Made (37 page)

Frustrated, Corrado reached into the cabinet and slammed some glasses down on the counter. Maura flinched at the noise whereas Celia grabbed his arm to stop him. "What's gotten in to you?"

Laughter rang out from the doorway as Vito stepped into the kitchen. "He's pissed at me."

"You?" Celia turned to Vito. "Who could be mad at
you
?"

Vito shrugged, grinning. "My wife's always mad at me, and you know, he's got her blood in him."

Corrado slammed the cabinet door and picked up the bottle of scotch, filling one of the glasses to the brim. Picking it up, he guzzled the liquor.

"Might not be the
only
thing he got from her, either."

Resentment ran through Corrado. He clutched the glass tightly, struggling against the urge to throw it.

"Go on," Vito taunted. "Ain't a Moretti holiday unless something breaks, right?"

Corrado set the glass on the counter instead of launching it at him.

"What in the world is going on?" Celia asked, glancing between the men.

"Not a big deal," Vito said. "How about giving us a moment alone?"

Shaking her head, muttering to herself, Celia grabbed some drinks and walked out. Maura jumped to her feet then and tried to scurry out, but Vito stopped her, grabbing her abandoned plate from the table. "Whoa, sweetheart, don't forget your dinner."

She took it from him, wide-eyed, and muttered her thanks before leaving. Once the two of them were alone, Vito turned his attention back to his son. "Say your piece."

"I don't like him."

"You ain't got to, kid," Vito said shrugging. "But we do what we gotta do."

"And why do I have to?"

Vito raised his eyebrows. "You questioning an order?"

"Was it an order?"

"You know it was."

"Then you know I wouldn't question one."

Vito smirked at that. "Look, Frankie Antonelli's a made man. You know that. And when a made man needs a favor, we follow through for him. We
ain't
gotta like it. You
ain't
gotta like
him
. Hell, I don't like most people. But he's Frankie's kid."

"Frankie's kid." That was the second time Vito had called him that. "What happened to making our own name?"

"I told
you
to make your own name."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is that moron ain't never gonna be anything better than just 'Frankie's kid'."

Despite Corrado's reluctance, he obeyed his father's order. He included Michael Antonelli on thefts and hijacks, showed him the bookmaking rings, took him to collect money and make deals. Any job Vito sent him
on,
he hauled Michael along, letting the boy ride his coattails for a way inside the crew. Michael would smirk, overconfident, as he introduced himself as Frankie Antonelli's son and Vito Moretti's son-in-law.

Corrado remained mute as Michael exploited those connections, garnering attention while he stood back in the shadows, doing what needed to be done. On the rare occasion someone acknowledged him, it was with a small nod of the head and a mere half-smile.

They knew who he was. They knew what he did.

They knew enough to recognize they didn't
want
to know any more about him.

    
26

A harsh winter set in almost overnight as a blizzard battered Chicago weeks before Christmas. Nearly two feet of snow covered the city in less than twenty-four hours, shutting down transit and clogging the streets. Life came to a proverbial standstill, iced over with a blanket of bitter frozen white.

But a little snow couldn't stop Corrado.

His phone had been ringing constantly for work—do this, do that, take this here, discard this there. He had been up all night as the white flakes fell from the darkened, cloudy sky, huddled under a thick coat, black leather gloves on his hands, making sure everything got where it needed to be. Made men were holed up in their homes, having no desire to brave the weather, which shifted even more onto Corrado's plate.

Dawn had just broken when Corrado drove home, navigating the frozen streets. He had called Michael hours earlier and told him to meet him at his house, but Corrado was running late. Exhausted, he pulled into his driveway, spotting Michael's Cadillac parked along the street, but seeing little else as he strode toward his front door. He rubbed his weary eyes as he stepped inside, hoping for some peace and quiet, but utter chaos met him at the door.

Before he had even shut the door, Vincent knocked right into him. Corrado snatched a hold of the boy's coat, shoving him roughly against the nearby wall. "Why are
you
here?"

Vincent stared at him, the force of the blow knocking the breath from his lungs.

"Let him go," Celia said, exasperated, as she stepped into the foyer and slipped on her coat. "He just came to get me."

"Get you for what?"

"Church," she said. "Since you clearly forgot it was Sunday."

Sunday.
Huh
.

"Anyway, I figured since you weren't here, you weren't coming. And then when your sister showed up…"

Corrado's brow furrowed. "Kat's here?"

She motioned toward the living room. "With Michael and some other guys. Not sure who they are."

"You're not sure who they are and you let them in my house?"

"
I
didn't let them in," she said, matter-of-fact, as she shoved him away from her brother. Corrado let go so the boy could slip outside. Celia paused there, her eyes scanning his face as she smiled. Softly, she kissed him, whispering against his lips, "Vincent did."

He let out a groan of irritation. "I'm going to kill that boy."

"No, you're not," she said, bumping against him as she skidded out the door. "You wouldn't dare hurt me that way."

He stood there after she was gone, listening to the voices in his living room. They were vaguely familiar, recognition striking him as he walked that way. Pascal Barone and Alex Como.

Capos
.

More work.

Stepping into the doorway, Corrado addressed them. "Gentlemen."

"Moretti!" Pascal said. "About time you make it home."

"I was… working."

"Long night?" Alex asked.

Corrado shrugged nonchalantly as he sat down on the couch beside his sister, who flipped through one of Celia's girly magazines. "You could say that."

"Well... gonna be an even longer day." Pascal cast a sidelong glance at Katrina, assessing whether he should talk in front of her. To Pascal she probably looked like she wasn't listening, but Corrado knew she would absorb every word. "I won't bullshit you. Here's the deal. There's this shipment coming in this afternoon from Maine that we're going to hit. I don't need many guys, two or three at most. Simple job, quickest money ever made. I had some guys lined up, but with this weather..."

Corrado thought that over. "What's in the truck?"

Pascal laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"And it can't wait for the weather to break?"

"No, it's now or never."

Corrado was quiet for a moment. His father had a poker game set up in the hideout beneath the bar that needed cashed out, and he had a few loansharks to check in with, but the rest of the evening was wide-open. "You're hitting it tonight?"

Pascal shook his head. "Broad daylight."

"It's hard to push merchandise when the sun's up."

"Not what we're stealing."

"Okay." If the man said it, Corrado would believe it. Pascal was a capo, and he didn't have the influence to override him. "Just say when."

Corrado and Michael spent the morning handling Vito's business, running from place to place, meeting with some of the guys from the crew. A quarter till two they were in the car, heading to the docks out by Lake Michigan to meet up with Pascal and Alex. The men waited in an idling Chevy, the windows open a crack to let the smoke from their cigars filter out. Corrado parked beside them, cutting the engine and staring at the empty dock as they waited.

Nearly two thirty on the dot, a refrigerator truck crept up. Pascal and Alex got out, no hesitation. Corrado tossed his keys to Michael. "Don't wreck my car."

In. Out. Over
. Corrado chanted those words in his head as he followed the men. Get in, get out, and get it over with. He reached into his coat, clutching his gun, as Pascal signaled for him to go around to the other side. He listened as Alex took up residence at the back of the truck, standing guard. Corrado ran around to the passenger side. It was a routine he had done so often he could manage it with his eyes closed.

He pressed himself against the truck and gripped the door handle.
Be unlocked
.

Within a matter of seconds, he heard the bang, something striking the back of the truck. His cue. Pulling the handle, he yanked it open and blocked the door with his body the same time the other door opened. The driver startled, yelping, and threw up his hands in panic when both men aimed guns at his head.

"Move over," Pascal demanded, cold voice leaving his lips in a bitter cloud of breath.

The driver slid over in the seat as Pascal and Corrado both climbed in, shoving the man in the center. Pascal started the truck, throwing it into gear and speeding away from the dock as Alex ran back to his idling Chevy.

They drove to a small, shabby motel in a remote part of the city, parking the truck behind the building. Pascal forced the driver out, the gun pressed to his side as he led him to the room on the end, rented under an obscure name. The driver sat down on the edge of the bed, sheer terror in his eyes as they darted from gun to gun, panicked pleading flying from his lips in stutters.

"Shut up," Pascal said. "Give up your wallet."

The driver slipped it from his pocket. "Take whatever you want. Anything. It's yours. Whatever you want."

Alex snatched it as Pascal hit the man, knocking him off the bed. "I said shut up!"

Alex pulled out the driver's license, throwing the rest of it on the floor. "
Jason Marshall,"
he read aloud. "
Center Street in Augusta, Maine
."

"What you're gonna do, Jason Marshall," Pascal said, gun aimed at the man as he clicked on the television, "is sit here and watch something. And in an hour, you're gonna go out that door and walk about a mile back the way we came to the closest payphone to call a ride to pick you up. That's it. It's as easy as that."

The driver stared at him skeptically.

"But if you leave any sooner? I'm
gonna
have to kill you. And not just you—your whole family, too. I know where you live." He took the driver's license from Alex and slipped it in his pocket. "You see my face? Yeah? Well, take a good look at it. Because if you breathe a word to the cops, it'll be the last face you ever see. I guarantee it."

Pascal was out the door, no hesitation. Corrado followed, slowing when they reached the back of the building. Pascal stopped to lean against the corner, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Are we leaving?" Alex asked.

"Go on ahead," Pascal told him. "Take the cars and meet us over at that steakhouse on Melrose."

"Sure thing," Alex said, him and Michael walking away.

Corrado stood there, coldness seeping through his clothes, wondering why they weren't leaving also. Time was of the essence in a hijack. But Pascal seemed to be in no rush, puffing away on a Newport.

Before Corrado had the chance to grow impatient, the motel room door opened and frantic footsteps crunched in the snow. Pascal let out an exaggerated groan as he stamped out his cigarette. "Couldn't even wait ten goddamn minutes."

His hand darted in his coat, whipping out his gun, as the truck driver scampered through the parking lot. Pascal stepped out from behind the building and fired, shot after shot, the echo bouncing off the trees. The driver fell into a snowdrift, bullets tearing into his back. He cried out, trying to drag himself through the lot, but Pascal was on top of him in no time. Squatting down, Pascal grabbed the man by the back of the hair and lifted his head up, pressing the gun to his temple.

A last shot exploded his skull.

Dropping him, Pascal slipped his gun away and strolled back over to Corrado. "
Now
we go."

They drove to the steakhouse, meeting the others behind the restaurant. Alex cracked the lock on the back of the truck and shoved the door open, laughing excitedly. "Jackpot!"

Corrado stared at the containers, reading the warning stamped onto them as he breathed in the sour smell of salt water.
Live Lobsters
.

They hijacked a truck of seafood.

"Ever stolen fish before?" Alex asked.

"They're crustaceans," Corrado replied.

Alex stared at him with disbelief. "Look at Mr. Encyclopedia-fucking-Britannica over here. They swim. We eat them. Same thing."

"Your wife swims,"
Pascal
said. "You eat her, too, don't you, Alex? Doesn't make the bitch a fish."

"Fuck you," Alex said, his words betraying the humor in his voice. "She might be. She damn sure drinks like one."

Corrado's focus turned back to the lobsters. "No, I've never seen the point in stealing…
fish
."

"Watch and learn," Alex said.

Michael and Corrado got stuck doing most of the brunt work, taking them straight into the back door of the steakhouse. They jumped from restaurant to restaurant, each one associated to
La Cosa Nostra
someway, and sold the lobsters directly to the business owners for a fraction of their usual cost. The lobsters flew off the truck, the last one unpacked two hours later and taken into the backdoor of Rita's as the owner counted out a stack of cash and handed it to Pascal.

Corrado stood behind the truck, watching, no longer feeling the cold. He was drenched with sweat and melted snow, his toes numb, the water long ago seeping through his shoes. The stench of seafood clung to him. The more he sweat, the more he reeked. He wanted to rip off his skin and soak it in bleach.

It would take a week of scalding showers to wash this sin away.

They ditched the truck in a bad part of town and headed back to Corrado's, the four men gathering in the dining room as Pascal spread out their take. Twenties, fifties, hundreds… there had to be well over a hundred thousand dollars.

He watched Pascal count it when he heard movement in the kitchen. "Maura," he called, not moving.

A second later her meek voice rang out from the doorway behind him. "Yes, sir?"

The second she spoke, Pascal stopped counting and glanced over, his elated expression falling. He stared at her hard.

"Get my guests drinks," Corrado said. "The good scotch."

"Yes, sir."

Maura skidded back away, but Pascal's eyes remained on the doorway until she reappeared. Maura set empty glasses on the table beside the bottle of scotch, not bothering to pour any, before bolting out the door again.

Pascal's gaze shifted to Corrado, an incredulous look on his face. "She's fucking Irish."

"Yes."

He appeared awestruck, something on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it with a shot of scotch.

It neared dusk when the phone rang. Corrado excused himself from the dining room to answer it. He picked up the receiver, sitting down on the edge of the couch in front of his sister. Katrina remained in the living room, making herself at home on his couch, sprawled out watching television.