Made (20 page)

"You're just saying that because he signs your paycheck."

"He doesn't pay me because I agree with him. He pays me because I have the balls to stand up to him."

"Then stand up to him."

"I can't," he said, "not like this."

"Why?"

Why… why… why…

"You're trying to kill me, Celia." He ran his hand down his face. "Literally."

"I know how to keep a secret," she said. "That's in my blood, too. And I know without a doubt that you know how, too. He wouldn't even have to know."

"You're worth more than that," Corrado said. "You deserve to be somebody's
everything
, not somebody's secret."

"I deserve to make my own choices."

"You do," he agreed, "but I
can't
."

"You can," she argued, "and you will.
Because I know you, Corrado.
You opened that door, and you're going to walk through it. It's only a matter of time."

Before he could conjure up some sort of response, the line went dead. Corrado set the phone down as he shook his head. He'd certainly met his match with her.

    
13

Corrado slid into a seat at the small table, the legs of the chair scratching against the checkered linoleum of the pizzeria. His right hand clutched the day's newspaper. He opened it, skimming through the crinkled pages, scanning the headlines for anything worthwhile. Evening had since fallen, most of the breaking news common knowledge by now, but it was the first chance he'd gotten to unwind.

Although,
unwind
was misleading for a guy like him. He was always working, always watching, always waiting. His mind remained two steps ahead, calculating his next move. He had to.

"Can I get you something?"

John's quiet voice shook as he addressed him. Corrado peered overtop the newspaper, attempting eye contact, but John refused. His gaze remained downcast.

"Small deep dish, sausage and mushroom," he said. "Light on the sauce."

"The usual, then."

The usual
. Those words unnerved Corrado. He needed to stop being so predictable and made a mental note to order something different next time. Turning back to the newspaper, he continued scanning articles, blocking out most of his surroundings. John returned with a glass of ice water, sliding it onto the table before scurrying away.

Corrado flipped the page, reaching the sports section, and stopped on an article about the White Sox. He read through it, immersing himself in the latest news about the team, when the chair across from him moved. "Hello, friend."

Corrado withdrew his gaze from the text at the interruption. He dropped the newspaper, coming face-to-face with Celia as she invited herself to sit at his table. She was dressed casually, jeans and a red cardigan, her hair pulled back.

"Miss DeMarco. Have you been following me?"

"Nope," she said, motioning toward a table across the restaurant. "I was grabbing dinner with some friends from school and saw you sitting here, so I thought I'd say hello."

He glanced in the direction she'd pointed, confirming it was a group of teenage girls. "Well, hello then."

His gaze went back to the article.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading."

"Reading what?"

"An article."

"About what?"

He sighed exasperatedly, reading the same sentence for the fourth time. "The White Sox."

"Oh!" Her voice bordered on a high-pitched squeal. "Do you think they have a chance of bouncing back this season? Because let's face it—they've been terrible."

Corrado dropped the newspaper again, his brow furrowed as he stared at her. A sparkle of excitement shined from her as she rattled on and on about recent games and trades they'd made—things even Corrado had been too busy to keep up with.

"I thought you were a Cubs fan," Corrado said.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. "I am."

"So how do you know about the Sox?"

She shrugged. "I like baseball."

"Then you know the Sox aren't
terrible
," he said defensively. "No worse than the Cubs."

"True," she agreed. "The Cubs suck, too."

"So why are you a fan of them?"

"The Cubs are just the better team. White Sox fans are savages."

"
I'm
a Sox fan."

She stared at him, a devious twinkle in her eyes. "I know."

John returned, sliding the pan of hot pizza on the table between them. Celia was still talking, her words stumbling when she glanced at the waiter. "Johnny!"

John's eyes darted to Corrado nervously before flicking back to her, a slight flush overcoming his cheeks. "Hey,
Ceily
-Bear."

"I forgot you worked here," she said, reaching out and grasping his arm. The sight of her touching him, red-painted fingernails wrapping around his scrawny bicep, made a similar color coat Corrado's vision. His own grip on the newspaper tightened as he fisted the sides of it, tearing a page. The ripping sound echoed around him, but Celia didn't notice.

John did, though. His eyes once more darted to
Corrado,
the sudden blush draining from his face.

"You know each other?" Corrado asked, attempting to keep his voice steady, ignoring the haze that threatened to settle over him out of rage. Rage that she was touching him. Rage that he
was
liking
it.

"Yeah, from school," Celia said, still beaming. "We're friends."

"Friends." That was what she'd called him… her friend. What she wanted them to be…
friends
.
"How close of friends?"

John stammered, mumbling "not
that
close," while Celia just laughed. That laughter… it wasn't the genuine laughter he'd heard before. It wasn't the laughter of his childhood, the melodic sound that warmed him from the inside out. It was a bitter laughter.

Mumbling some more, John made a speedy escape. Had he even said goodbye to Celia? Corrado wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything except for the look in her eyes as she leaned across the table toward him, her smile turning sinister. "Oh, we're close."

"How close?" He hardly recognized his own voice, the demanding tone as the question forced its way from his lips.

"
Very
close," she whispered seductively. "So very, very close."

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as his body instinctively seemed to follow her lead, moving toward her, his voice dangerously low. "You're lying."

"Am I?"

"You are," he insisted. "Tell me you're lying. Tell me that pesky little boy hasn't gotten close to you. Tell me he hasn't… that he hasn't touched you. Tell me he hasn't—"

"What if he has?"

"I'll kill him."

"Why?"

Why. That word again. As soon as it registered with Corrado's mind, he slammed his hands down on the table, nearly knocking over his drink. People close by startled at the commotion, but Celia didn't even flinch. She stared him dead in the eyes, awaiting an answer.

Demanding an answer.

"You know why."

She nodded, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned back in the chair. Reaching up, she unbuttoned the top button of her cardigan. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

She unbuttoned the second button. Corrado impulsively glanced at it, his eyes trailing down her neck, seeing the hint of flesh of her chest. He stumbled a bit on a response. "No."

"Not even the tiniest bit?"

She reached for the third button as Corrado's pulse raced. "Stop that," he ground out, reaching across the table to grasp her hands as she unfastened it. He caught a flash of her bra and blinked rapidly. Fumbling with her shirt, he struggled to button it as she laughed.

This laugh… this one was familiar.

This was genuine.

This one flustered him.

She shoved his hands away and fixed her shirt. "He's a friend, Corrado. We have Chemistry together."

Those words didn't ease Corrado's tension. "You have chemistry?"

"Yes, the class." She rolled her eyes. "Not the attraction. He's a nice boy, but…"

"But you haven't?" Corrado asked. "He hasn't…?"

"No, we haven't," she said pointedly. "Not that it matters. Where do you get off threatening to kill someone for touching me?"

"Where do you get off
letting
someone touch you?" he retorted.

She balked. "Excuse me?"

"You should respect yourself more than that. Your father would—"

She looked like she wanted to slap him. "How
dare
you. My body is my own, and who I let
touch
it is my decision. Not yours, and certainly not my father's. I'm sure it's nice, this perfect little square box you live in, but I have no desire to squeeze myself inside of it. I'm not going to conform to anyone's standards. It's
take
it or leave it, and you've made yourself clear that you don't plan to take it. So lets just leave it, and I'll leave you alone."

Every ounce of anger inside of Corrado evaporated at the dejected tone of her voice. "Celia, wait."

"I waited a decade," she said. "And then I waited some more. I've waited enough. It's your turn to catch up."

Besides a faded photo of a six-foot-five, buzzed head, coke-bottle glasses wearing Italian man, Corrado knew little about Marcus Bellamy. A shopkeeper. A gambler. He walked with a slight limp.

That was the extent of his knowledge, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter what kind of personality he had, what he found funny, if he had a family, what he enjoyed. It was inconsequential.

Because Marcus Bellamy had to die.

The manila envelope of cash had been delivered to his house in the middle of the night, the photograph tucked inside with the name scrawled on the back. He hadn't been hard to find—the phone book gave Corrado all he needed. He drove to the address listed in the yellow pages and waited outside in the darkness until the man from the photo appeared.

Corrado tailed him across town to a small convenience store. He debated his options before exiting his car and lurking in the small alley adjacent to the store. Minutes passed before Marcus stepped out the back door, lugging a black garbage bag. He went over to the Dumpster and shoved it inside as Corrado stepped out behind him.

The single gunshot lit up the alley before the bag of trash even hit the bottom of the Dumpster. The noise was suppressed, muffled against the back of the man's head. Marcus never knew what hit him. One second he was breathing, the next he was dead.

Corrado concealed the gun in his coat and strolled from the alley, keeping his head down.

Nobody saw. Nobody knew.

Nobody suspected.

He made sure of it this time.

Corrado's slick black shoes crunched against the loose gravel of the path leading to his father's house. The black Lincoln gleamed along the curb in the dim evening light, the paint shiny almost as if it were still brand new. His father took care of the car...
more than he took care of his own family
.

Soft light glowed from the house windows. A lamp, Corrado figured. He pressed the doorbell, hearing the faint chime inside.

Corrado wasn't entirely sure why he was there. He'd been in Chicago for months and had only ventured to his father's place a few times. Vito preferred his privacy, and Corrado was more than happy to give it to him.

But he needed someone tonight.

Corrado rang the bell again, hearing another chime, followed by a shuffling inside as his father's voice shouted, "Hold your fucking horses, I'm coming."

Footsteps approached the door, followed by the sound of laughter.

Female
laughter.

Corrado's insides knotted. The door flew open, a shirtless, disheveled Vito appearing, unlit cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and fedora cockeyed on his head. Corrado barely gave him a glance, his gaze shifting past him to a woman scampering down the hallway.

A woman who was
not
Corrado's mother.

"Hey, kid!" Vito sounded genuinely surprised. He smirked, turning around. "V! Get your ass over here, woman."