Made (51 page)

Celia was fast asleep beside him.

A knock sounded from the door. Corrado stood up, wrapping the sheet around his waist to cover himself. They knocked again just as Corrado reached the door. Opening it, he came face to face with a middle-aged Italian man.

"
Signore
," the man said. "You, uh, Moretti?"

"Corrado Moretti, yes."

"You on phone needed," he said in broken English, mimicking holding a phone to his ear. "
L'America
."

Corrado's stomach sunk.
A call from America?
 "Who is it?"

"
Emergenza
."

Emergency.

The man waved impatiently, urging him to follow. Corrado was out of the room without a second thought, not bothering to wake Celia. He clutched the sheet around him as he followed the man to the front office and snatched the phone off the desk where it lay. "Moretti speaking."

"Corrado." Salvatore's high-pitched voice greeted him. "Hope I'm not interrupting, but we have a situation."

"What?"

"It's your father," he said. "He's been arrested."

His father? Arrested? Wasn't the first
time.
It hardly constituted an emergency. "Yeah? What are they saying he did this time?"

"He killed that detective."

They caught Vito red-handed…
literally
. The gun was in his hand, blood splattering his skin, as he stood on the detective's porch in front of half a dozen police officers.

A silent alarm had been tripped when Vito broke into the house.

Corrado and Celia flew straight home to find officers waiting in front of their house for Corrado. They arrested him for suspicion of murder, but he wasn't surprised.

He expected to have the finger pointed at him.

Despite his airtight alibi, despite him being in an entirely different country when the murder occurred, they kept him locked up for forty-eight hours, grilling him intensively, trying to get him to turn, but he didn't.

He never would.

Begrudgingly, they released him, having no evidence to charge him. Another arrest that led to nothing.

Corrado never went to Vito's trial.

Day after day he'd get up early, just before the sun rose in the steely Chicago sky. He'd shower and get ready in silence, going through the motions, making sure his clothes were flawless, his tie as straight as he could possibly get it. He'd snatch the day's newspaper from the porch as he left his house, climbing into the driver's seat of his Mercedes and making the trek to the Cook County Criminal Court Building.

Most days he'd drive right by, not slowing down, and go somewhere else. Where didn't matter—a coffee shop, a diner, anywhere open at that hour, where he'd ask for a glass of ice water and he'd read the newspaper. But some days, rare moments, he'd find a parking spot and climb out of his car before strolling to the front entrance of the courthouse. He'd never go inside, never even step foot into the heated lobby, but he'd stand there, and he'd wait. What was he waiting for? A glimpse? A sign? He wasn't sure.

After a few minutes of nothing, an hour at most, he'd get back in his car and leave.

Celia never questioned it, never pried about what he did and where he went. He figured she liked to assume he went out of support for his father, so he kept the bitter truth to himself: he didn't want to see what went on in that courtroom.

He'd catch short segments on the news and see photographs on the front page of the paper, glimpses of his father's stoic face, his mother always front and center of the judgmental peanut gallery, but as for first-hand? 
Not a chance
.

And he knew without a doubt, his father was grateful for it.

Corrado never witnessed the verdict, but he was there that day, sitting behind the wheel of his car. He stared out the side window from his parking spot, watching as the crowd spilled outside, some cheering, others appearing shell-shocked. He knew not the verdict, and his mother's face didn't give it away as she stepped out of the courthouse, a dark fur coat swallowing her petite frame. Her expression was stern, her steps steady.

Not drunk
.

Another woman came out behind Erika Moretti, her feet wobbly in a pair of flats. She took a few steps before her legs gave out beneath her. Falling in a crumbled heap to the sidewalk, her face contorted with sobs. Others from the crowd grabbed her, pulling her back to her feet, carrying the burden of her weight as they struggled to help her walk. They moved closer, around
Erika
as she remained by the door, unmoving as if she posed herself to be a magnificent statue.

As the others approached, Corrado got a good glimpse of the distraught woman's face.

Vivian, his father's mistress.

He knew it then.
Guilty
.

Corrado slumped further in his seat as he vacantly stared at the steering wheel. Maybe only thirty seconds passed… maybe twenty minutes. But when Corrado's eyes slowly drifted back to the courthouse, the crowd had thinned, everyone moving on.

Everyone except for statuesque Erika Moretti.

Weeks later, Corrado skipped the sentencing hearing. He didn't even put on the façade of pretending he would go. He didn't have to. The mandatory sentence for what Vito had done was life without parole.

    
36

"Oh my God!
Oh my God
!"

Celia's shrieking echoed through the house, speeding up Corrado's footsteps as he descended the stairs and headed straight for the living room. He found her, phone clutched to her ear.

"Okay, okay… yes, I got it… we'll be right there!"

She slammed the receiver down as she let out a squeal. Her wide eyes met Corrado's. "It's time!"

He stood frozen. "Time for what?"

"The baby!"

The baby... "What about it?"

She clenched her hands into fists as she bounced on the balls of her feet, unable to contain her excitement. "Maura and Vincent are having the baby!
Right now
!"

Corrado refrained from pointing out only Maura was having a baby, unless he had missed something by dropping out of high school mid-Biology class, instead offering her a smile. Her happiness was at least infectious, even if he didn't share her enthusiasm.

"That's great news," he said, meaning it for the most part.

She reached up on her tiptoes, kissing him. "Let me grab my shoes and we can head to the hospital."

His expression didn't fall until she bound from the room. Sighing, he ran his hands down his face. It was going to be a long night.

They arrived at the hospital at nine o'clock that evening to a hectic waiting room in the labor and delivery ward. Despite the other dozen people waiting, nobody else had shown up for Vincent and Maura. They found seats off in a corner, and Celia skimmed through parenting magazines while Corrado sat with his head bowed. He closed his eyes, not praying, not sleeping... he just needed a moment of peace, a moment of darkness.

The bright lights of the hospital were giving him a headache.

As time wore on, the crowd thinned, quietness subduing the waiting room. Corrado opened his eyes, yawning as exhaustion set in. Celia seemed as bright eyed as she had been hours ago.

Glancing over, he saw her reading an article about how to create well-adjusted children with good emotional control. The very top tip: say 'I love you' every day.

Despite himself, he laughed at that.

"What's so funny?" she asked, laying a hand over the magazine article.

"Does it say anything about children whose parents
never
say those words?"

She gazed at him peculiarly. "Your parents never said it?"

"Never."

"Not even once?"

"No."

That threw her for a loop. "Has
anyone
ever said that to you?"

"You."

"Other than me."

He nodded. "Once.
Zia
."

"An aunt?"

Close enough
. "I was seven."

"What happened to her?"

"She died the next day."

"Oh." Celia seemed at a temporary loss for words. "Well,
I
love you, and I'll tell you every day of my life."

He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it as she turned back to the magazine.

A few hours later, Vincent burst in, his eyes swimming with tears as he scanned the room. His gaze settled on them.

"What's wrong?" Celia asked, on her feet in seconds, rushing toward her brother.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Then what is it?"

"It's a boy," he whispered, his eyes widening as that knowledge seemed to sink in. "I have a son."

Celia squealed, throwing herself at her brother. "I have a nephew!"

"You do." Vincent laughed. "And he's
perfect
."

The boy had been born around dawn on the morning of June 3. They said the moment he came into the world, he inhaled sharply before letting out a blood-curdling scream. The doctors had been worried about his lungs because he was a few weeks ahead of schedule.

Clearly, they worried for nothing.

Corrado stood outside the nursery, peering through the thick glass at the cradle, a card affixed to it with all of his information. Eighteen inches long, six and a half pounds.
Carmine Marcello DeMarco
.

He was puny compared to the others.

Maura rested in recovery with Vincent at her side, while Celia had run off to find a phone to call her parents. Corrado had ventured through the halls, somehow ending up here, right in front of the child.

Another DeMarco.

"Congratulations."

Corrado turned his head, eyeing the blonde woman in a pair of pink scrubs. "Excuse me?"

"The baby," she said, motioning into the nursery. "Congratulations."

He let out a dry laugh, looking back at the boy. "It's not mine."

"Oh, my mistake. You had that look about you."

"What look?"

"That terrified look, like you wouldn't know what to do with one of those things if you had to take it home with you."

"I wouldn't," he admitted. "It's my wife's nephew."

"Your wife's nephew." She smiled. "Wouldn't that make him your nephew, too?"

Corrado shrugged.
Technically
.

"So then congratulations
are
in order," she said. "You've got a new family member."

The nurse wandered off right before Celia reappeared. She skipped to his side, wrapping herself around his arm. "God, look at him! Isn't he beautiful?"

Beautiful
. Corrado stared at the boy. His head was misshapen from birth, dark hair covering it. His eyes were dark blue—the little bit of Biology class he remembered told him they'd likely change. His dry skin was more reddish than tan, broken out in rashes. The oversized clothes swam on him, his body scrunched up, his hands clenched into fists.

It looked more alien than human.

Pissed off alien, at that.

Even through the thick glass he heard the boy's angry screams.

"Whatever you say."

Corrado strolled through the hospital halls a few days later. He hadn't been back since that first night, swamped with work as he tried to cover for Vincent out in the streets. He had scarcely even seen his wife, but he had a bit of free time and he knew where he would find her. He paused at the nurse's station down the hall from the nursery, casually knocking on the desk to garner the nurse's attention. "Can you tell me what room I can find the
DeMarcos
in?"

The nurse on duty grinned at him. "Well, hello again,
uncle
."

His brow furrowed before recognition dawned... the same woman from the nursery. "Hello."

"They're in room 214, just up the hall and around the corner," she said, pointing in the direction. "Popular family you have there. I feel like I've given out those directions a dozen times today."

Corrado nodded, unsurprised. A made man would be inundated with attention at a time like this… especially one related to the man who controlled them all.

He strolled down the hall, following the nurse's directions. He stalled when he turned a corner, coming face-to-face with none other than the Boss. Antonio caught Corrado's eye. "Corrado."

"Sir."

Antonio grasped his shoulder. "Can you believe it? My boy has a boy."

He didn't say it, not in so many words, but it gleamed in the man's prideful eyes:
I'm a grandpa
.

"Have you seen the child?"

"Yeah, he's in the room," Antonio said, straightening out his expression as he let go. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got another patient to visit... one of Manny's kids is here. Needs a bone-marrow transplant.
"

"Send him my well-wishes."

"I will."

Antonio strode off as Corrado walked to the room. He stopped right outside, his footsteps faltering at the vision in front of him.

The curtains were wide open, the blinds pulled up. Sunlight streamed through the vast window and encased Celia in a warm spotlight as she leisurely paced the floor. Her hair was messy, pulled back in a braid, not a stitch of makeup on her face. She was dressed down, jeans and an oversized shirt.

A Chicago White Sox shirt.

His
shirt.

She had never before been so beautiful.

The blue bundle in her arms squirmed as she rocked the baby and talked sweetly to him, her eyes bright, smile absolutely radiant.

Even without the sunshine, he knew she would still glow.

The baby cooed, not crying, wide-awake and staring up at her, as if just as captivated by the woman before him as Corrado was.

As he stood there, watching, taking in the sight of her, his chest tightened, something inside of him stirring. He inhaled sharply, too overwhelmed to remember how to breathe. And just for a moment, a fleeting moment, as her infectious joy swept through him, he allowed himself to imagine the what-could-have-been.

Her stomach, swollen with a child...
his
child, tucked beneath that White Sox shirt, straining the fabric. His hand pressed against it, feeling the baby kick his scarred palm. Celia in labor, smiling through the pain, crying tears of joy the first time she held the baby.
Their
baby.
A little girl, so much like Celia.

Maybe she would be kindhearted like her mother.

Maybe she wouldn't be a monster like him.

He imagined Celia holding
that
baby in her arms, clutching the bundle tight to her chest, feeding her and singing to her. Long dark hair, tanned skin, and the warmest brown eyes... her mother's eyes. They stared, lovingly, trusting. Eyes he would do anything for.

A lifetime flashed before him—recitals, dances, dates, and boyfriends. He'd kill anyone who hurt her, destroy anyone who crossed her, protect her for as long as he lived.

And just as that thought passed through his mind, the vision shifted and the happiness drained away. Violence and mayhem, death and bloodshed—
that
was his life, not those other things. The brief peaceful moment faded away, shattered in a hail of gunfire, dissolving into a pool of red, dying right in front of his eyes.

The never-would-be.

It couldn't happen.

He would do the world a great injustice by keeping Celia to
himself
, but he couldn't risk it. He couldn't infect an innocent kid with the ugliness that lived inside of him, with the anarchy that existed around him.
Selfless or selfish?
Honorable or a disgrace?
He wasn't sure what that made him, besides a broken, tainted man.

A man unworthy of the vision in front of him, but he greedily drank it in anyway.

The baby whimpered, on the verge of crying. Celia tensed and headed for the bed. Laughing, Maura held her arms out, taking her child from Celia.

Vincent slouched in the nearby chair, eyes fixed on his wife and son, as if nothing else mattered. Corrado supposed, to him, nothing did. That was his world, the meaning of his existence. They gave his life purpose.

Corrado's gaze shifted back to his wife… his purpose… just as Celia noticed him there. She smiled, a smile this time reserved for nobody but him. "Hey, you!"