. He hummed, the Sinatra song still stuck in his head, as he headed for the bustling strip. The moment he moved, something in his peripheral caught his attention, a slight shifting in the pitch-black alley.

A tingle swept through him, his skin prickling as the hair on his arms stood on end. He swung around, on alert, and barely had time to react when someone ran up on him. Two guys, cloaked in black from head-to-toe, both wearing ski masks, rushed him, a gleam of a gun catching Corrado's eye in a sliver of moonlight. One grabbed him from the back, tearing him away from the door, and shoved a silver revolver against the side of his neck. The other stood feet in front of him, a black pistol pointed straight at his face. The barrel of it shook as the hand clutching it trembled.

With his free hand, the man in front of him snatched a hold of the black bag, trying to pry it from Corrado's grip. He held on to it, refusing to let go. These men might hurt him, yes, but his father would
definitely
kill him if he lost the chips.

The man viciously tugged, and Corrado gripped it tighter, anger rushing through him. He shifted, yanking the bag back and sent both guys into
a frenzy
. It happened fast, split seconds passing in the blink of an eye. Corrado pushed away, fumbling and dropping the bag into the alley. Flustered, the guy aimed his revolver. Grabbing his arm, Corrado twisted it, grasping the gun, his heart racing so fast his vision blurred. He forced the gun around, deflecting, the barrel facing his attacker as they fought for control. A gunshot exploded in the alley, a bullet ripping through the side of the guy's neck when Corrado managed to squeeze the trigger. The attacker let go and dropped to the ground, horrific gurgling sounds rushing from the wound in his neck.

Somehow, Corrado kept a grip on the gun. He had no time to think, no time to second-guess. The second guy hastily grabbed the bag and ran. With no hesitation, Corrado raised the pistol and fired, again and again, bullets ripping straight through the back of the assailant. He dropped hard, the bag going down with him.

The one behind him flailed on the ground, gurgling words Corrado couldn't understand. Turning to him, Corrado knelt down and grabbed the ski mask. The moment he pulled it off, a sudden rush of wooziness ran through Corrado, nauseating him. He stared at the flushed face, hazel eyes pleading with him, the ends of his blond hair stained red.

No
. Corrado shook his head.
No, no, no.

Charlie Klein.

Corrado hadn't seen him in years, not since breaking his jaw that summer, but he would recognize that face anywhere.

His grip on the gun tightened as Charlie raised a bloody hand toward him.
His own friend.
His friend had tried to rob him. He'd tried to kill him. If Corrado hadn't fought back, if he hadn't deflected the shot, it would've been
him
on the ground.

Numbness followed that thought, swarming his body. Instinctively, he raised the gun, his finger back on the trigger. He aimed straight for Charlie's terrified face.

The gunshot echoed through the alley, magnified to Corrado's ringing ears. He lowered the weapon again when a subtle cry in the alley pulled his attention away. Beside the Dumpster, crouched down, partially hidden, was a third guy. Dressed all in black, his ski mask perched on top of his head, his face was only faintly visible in the darkness.

Michael Antonelli.

Corrado stared at him as the backdoor to the casino flew open, Vito's bodyguards appearing. They blanched, eyes wide as they stared at Corrado. The men seemed torn between intervening and fleeing, frozen in shock. They were knocked to the side after a second when Vito burst outside. He started to speak, his mouth wide open, but no words escaped.

He stared at his son for a moment before glancing between the two boys, dead on the ground.

"You killed them," Vito said, raising his eyebrows. "You shot them both. You fucking
killed
them."

Corrado turned away from Michael to face his father. It didn't take a genius to figure out the other boy, dead in the alley, would be Shawn. Those three were inseparable.

Opening his hand, Corrado let the gun hit the dirty asphalt. He'd killed them, the only friends he'd ever had. "They were my friends."

Vito shook his head. "They weren't the kind of friends you thought they were, kid. They were friends in the life, and well, sometimes you gotta take those friends out." Vito slapped Corrado on the back, shoving him away from Charlie. "Go on. Do what I told you to do. We'll take care of this. "

In a daze, hands shaking, Corrado walked over and snatched the black bag from the alley.

Corrado didn't tell his father. Had he pointed him out, Michael would certainly be dead. But maybe, if he kept his mouth shut, he might walk away unscathed.

Corrado didn't want his blood on his hands.

The ten-minute walk to The Sands was a blur. He stepped inside the casino, telling the first person he saw that he needed to speak with Antonelli. Anxiety swirled inside of him when he spoke the name. A lady led him to an office near the front, where a stern looking man sat in a leather chair. Frankie Antonelli. Corrado set the bag in front of him, waiting to be dismissed.

Frankie glanced inside the bag. "Hope it wasn't any trouble."

"Of course not," Corrado said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Frankie pulled out a twenty and slipped it in the chest pocket of Corrado's button down shirt. He patted it. "That’s for you."

Corrado nodded and slipped out of the office, pulling the money back out. Twenty-dollars. That was what taking his friends' lives had been worth.

Passing a waitress, he shoved the crinkled bill in a glass tip jar on her tray and kept on walking.

The trip back took another ten minutes. He'd been gone less than a half-hour, yet by the time he reached The Flamingo, all signs of the struggle were gone. The alley was vacant, a subtle stench of bleach assaulting his nose when he reached the back door.

Instinctively, he glanced beside the Dumpster.

Michael, too, was gone.

He headed inside, hands shoved in his pockets, his head down. Both bodyguards were alert this time, addressing Corrado as he passed, but he didn't respond. Tapping on the office door, he turned the knob and stepped inside when his father acknowledged him.

Frank Sinatra again crooned from the old radio. Vito sat behind his desk, his feet propped up now as he moved his right foot to the beat. He seemed relaxed, almost as if the last thirty minutes hadn't happened, almost as if it were just a nightmare, but the revolver he fiddled with told a different story.

"I take it everything went smoothly."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me ask you something, kid." Vito sat forward, putting the gun down on the desk as he clasped his hands together in front of him. Corrado tensed, waiting for the anger over what he'd done, but instead a small smile quirked his father's lips. "You ever think about coming to Chicago with me?"

Corrado didn't hesitate. "Every day since I was seven years old."