Made (47 page)

This was a man of honor.

A
vengeful
man of honor, out for blood.

"Vincent!" Corrado stepped toward him, aiming right for his head. "Put down the gun!"

The sound of Corrado's voice brought Vincent back to awareness. All at once his hands shook, violently rattling the gun before letting it clatter to the floor. He turned to Corrado, rage melting into shock. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared down the barrel of Corrado's gun.

"What have you done?" Corrado ground out, heart pounding like a steel drum against his ribcage.

Vincent's eyes drifted back across the room to Pascal. "What he ordered me to do."

"What
who
ordered you to do?"

Vincent stared at Pascal, not speaking, no longer responding. Seconds ticked away, lasting a lifetime yet no time at all. Corrado's ears rang, buzzing from the gunfire. Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, he lowered his gun. "We need to get out of here, Vincent."

No response.

"Vincent," he said again, grabbing the boy. "Did you hear me? We need to leave."

He nodded slowly, reaching down and grabbing his gun again. The sight of it in his hand put Corrado on edge, but the boy slipped it into his pocket, putting it away. Vincent turned, keeping his head down as he stalked toward the front door.

Corrado remained right on his heels, jogging to the car and speeding away before Vincent even got the door closed. His mind raced as fast as his heart as he tried to sort through what had happened, trying to decide what to do next.

"We need to call your father," Corrado said. "We have to tell him."

"He already knows."

He already knows
. Those words washed through Corrado, soothing his nerves, as they answered the question of who ordered it.

Antonio.

He was the only one with the authority to sanction the murder of a made man. "Why didn't you tell me?
Warn
me?"

"I, uh… I didn't want you to do it instead."

Corrado laughed bitterly under his breath, checking his mirrors, making sure nobody followed them. He wouldn't have killed Pascal. He couldn't have. He had wanted to, so many times, but he hadn't been given permission. And without permission, he, too, would have been as good as dead.

He drove toward home. Vincent sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his hands still shaking. His first hit. Corrado remembered how he felt the first time he murdered someone.

Charlie Klein.

"Eighty-nine seconds,"
Vincent
whispered, pulling Corrado from the memory before he fell into it. "It took him eighty-nine seconds to die."

Corrado shot him a peculiar look. "You
counted
?"

"Eighty-nine seconds," he said again. "Doesn't seem long enough after what he did.
That
lasted longer than eighty-nine seconds. She suffered more than him."

Corrado had no idea what to say.

"Did he feel it?" Vincent asked. "Did it even hurt him?"

Corrado hesitated. "Until he lost consciousness."

"How long was that?"

"A few seconds."

Vincent wiped a wayward tear from his eye. "That's it?"

Corrado nodded once. "It was a good shot."

"I wanted him to
suffer
."

"He suffered. If you saw what I saw, you'd know it."

"What did you see?"

"I saw his life flash before his eyes," Corrado said. "Maybe his death didn't hurt so bad, but realizing he lived for nothing? That he accomplished nothing with his life? That he ended up
being
nothing? He suffered, Vincent. Dying senselessly is the worst way to go."

It's the way most of us will go.

Vincent wiped his eyes again. "It's still not enough."

"No," Corrado agreed, "it never is."

Corrado drove toward Felton Drive, slowing in front of the house Vincent had recently rented for him and Maura, but Vincent waved him on. "We need to go to my father's."

He sped up again, driving to the mansion at the end of the street. He slowed the car, about to pull into the driveway, but slammed the breaks when he nearly rear-ended another Mercedes sticking out into the street. The entire driveway was covered, the overflow along the street. Corrado's eyes scanned the area, counting at least a dozen familiar cars.

He considered dropping Vincent off and leaving, but one glance at Vincent told him that was out of the question. Something was happening, and the boy beside him could barely keep himself together. The nervousness had returned, maybe even worse than it had been to start with.

Antonio had asked him to look out for Vincent, and well… a job was a job.

Throwing the car in reverse, he flew backward down the street to the closest parking spot. He flung the Mercedes into it and got out. Corrado's footsteps were confident, quick, as he fiddled with his tie, trying to straighten it. He reached into his coat, wrapping his fingers around his gun for reassurance, as he strode past the cars in the darkness, leading to the front door.

Antonio stood on the porch in the shadows, dressed in all black, puffing on a cigar all alone. Corrado slowed as he neared the man, coming to a halt in the yard in front of the porch, as Vincent stepped around him. Antonio eyed his son. "Is it done?"

"Yes, sir."

Pride gleamed in his eyes that he suffocated as quick as it surfaced. "Go on inside, son. Give me a moment with Corrado."

Vincent said not another word as he dodged past his father. Antonio strolled closer, stopping at the edge of the porch, and stared down at him. "He
do
good?"

Corrado nodded stiffly. "Clean shot through the heart."

"Instant?"

"No," he replied. "About a minute and a half."

Eighty-nine seconds
, Corrado recalled.

Antonio took a long drag from his cigar before putting it out on the porch banister and discarding it there. His stern eyes studied Corrado, scanning him, as his lips twisted contemplatively. "Give me your gun."

Corrado didn't hesitate, his hand still gripping it. He handed it over to the Boss.

Antonio took the gun, holding it in both hands as he stared down at the silver revolver. "Nice. Where'd you get it?"

"Took it off a guy when I was seventeen."

"Robbery?"

"Yes." Corrado hesitated before explaining. "He tried to rob me, anyway."

"And this was his gun?"

"Yes. I disarmed him… shot him."

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "First kill?"

He nodded.

"Did you know him?"

Another nod.

"How?"

"He was my friend."

"A friend, eh?" Antonio glanced up, his eyes locking with Corrado's. "How would you like some more of those?"

"Friends?"

Antonio cracked a smile. "You ready to join us, son?"

The stagnant air fell deathly silent. Men lined the room, standing shoulder to shoulder, backs pressed against the walls. None of them moved. None of them spoke. The fortress of criminals locked Corrado in.

A row of lit candles ran right down the center of the dining room table, the dim lighting casting dancing shadows along the floor. Not so much as a peep could be heard, not a breeze felt, the air warm and muggy. It slithered across Corrado's skin as sweat gathered along his brow.

Antonio sat at the head of the table, surrounded by the top earners who had worked hard to warrant receiving a seat. Sal and Sonny flanked the Boss, while Vito sat at the other end. A lone chair, dead center of the table remained vacant.

Pascal.

No one greeted Corrado or even acknowledged his presence, like he wasn't worthy of their recognition.

It was about as welcoming as a firing squad.

But Corrado stood out-of-the-way in the room, his shoulders squared and head held high, not the least bit intimidated. He eyed the weapons on the table in front of the Boss: a silver seven-inch folding knife with a serrated blade, a
cross etched
into the handle, and the revolver that had been taken from him.

"Corrado Alphonse Moretti," Sonny said, drawing Corrado's attention. "You know why you're here?"

His voice seemed amplified in the room. "Yes, sir."

"And you walked in of your own free will?"

"Yes."

"Then lets get to it," Sonny said. "Is your father alive and well?"

Corrado's eyes drifted down the table to where his father sat, expressionless. "Yes, he is."

"Your mother?"

"She's still breathing."

"Do you have any siblings?"

"A sister."

"Let's say I came to you and told you one of them was a rat, and I asked you to kill them. Could you do that for me?"

"Absolutely." He paused. "Do you want me to?"

A wave of murmurs flowed through the room, smiles cracking the hardest expressions. Even Vito let out a light laugh, unable to keep a straight face.

Corrado hadn't intended for that to be funny.

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Antonio chimed in, raising his hand and demanding silence.

“I have to ask, Moretti, and I need you to say it," Sonny continued. “This thing of ours,
La Cosa Nostra
, will be a life of Heaven for you. It's the greatest thing in the world, but if you want to be part of it, you need to understand it’s for as long as you live. There's only one way in and one way out. You walked in on your own two feet, but you'll be carried out in a box. You understand that?”

"I understand."

Sonny nodded. "Good luck."

It came time for the blood oath and Corrado repeated it in effortless Italian.
Thank God for Vito's lessons
.

“And you swear never to betray our secrets," Antonio asked, "to obey with love and
Omertà
, the Sicilian code of silence?”

"I do."

It was a pledge he took as serious as his wedding vows. He would no sooner betray the man in front of him than he would his own wife, and he would rather die than ever harm her.

"Which
finger do
use to pull the trigger?" Antonio asked.

Corrado held up his right hand, wiggling his pointer finger. Antonio motioned for him to step closer as he turned his focus to the other men in the room. "Does anyone have any objections to my bringing of Corrado Moretti into the fold? Any grievances they would like to air?"

Corrado's chest tightened at the question, but silence met his ears.

"Speak now or take it to the grave," Antonio warned them.

Still, nobody spoke.

Picking the knife up from the table, Antonio grabbed Corrado's right hand, yanking him closer. He bent his fingers back, almost painfully so, forcing his palm further into the air. Antonio took the knife, carving diagonally across his entire palm, from the end of his trigger finger the whole way down to his thick wrist.

Corrado clenched his jaw, swallowing back an agonizing hiss, as the jagged blade shredded his skin. It cut deep, nothing gentle about the motion, thick red blood oozing to the surface and rushing out, coating his palm. Antonio dropped the knife to the table and flipped Corrado's hand over, blood splattering a holy card of St. Jude.

Antonio picked up the card and held it above the nearest candle, igniting it. “Repeat after me: as burns this saint so will burn my soul."

Corrado repeated the words as Antonio handed him the card, engulfing in flames. He juggled it from hand to hand, trying not to burn his flesh. He felt the heat, like hot candle wax scorching his skin, overshadowing the pain throbbing from his open wound. The card extinguished quickly, disintegrating to ash in his palm.

"It's done." Antonio's eyes scanned the room. "This meeting is over. Leave me alone with my son-in-law."

All at once, a hoard of bodies moved, men stepping away from the wall as chairs were shoved backward. The silence was stolen away with a wave of chatter as men converged on Corrado, congratulating him on their way out the door. He remained silent as he dropped his hands to his side. Blood streamed down his fingers, drops splattering onto the floor. He clenched his hand into a fist to stop it, gritting his teeth at the fierce pain rippling up his arm.