Made (43 page)

"Ten thousand?" Pascal asked skeptically.

"I owed five."

"You're late, so it's doubled."

Corrado glared at him. He had struggled coming up with five. There was no way he could get ten.

Pascal laughed as he grabbed a cigarette. "Guess you'll be doing that work for me after all, huh?"

"Yeah." Corrado eyed the man with distaste. "Guess so."

It was much later, after nightfall the next evening, when Corrado finally worked off his debt for the week. He headed home to face his wife, knowing a man who had been unlucky enough to cross Pascal would never again face another living soul… not after what Corrado had put him through.

"Make him suffer," Pascal had said. Unlike when Antonio expressed the same desire, he knew Pascal wouldn't have accepted it any other way. He still heard the man's screams rattling around in his sleep-deprived brain, a haunting tune he had single handedly produced.

Sweat beaded along his forehead as his tie hung loose, his shirt grimy and wrinkled. He felt repulsive. Pascal had trailed along, watching the entire thing play out with a sickening smirk. He got off on the carnage.

His expression was an image Corrado wanted to purge from his memory.

As soon as Corrado pushed his front door open at a quarter after ten, the first thing he encountered were his wife's brown eyes. Staring into them, everything else faded away. Her expression was blank, her face a mask of indifference, but those eyes told a different story. Her worry gave way to relief. He drank it in from across the room, the sight of her easing the melody of misery.

"You didn't come home last night. You didn't even call."

"Sorry." Sorry wasn't a word he said often, and certainly not one he took lightly. There was very little he allowed himself to feel remorse for, but upsetting the one person who loved him was where he drew the line. She deserved that much from him. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"But you did," she said, frowning. "I had no idea what happened. You could've been hurt, or dead..."

"Not tonight, Celia," he said, shaking his head as he shut the front door. "I can't do this right now."

She sighed, but otherwise remained quiet as he held out a dozen red roses he had picked up on the way home. She grasped them, her eyes boring into him, studying, surveying, suspicious. He looked away from her at the flicker of disappointment, unable to deal with it. He hated being bad for the only good thing in his life.

His feet were like concrete slabs against the wooden stairs when he headed to the bedroom and pulled off his jacket, tossing it in the hamper as he slid out of his shoes. Celia appeared and stood in the doorway behind him, watching as he undressed. She was already ready for bed, wearing a blue nightgown with her hair pulled back. The tension radiating from her was palpable and made the hairs on his neck stand up, uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

He unbuttoned his shirt as he faced her. "It's been a long day."

"You're telling me."

"I really am sorry."

For every moment of heartache I cause you
.

"I know you are, Corrado." Her voice was softer as she held her hand out. "Give the shirt to me."

He glanced at it, confused, before spotting the bright red blood splatter on the cuff. He hesitated too long for her liking, and she snatched it from his hand, muttering as she walked out.

He unzipped his pants as she paused in the doorway, her forehead wrinkled. She eyed the shirt cautiously, and he knew what was coming next before it even happened. "This isn't my brother's blood, is it?"

"No,
Bellissima
, it's not."

He was pretty sure it wasn't, anyway.

"Thank God," she whispered, disappearing into the hallway.

'Thank God' was right. He sincerely hoped a day never came where he had to answer yes to that.

He showered and put on fresh clothes before heading back downstairs, finding Celia in the living room. She stood in front of the fireplace, the fire just starting to come alive. He made out his shirt tucked in among the flames, the fabric burning to ash, disintegrating in front of his eyes.

He focused on Celia when the last bit of it faded away, watching her as she watched the fire, the flickering flames casting shadows upon her frowning face. He wondered if she understood what she was doing. Helping him cover his tracks, destroying evidence, made her an accomplice, an accessory after the fact. It sickened him to think he involved her in his world, but Celia was not the type of woman you shielded from things.

If he ever tried to protect her from something for her own good, he likely would need someone to protect him from her.

    
31

Cigar smoke permeated the air of the den as men packed the room, football blaring from the television.

The Chicago Bears—the one sports team the men agreed on. The Cubs and the Sox rivalry ran deep, instigating fights to the point that Antonio had banned baseball from being watched when they gathered.

The Boss was a Cubs fan. His only flaw, Corrado surmised.

So they gathered nearly every week, uniting, watching the Bears play. Most of the men had money riding on the game, always betting on the home team, no matter how terrible of a season they were having.

Today, the Bears were dominating the Lions—the first game after the NFL strike came to an end. Spirits were high, the underground betting world back on track with money flowing in again, lining all of their pockets a little thicker, but something in the atmosphere overshadowed the joy, an overwrought sensation of stifling air.

It seemed to hover around the Boss in his chair, his alcohol untouched as he puffed on cigar after cigar, lighting another as soon as one burned down too far. The smoke surrounded him like an ominous fog, his piercing gaze cutting through it as he stared at the doorway.

At Vincent.

The boy stood on the outskirts, his focus on the men and not on the game. He didn't notice his father's attention. No, nothing existed except for Pascal. Vincent's eyes regarded the man with a sheer hatred that Corrado had never seen the boy possess before, the warm brown of his eyes—eyes he shared with his sister—burning as black as coal.

Another fight brewed. Corrado sensed it, and he knew, from Antonio's rigid posture, that he did, too. It was only a matter of time before the boy lurking in the doorway, building with intensity, exploded.

The first half of the game came to a close. The men relaxed, pouring more drinks as they chatted, unaware of the impending eruption until it happened. Pascal laughed, saying something about a new girl he was seeing, the words igniting the bomb. Vincent pushed away from the wall, his nostrils flaring. "You're sick!"

"Vincenzo!" Antonio's grave voice struck hard. "Enough!"

"It's
not
enough!" Vincent yelled back, stopping right in front of his father. "How can it be enough when you did
nothing
?"

Silence swept through the room. The men stared, appalled, as Vincent talked back to the Boss, challenging him…
questioning
him.

"It's none of your concern," Antonio said. "You'd do well to mind your own business."

"She
is
my business," Vincent replied. "I
made
her my business."

"I told you that was over."

"And I told you I love her! I
love
Maura. How many times do I have to say it?"

Based on Antonio's expression, at least a few more times.

"Get out," Antonio barked, his eyes never leaving his son's, but it was clear the order was intended for everyone else. At once, the men scattered. Corrado trailed the rest of them, stepping out into the hallway. Most went right for the front door, taking it as a final dismissal, but Corrado lingered, catching sight of his wife down the hallway within earshot.

He strolled over to her. "Let me guess… you had something to do with this."

"Nope, not me. Apparently
somebody
told him to face the problem head on, and well, seems he's taking that advice."

His brow furrowed. "Who?"

"You, Corrado," Celia said. "
You
did."

He ran his hands down his face in frustration. He had.

The arguing in the den continued, voices raising before dropping low again, bitter words spat back and forth, only half of it reaching Corrado's ears. Antonio's refusal was steadfast, but Vincent put up a fight, deflecting everything his father said, throwing it right back in his face. Anyone else and Antonio would have had them killed on the spot.

It pays to be a DeMarco.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Dad, but it changes nothing," Vincent said, his words with a sharp edge to them although his voice had leveled out. "I want to be with her."

"You're spoiled," Antonio chided, pulling out the same argument he had used against Celia. "You've had the entire world handed to you. I won't give this to you."

"I don't expect you to. I've never even asked you for anything before. But her… I love her."

"Then earn her. You want this girl? Prove it, Vincenzo."

"I will," he swore. "I'll do anything. Just name it."

"Corrado!"

Corrado cringed when the Boss yelled his name and walked to the doorway of the den. "Yes, sir?"

"This slave of yours… whatshername."

"Maura."

"Maura," he repeated, his face contorting at the Irish sounding name. "How much do you want for her?"

Corrado stared at him blankly. How much did he want?

"Just throw out a number," Antonio said, waving toward him. "Name your price."

Vincent responded before Corrado could, an angry growl about how she was nobody's property, but Antonio raised a hand to silence him, his eyes fixed on Corrado.

"Well?" Antonio said. "I'm waiting."

"I didn't pay anything for her," he said. "I don't expect payment."

"I don't care what you expect," Antonio said. "I told you to name a price. Vincent is interested in the girl, and we're certainly not going to just
hand
her to him."

Vincent couldn't be silenced then. "I don't want to
buy
her!"

Antonio's gaze shifted to his son. "You said you'd do anything… or have you changed your mind?"

Vincent shook his head. "I'm not changing my mind."

"So?" Antonio looked back at Corrado. "How much is the going rate for a little Irish slave?"

Vincent inhaled sharply, on the verge of speaking out again, but Corrado responded before the boy made it any worse. The Boss was testing them.

"Twenty thousand," he replied. "That's how much my father said he gave for her."

"And that was years ago." Antonio lit yet another cigar. "She's a bit more used up now."

Corrado fought a grimace at those words, keeping his expression straight, but Vincent couldn't stop the emotion from twisting his face.

"So taking into account depreciation, I'd say she's valued at about half that now." Antonio glanced at his son. "Ten grand, and the
girl's
yours."

Vincent's eyes narrowed. "I don't have the money, and you know it."

"Ah, well, I'm sure Corrado can find a way for you to make it," Antonio replied. "Isn't that right?"

Corrado stared straight ahead, expressionless. He couldn't say no, as much as he wanted to. "Yes, sir."

"It's settled then," Antonio said, standing up as the second half of the game started. "You come to me, Vincenzo, when you have your money, and we'll negotiate the terms of her sale."

Antonio walked out but hesitated in the hallway near Corrado.

"I expect him to earn it," Antonio said quietly. "The easier you take it on him, the harder I'm going to be on you.
Capice
?"

Corrado nodded stiffly.
Message received
.

Yet again, Corrado found himself being shadowed by someone as he went about his daily business. Unlike cocky Michael Antonelli, Vincent seemed to be a ball of frayed nerves, edgy and disgruntled, wanting to be anywhere in the world but on the streets with Corrado.

Corrado couldn't blame him. He didn't want him there, either.

He straddled a fine line between taking it easy on Vincent and putting him through Hell, doing just enough to make him sweat, to make him earn what little money flowed his way, but he found himself safeguarding the boy from real danger. Every time he looked at him, every time they headed to a job, all Corrado saw was Celia's little brother, the one she fiercely protected, the one she detrimentally tried to help.

The boy who wanted to be a doctor.

Corrado took him on a few of the easier hijacks, letting him stay in the shadows and watch, acting as their lookout. He forked over a few bucks here and there—more than he would have paid anyone else—but it wasn't enough to satiate the boy.

"This is really all you do?" Vincent asked one night as they sat in the room beneath the bar, cashing out the gambling game. Corrado had done it so much in his father's place it felt like a tedious chore.

"What did you expect?" Corrado asked, keeping his eye on the cash as he counted. "Pandemonium?"

"I don't know," Vincent replied. "I think I expected more glamour."

Glamour
? "I don't do this for excitement, Vincent."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because I can't imagine not doing it."

"Why?"

Corrado lost track of his counting when that word echoed around him.
Why
? "You ask as many questions as your sister."

"It's a legitimate question," Vincent said. "Why would you do something that doesn't excite you?"

"Because life isn't a game," he said, hesitating before changing his mind. "Actually, no, it is. This life
is
a game. It's a perpetual game of
Simon Says
. And I do this, because Simon says so."

"I'm guessing my father is Simon?"

"Yes, and I'd like to stay in the game, so I do what Simon says."

"That doesn't explain why you started playing in the first place."

"Because my father played the game."

"So?"

Corrado tossed the stack of money down. Lost count again. "This may come as a surprise to you, Vincent, but not all of us despise our fathers. Mine isn't perfect, but he's an honorable man."

"Honorable?" Vincent asked. "They're
criminals
."

Corrado refrained from pointing out that, over the past week, Vincent had broken more laws than most people would their entire lives. "You define honorable as someone who follows society's rules. I define it as someone who makes
their
own rules. Honor isn't being a follower… it's being a leader."

"Yet you follow my father's every order," he pointed out.

"I suppose I'm not a man of honor yet."

Man of honor
. Vincent didn't get the double meaning of those words, but Corrado felt it when he spoke them. Made men were called men of honor, and someday soon…
very soon
… Corrado would get that title.

"So this is it," Vincent said, surveying the grungy room. "You spend your days lugging boxes off trucks and catering to gamblers."

"Not as
glamorous
as being a doctor," Corrado said, emphasizing the word, "but it's a job."

"Well, what can
I
do?" Vincent asked. "At this rate, it'll take me a year to make enough. There has to be something more."

"You don't know what you're asking for, kid."

Vincent sneered at the word
kid
. "I'll be eighteen soon. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Besides, the sooner I get the money, the sooner I can walk away from all of this."

It was a good concept, walking away, but implausible. Once the life had you, it had you for life. Maybe Vincent didn't yet see that, but Antonio knew what he was doing.

He had shoved Vincent right into his footsteps by dangling the girl in the path in front of him.

"Fine," Corrado said. "You want more? It's yours."

He took him to stick-ups, took him to assaults, and took him to robberies, anything to make a few extra bucks. Vincent earned the money in less than two weeks—two weeks that found Corrado more and more in debt. He skimped on his own pay, his interest bill to Pascal going unpaid.

Corrado drove Vincent home that final night, the boy's pockets loaded with wads of cash, all ten thousand dollars. Corrado followed him into the house, lingering behind, as Vincent headed straight to the office. Vincent's steps were steadfast, a fierce determination in his expression.

This wouldn't end well.

Vincent shoved open the office door without knocking and stepped right inside as Corrado lingered in the hallway. Antonio sat behind his desk, rage brewing in his eyes. "Get out!"