Made (56 page)

His brow furrowed as he took her hand. "I don't look like Vito."

"You do," she insisted. "You carry yourself like him, too. And that woman in there isn't blind to that fact."

"You're being absurd."

"No, you're just a fool."

    
40

The ringing of the phone cut Celia off mid-sentence, tension falling over the table. They were having dinner together for the first time in a week.

She had cashed in on her rain check, and Corrado had promised this evening to her. There weren't to be any interruptions. No work tonight. No one was to stop by. His phone wasn't supposed to ring.

He should've known better.

He ignored it until Celia sighed. "Go ahead and get it."

"No," he replied. "They can wait."

The phone continued to ring.

"It could be important," she said.

"Nothing's more important than dinner with you."

She sighed. Again.

The ringing stopped, silence sweeping through the house for a few seconds, before it started up again.

Whoever it was called right back.

"Answer it," Celia said. "Before they show up here."

Corrado threw down his fork, tossing his napkin aside, before shoving his chair back. "Excuse me."

She merely waved him away as she continued to eat.

He strode to the living room, snatching up the receiver. "Moretti speaking."

"Mr. Moretti, it's Reverend Parker, the chaplain at Menard Correctional Center."

As soon as those words met Corrado's ears, he shook his head.
Vito
. "If you're calling about my father, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Yes, well, it's important."

"There's nothing I can do."

"Unfortunately, sir, there's nothing any of us can do." The reverend's voice sounded hollow. "I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Moretti, but your father passed away."

The man kept talking, very little registering as Corrado scratched absently at his jaw, coated in almost a weeks worth of scruff. He waited until the man paused before chiming in. "I appreciate the call."

"Of course," he said. "If you have questions, you can contact the warden at—"

Corrado hung up before he could rattle off the phone number. Speaking to the prison warden was as bad as dealing with the police.

Returning to the dining room, he retook his seat.

"Let me guess," Celia said. "You need to leave."

"No." He placed his napkin in his lap and picked up his fork.

Celia glanced at him with surprise. "No? Who was it?"

"The chaplain."

"You mean the priest?" she asked. "Father Alberto?"

"No, Reverend Parker, at the prison."

"Oh Lord," she said, picking up her drink to take a sip. "What's Vito up to now?"

"Nothing," he replied. "He's dead."

Celia froze, glass half way to her lips. "What did you say?"

"I said he's dead."

Celia gasped, her hand shaking as she set her glass down. "Vito?"

He nodded.

"How can that be?" she asked, her eyes glossing over with tears. "It has to be some sort of mistake, right? He can't really be… there's just no way."

"He is," Corrado replied, shoving the food around on his plate with his fork.

Celia jumped up, shaking her head frantically. "We have to do something. We have to call someone.
Something
."

She bolted for the door, frenzied, but Corrado snatched a hold of her to stop her. Pushing his chair back, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her when she started to cry. Hiccupping gasps rocked her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clung to him.

Her hand grasped the back of his neck, fingernails digging into his skin. "I'm so, so sorry, Corrado."

She was trying to console him.

He held her tightly, laying his head against her as he rubbed soothing circles on her back, letting her cry. No tears streamed from his eyes, but he felt it deep in his chest, a tight knot of emotion as a lump in his throat made it hard to swallow, hard to
breathe
.

"He's dead," he whispered, stress audible in the strain of his voice as he rocked her in the chair. "My father's dead."

Convicted Cop Killer Murdered in Prison

It didn't even make the front page. Corrado found the article tucked in the newspaper a few pages in, wedged between an article about school budget cuts and reports of voter fraud.

A purported member of the Chicago Mafia has died at the Menard Correctional Facility, where he was serving a life sentence.

Officials say Vito Moretti was found dead around noon on Friday in the prison chapel, the victim of a fatal attack. Moretti, 44, had gone to the chapel for Reconciliation when he was stabbed multiple times in the neck and face. The weapon, suspected to be a sharpened pencil, was not found at the scene.

The prison was immediately put on a lockdown. Officials say the surveillance equipment in the chapel malfunctioned prior to the incident. They have no suspects, but believe it to be a fellow inmate.

Moretti was convicted of the murder of Chicago detective John Walker and had only recently been transferred to Menard. He had been placed in general population at his own request, despite prison officials' concerns about his numerous enemies.

Murdered in the prison chapel, found face down in a pool of blood. He had been praying… it was the only way someone would catch Vito off guard, the only reason he wouldn't fight back.

As a child, Corrado believed his father was invincible, ten feet tall and bulletproof. But he wasn't.

He never had been.

Brilliant James Bond walked right into the enemy's trap. Batman got exposed as a mere mortal. And Vito Moretti, resilient and fearless, got taken out with a harmless implement.
A pencil
.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

The reality of it was a slap to the face. Vito didn't get to go out in a blaze of glory. Vito went out on his knees, with his eyes closed, as he appealed to a God that wouldn't spare him.

A few days after the article ran, Corrado was scanning through the newspaper when he came upon another familiar name in the obituaries: Vivian Modella.

It didn't say what happened to her, but Corrado could guess.
Grief
. He burned the newspaper in the fireplace right away, before Celia happened upon it.

Bitterness festered inside of Corrado, his anger growing as days passed. Erika flew in from Nevada and claimed the body. Vito had been cremated overnight without Corrado even being informed, robbing him of his burial rites… robbing him of a Catholic funeral. By the time Corrado heard what his mother had done, she was already heading for home.

Never in his life had he wanted to kill someone as much as he did then. Killing, to Corrado, had always been a job. It was technical, methodic. It was never emotional. But thinking about his mother, thinking about how wronged his father had been, stirred up a suppressed need for retribution. The bloodthirsty sensations engulfed him, dragging him deeper into a darkness that he had only dove into a handful of times in his life.

The part of him, he guessed, that had died the day of his birth.
The part of him that never got brought back to life.
It was a part of him that knew nothing of sunshine, of happiness, of love, of compassion. His heart didn't beat. His lungs didn't breathe. He was a walking corpse.

The living dead.

The bright sun scorched Corrado's skin as it hovered high above in the hazy afternoon sky, not a single cloud anywhere to temper it. Despite it being the beginning of September, fast approaching autumn, the air still sweltered like the peak of summer. Mid-nineties, not a single breeze, very little shade around the dry, desert land. Corrado certainly hadn't missed that.

Somehow, over the years, he had learned to enjoy the cold.

He didn't want to be here. But a job was a job, and the Boss had personally ordered him to do it.

"You know all about that place," Antonio had said. "Take care of it for me."

On the contrary, Corrado knew nothing about it. Except for a few vague childhood memories, their operations around Nevada remained a mystery to him.

He, respectfully, pointed that out, but Antonio dismissed it. "Doesn't matter. You could use a vacation."

So Corrado stood beside his rental car in the desert, just over the border into California, surveying the barren ground, mulling over the Boss's words.
Nothing to see for miles except cracked earth with a splash of occasional trees.
That wasn't Corrado's idea of a vacation.

Who would ever come to this hellhole willingly
?

A door opening drew his attention to the lone house in the vicinity. He had driven in circles around the abandoned town of Blackburn for over an hour before catching a gleam of something off in the distance. There was no mailbox, no sign, nothing to indicate anyone lived there, but as Corrado followed the narrow, worn path through the desert, he came upon the large ranch.

Frankie Antonelli stepped out onto the porch, his sleeves rolled up. "I see you found the place."

"Wasn't easy."

"That's the point. Hard to get in, even harder to get out." Frankie waved him forward. "Come on out of the heat."

Corrado stepped inside, expecting the man to lead him to his office, but instead he veered left to the living room. Corrado took a seat in the closest chair as Frankie plopped down on the couch, documents splayed out in front of him on the coffee table.

"Monica!" Frankie shouted. "Come here!"

Footsteps descended the adjacent stairs. In less than a minute a woman appeared, wearing a yellow summer dress, her dark hair pulled up. She stalled in the doorway, not coming any closer. "Yeah?"

Frankie glanced up at her before motioning to Corrado. "That's my wife, Monica. Monica, honey, this is Corrado Moretti."

His name sparked something in Monica's eyes. "Katrina's brother."

Corrado refused to humor that title with a response.

"Yeah," Frankie answered for him. "The in-laws."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Corrado," Monica said.

He nodded. "You, too."

"Before you go back upstairs, get us something to drink." Frankie focused on the stacks of paper. "Bourbon for me and whatever Corrado here wants."

"Water," Corrado said.

Monica disappeared, returning with their drinks. She hesitated in the doorway again, holding them, not stepping any closer.

She knew better than to come near Frankie's work.

Seeing her conflicted expression, Corrado stood and stepped toward her, taking his water and Frankie's alcohol. He thanked her, seeing the relief in her eyes, while Frankie blatantly ignored her.

Corrado watched her curiously as she left. He couldn't imagine
ever
treating his wife so dismissively.

Over the next few hours, Frankie broke down the Vegas scheme for Corrado… things his father had never bothered to explain. The entire operation was being shifted to Frankie, territories Vito once controlled being turned over. Corrado helped him line up connections to make the takeover as smooth as possible, using his family to bridge the divide. Antonelli was a made man and had seniority, but he had never earned the clout in Vegas that the Moretti name carried.