Made (49 page)

"We're not in competition," Antonio mused, "so either he's trying to expand or he's out for hire."

"Who?"

The sound of the shrill voice from the doorway made the hair on the back of Corrado's neck stand on end. Antonio glanced over, not appearing surprised as Salvatore strolled in the office.

"Ivan Volkov," Antonio said, taking a sip from his glass. "You know him?"

"Vaguely," he said, helping
himself
to a drink.

"Well, he's the one who tried to kill me."

Sal paused before facing them again. "I thought it was the Irish."

Antonio sighed. "So did I."

Sal's eyes shot to Corrado. "
You
said it was the Irish."

"I did," he said, "and it was an Irish guy… but he was working for Volkov, not O'Bannon."

"Nonsense," Sal said. "He
had
to be working for O'Bannon. He's the only one who wants the Boss dead."

Most of the underground world wanted Antonio DeMarco dead.

"You don't
really
think this Volkov thing is credible, do you?" Sal asked incredulously when nobody responded to him. "Where'd you even hear about it?"

"Some girl," Antonio replied. "Corrado and Vincent found her with the Irish who owned the car."

"So one of the Irish's whores points the finger at someone else and you believe her?" Sal shook his head. "She could have pointed the finger at one of us. Would you have believed her then?"

"Of course not," Antonio said tersely. "I'm just checking every avenue, Sal."

"And while you're doing that, O'Bannon's walking free," Sal responded. "I'm not questioning you, Boss. You say it's this other guy, and hey—I'll believe you. But I just think some people might be trying to lead you down the wrong path."

Corrado's back stiffened at the accusatory tone in Sal's voice. Antonio eyed him peculiarly as he stood up, motioning toward the door with his head. "I'll walk you out, Moretti."

Surprised, Corrado stood, nodding to the underboss. "Salvatore."

Corrado strode out with the Boss right on his heels the whole way to the front door. They paused on the porch as Antonio pulled the toothpick from his mouth and fiddled with it. "What did you do about the girl?"

"Dropped her off at that crisis center Maura works at," he replied. "Vincent said they'd find her shelter."

"Ah, yeah. That place." Antonio stuck the toothpick back in his mouth. "Ask around the streets for me, see what people know. I need to know if this was personal or business."

    
35

Corrado slouched down on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, feet propped up on the coffee table beside the crystal vase full of fresh red roses. His eyes were fixed on the television across the room.

Friday the 13th
.

High heels clicked against wood, heading Corrado's direction, the sound only vaguely registering to his ears. His guard dropped at home around Celia, noises that would once send up red flags rolling right off his back. He trusted her implicitly… the only one he let himself be at ease around.

Ironic, really… the only person with the stealthy ability to kill him was the one he trusted never to try.

Her footsteps stalled briefly in the doorway to the living room before approaching him. "I didn't think you were going to make it."

"I told you I would," he replied, moving his head to see around her when she stopped in front of him. "I don't lie."

She let out a laugh of disbelief.

"To you," he clarified, tearing his gaze from the screen to look at her. "I don't lie to you."

A skin-tight black dress accentuated her curves, her hair falling in waves past her shoulders as she pushed it aside to put on her earrings. His eyes trailed the length of her body, drinking in every drop of her beautiful frame. She rolled her eyes at his appraisal, playfully kicking his leg with her black heel. She snatched one of the roses from the vase. "You brought home flowers."

"Yes."

"You're so sweet," she said, clutching it to her chest as she leaned down, lightly kissing his lips. "I'll finish getting ready."

When she walked away, he turned his attention back to the movie.

A few minutes passed before she returned, makeup on, hair pulled up. She stopped in front of him again. "I'm ready."

He surveyed her once more. "You should wear your hair down."

"Why?"

He shrugged, looking around her. "I like it better that way."

Celia stood there, and out of the corner of Corrado's eye, he caught sight of her pulling the pins from her hair, letting the waves fall loose. "So are you ready?"

"I want to finish watching this movie first," Corrado said, motioning toward the television.

"How much longer is it?"

"Not sure," he said. "I think it just started."

Celia let out another laugh, this one full of amusement, as she stalked over and shut off the television. "It's already after eight."

"So?"

"We're late."

"It's New Years Eve, Celia. Late would be after midnight."

"Get up," she demanded. "We're going."

Resigned, Corrado rose to his feet. "Yes, ma'am."

A smile of satisfaction touched her red lips.

They grabbed their coats before heading out. Celia kept up with him as they walked down the block toward the modest white house. Corrado stepped up on the porch and rang the doorbell beside the red door, hearing the chime. It tugged open after a moment, Maura appearing, snickering at something. She halted mid-laugh as her sparkling green eyes caught Corrado's gaze. Her pale skin, splashed with freckles, seemed to go unnaturally white at the sight of him.

It was the same look she gave him every time he came around.

"Hey, Maura!" Celia said, wrapping herself around Corrado's arm, leaning her head against his shoulder.

The color returned to Maura's cheeks. "Hey, Celia."

A greeting for him never came from her lips.

Maura showed them in, taking their coats despite Celia's insistence she needn't do that. The girl had changed quite a bit over the years, growing more outgoing, more relaxed in society, more comfortable in her own skin, but certain traits never faded.

Like her insistence of helping others.

Like her desire for order in life.

Like her distress whenever a Moretti came near.

He had long since moved past being simply Vito's kid, but to her, he would forever be the one who stood by and watched as she suffered.

Over and over again.

They strolled through the downstairs, mingling with the other guests, most of which Corrado didn't know. There were no other made men, none of his kind. They were couples, happy and agreeable, the kind of normal people who held nine to five jobs, who slept soundly at night, believing monsters weren't real.

A few minutes after they made it to the party, another guest arrived—a young girl, carrying a small baby in her arms, a blue blanket loosely draped over it. A tiny arm jutted out the side, the hand balled into a fist. Corrado watched the girl as she weaved through the crowd, finding a seat off to the side alone. She scanned the others, speaking to nobody, her eyes catching Corrado's.

He recognized her: the drugged girl who told him about Volkov.

She had changed, her body more sturdy, but it was the same girl. She wasn't on anything that he could tell. Something in her expression, though, the vacant stare in her eyes alarmed him. She was a shell.

"I need a drink," Corrado muttered.

"Get me one, too," Celia said, letting go of his arm.

He strode off to the kitchen, bypassing the other guests, and nearly ran into Maura in the doorway. She gasped, backing up a few steps to let him walk in. She shifted away, keeping space between the two of them, not saying a word. He headed straight for the alcohol on the table, pouring two glasses of champagne as Maura skidded out of sight.

He shook his head as he took a sip.
This is going to be a long night
.

Hours dragged by, each excruciating second ticking slowly. Celia infused herself into the crowd, getting to know everyone, while Corrado stood along the wall in the living room, out of the way, watching his wife as she charmed every soul she encountered.

And watching the girl as she stared blankly at her baby when it cried.

After a while, Corrado strolled over to the girl, casting a glance around the room before sitting beside her. "I want to talk to you about Ivan Volkov."

She blanched. "What about him?"

"How well do you know him?"

The girl answered quietly, a longing look on her face as she glanced at the child. "I thought I knew him well."

"You know anything about his business?"

She hesitated. "Some."

"If I wanted him to do something for me, take care of someone, would he?"

"If you had enough money, there wasn't much he wouldn't do. That's mostly
all
he does."

"And that guy who was at the house, the one who drove the Ford... what did he do for Volkov?"

"Anything he asked him to," she replied. "People came to Volkov to have jobs done. He did business with a lot of different people."

"Any Italians?"

"Not that I saw, but..." She hesitated. "...
he
talked a lot about them."

"What about us?"

"Volkov didn't trust Italians. He said you were the quickest to turn on your own, that he saw it firsthand."

Interesting
. Corrado could tell she was uncomfortable and didn't want to press the issue. Standing up again, he nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she mumbled. "I wasn't much help."

Oh, she had been plenty of help. She told Corrado what he needed to know. It may have been business with Volkov, but it had been personal for someone else.

Murder by hire.

The sound of tapping glass hushed the room. All eyes shifted to Vincent as he stood in the front, his arm around Maura. "Before midnight comes, we wanted to thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to us."

Maura nudged him. "Tell them."

"Tell us what?" someone shouted.

A smile lit up Vincent's face, his eyes brighter than Corrado had seen in a while. Vincent reached over, pressing his hand to Maura's stomach. Without uttering a single word, he told them everything.

"No way!" Celia shrieked, wide-eyed, shoving past people to get closer to her brother.

"Yes, way," Vincent replied.

Maura's face flushed, her eyes darting to the floor as the crowd cheered. Celia squealed, rushing at them, wrapping her arms around the two of them in a tight hug.

"I'm going to be an aunt!" Celia said, swinging around, moving out of the way so others could congratulate the couple. She scanned the room, her gaze settling on Corrado as tears sprung to her eyes. The baby near him cried, drawing Corrado's attention away. The girl just sat there, ignoring her child, and stared at Maura instead.

He recognized the look on her face.

Envy
.

Celia rushed over to Corrado, wrapping her arms around his neck and forcing his attention back on her as midnight crept up on them. The room erupted in shouts as people counted down the seconds.

Ten

Nine

Corrado reached up, brushing the tears from Celia's cheeks as they smeared her mascara. He hated seeing her cry.

Eight

Seven

Celia leaned into his touch, sighing as he caressed her soft skin.

Six

Five

He cupped her chin, tilting her face up so she would look at him.

Four

Three

Lurking in her warm brown eyes, beneath the happiness, was a deep yearning, sadness she fought against. She did her best to squelch the ache, to deny it so he wouldn't know it existed, but he saw it. He knew her too well. She couldn't hide anything from him.

Two

One

Celia didn't want to be an aunt. Celia wanted to be a
mommy
.

Horns went off, people celebrating, singing along to the song on the television. Corrado stared into his wife's eyes, drinking in her longing, her thirst, wishing more than anything that he had it in him to quench it.

"I love you," he said. It was all he could offer. Would it ever be enough?

"I love you, too," she said, the sadness fading away. "More than anything."

Yes, maybe love would be enough.
Maybe
.

She reached up on her tiptoes, her eyelids fluttering closed as she kissed him deeply, passion in the movement of her lips. Corrado forgot about everything, blocking out the outside world as he gave her what he could of him.

She pulled back, breathless, a small laugh escaping as she brushed her fingertips across his lips, wiping away her lipstick. "Happy New Year, Corrado."

1988
.

Detective Walker stood along the curb, leaning against the fender of the dirty brown unmarked police car as he stared at the brick house on Felton Drive.

Corrado Moretti's house, to be precise.

Corrado stepped out to get his morning paper. He stopped there, tapping the rolled up newspaper against his hand as he stared at the graying detective staring at him. He remembered once, long ago, when Celia had stood in that exact spot.

He much rather preferred her.

"Detective," he said politely.

The man just glared at him.

Corrado turned to go back inside.

All day long the detective remained there, sometimes sitting in the car, sometimes standing outside. He read magazines, listened to the radio, and stared at the front door of the house for hours on end. Around dusk, the car drove away as Corrado stood at his window, watching.

After nightfall, Corrado dressed and set out walking toward the end of the street. He strolled, in no hurry. Antonio had just told him to come by whenever he could make it.

It was a cool night, a soft breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. People roamed as cars sped by.

The start of the weekend.

The start of a new year.

He reached the DeMarco residence and stepped into the driveway when he heard some movement behind him. He turned his head, alert, and squinted in the darkness. The man stepped out from around some trees, the familiar face shining beneath the corner streetlight. Detective Walker.