Made (9 page)

"Doesn't matter."

Celia raised the glove. "Throw it."

He shook his head.

"Come on," she insisted, punching the glove with her free hand. "Scared of being beaten by a girl?"

"Of course not."

"Then throw it."

Corrado tossed the ball underhanded, straight to her. Celia caught it without even looking.

"That was weak," she said.

"Better than you."

Her eyes narrowed. "Get a glove and I'll prove you wrong."

"I don't need one." He'd seen her feeble throwing.

"But—"

"Just throw it back."

"Fine."

Before Corrado could even prepare, Celia hurled the ball right at him. It soared to his right, and Corrado reached out to catch it. The ball struck his hand, viciously stinging his palm as pain rippled up his arm. Hissing, he let go, shaking the pain away as the ball hit the grass with a thud.

His hand felt like it had burst into flames, his fingers stinging.

Celia threw the glove down and ran over to him, grabbing his arm. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Of course not," he ground out, flexing his fingers.

She poked and prodded at his hand. "Didn't break anything, I don't think."

"It's fine." He pulled away from her. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Really, I am."

"Don't apologize." He could only blame himself. "I didn't expect you to throw so hard."

"Why? Because I'm a girl?"

"No, because you threw terribly with Vincent."

"He's my little brother. Of course I'd take it easy on him. But you, well..."

Nothing to them
.
"I get it."

Reaching over, Corrado grabbed the ball from the ground and tossed it to her. She caught it in her bare hand, sighing as her fingers wrapped tightly around it. "You took it easy on me."

"Yes."

"Because I'm a girl?"

"No."

Because maybe you're not nothing to me
.

Independence Day.

The clear night, warm and breezy, carried sounds through the closed windows of the DeMarco household. Mrs. DeMarco sat in a chair in the living room, having turned it to face the vast window. She gazed outside, searching for something, seeing nothing.

Nothing but blackness, as far as Corrado could tell.

The bangs and cracks in the distance were loud as fireworks went off in the town of Durante, the trees blocking their view of the vibrant colors. But each
noise,
no matter how expected, made Mrs. DeMarco wince.

Only a dim lamp lit up the space around her. The kids gathered in the room with nothing to do. There was no television in the house. The radio was off. It was too dark to read.

"Can I go to bed now?" Vincent whined.

"No." Mrs. DeMarco's tone was clipped. It was the fifth time Vincent had asked that question, and each time the answer remained the same.
No
.

Corrado sat quietly, mostly watching Celia, as the girl peered at her mother. Katrina slouched in a chair, kicking her legs as she peeled the nail polish from her fingernails. Vincent, exhausted, curled up on the couch, giving up, and closed his eyes.

The explosions continued to go off in the distance for another hour. By the time the noise trickled to a stop, complete silence permeating the house, Vincent was fast asleep, and Katrina had somehow slipped away. Mrs. DeMarco didn't turn away from the window, her eyes still fixed on the darkness, but she waved her hand dismissively. "Go to bed."

Celia roused her brother from his deep sleep, dragging him off the couch and setting him toward the stairs. Corrado followed, his footsteps slowing when he reached the second floor, seeing Celia lingering at the bottom of the second staircase. She turned to him. "Do you think our dads are okay?"

"Yes," he said. Why wouldn't they be?

Celia frowned. "Daddy didn't call today."

"Maybe he was busy."

"It's a holiday," she said.

"It's only the Fourth of July," Corrado said.

"It doesn't matter. He's never missed any holiday before."

Corrado couldn't imagine… Vito barely made it home for Christmas. "He probably just forgot."

She shook her head. "Daddy says
DeMarcos
never forget anything."

"Don't be so worried," Corrado said.

"But the Russo family—"

"I don't even know who they are."

Surprise passed across Celia's face. She seemed to be about to say something when Vincent yelled for her from the third floor. Turning, she sprinted up the stairs, leaving Corrado in the hallway alone.

He headed into his bedroom and changed into his pajamas before climbing into bed. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, when he heard his knob turn and the door open. Groaning, he closed his eyes as footsteps approached his bed. Not Katrina. Not tonight.

"Are you asleep already?"

Celia's voice, startlingly close, jolted him upright. He stared at her as she stood beside his bed, clutching a big book to her chest. "Celia?"

"Duh." Without needing any encouragement, she plopped down beside him and set the book between them. "How can you not know the
Russos
? They're related to Sal."

He shrugged, awkwardly inching away from her. "I don't even know Sal."

Celia opened the book and shifted through it. A scrapbook, Corrado noticed, as she flipped through page after page of photos and newspaper clippings. Reaching the last filled page, less than a quarter of the way through the book, she spun it to face him.

Corrado squinted, trying to read in the darkness, as he glanced down at the newspaper article. The edges were frayed, part of the article ripped like she had torn it out in a hurry. The bold headline was vibrant enough for Corrado to make out the words:

Local Prominent Family Missing, Feared Dead

Celia clicked on a small lamp, giving him light to continue reading.

On the surface, Luigi and Francesca Russo seemed to be a picture-perfect couple—he, a wealthy businessman out of Chicago; her, a stay at home mom—but the family harbored secrets of another life that are only recently coming to light.

Authorities were called to the Russo residence early Sunday morning after a priest reported the couple didn't show up for church. When police arrived, they found the back door had been broken down, the inside rifled through. Upon entering the house, police discovered a gruesome scene: blood splattered walls and shell casings on the floor, but there was no sign of either Francesca or Luigi, or their one-year-old daughter.

Friends insist there's no reason anyone would want to harm them, but further investigation revealed long-standing ties to organized crime.

Corrado stopped reading and glanced at Celia. He had questions, ones he desperately wanted to ask, but he couldn't get the words out. He didn't need to—not really. The answers were written all over her sullen face.

Turning back to the book, Corrado flipped back through the other pages, reading the bold headlines.

Shoot-out at Infamous Crime Hangout

Seven Arrested on Racketeering Charges

Murder Plot Uncovered

String of Slayings Have Underworld on Guard

Reputed Mob Boss Arrested

Mob's Waterfront Extortion Exposed

Court Papers Detail Chicago Mob Hits

The more he saw, the more absorbed he became. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he scanned articles, noticing familiar names—Colombo, DeMarco, Antonelli—and spotted faces of men he'd encountered in passing without even realizing it. Men from his father's casino… men who had delivered stacks of cash, men who had bought Corrado drinks and patted his head like they were friends.

And there it was, as he turned the page again, the one thing he waited for through it all. A small part of him hoped not to see it, hoped he wouldn't find anything, but there, in print, was the name.

Vito Moretti.

The photo accompanying the article had faded with time, but Corrado made out his father, his face partially concealed from the camera with the collar of his coat, his gray fedora on his head. The headline above it shone bold—
Not Guilty
—but what drew Corrado's attention was the small, italicized caption below the picture.

Alleged Mafia Capo walks free.

Mafia.

He stared at that word until a small hand grasped his.

"Do you think it's all true?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"Do you really think they're okay?"

"Yes."

Her expression softened with relief as she took the book from him, flipping the pages back to the very beginning. The first article was torn, the paper yellowing, so old the words were barely visible anymore. She held it up, showing it to Corrado as he squinted, struggling to make out what it said.

Car Bomb Kills Reputed Crime Boss

The photo was vaguely recognizable as a car, smothered in flames and smoke. Corrado couldn't read much of the article, but the name DeMarco caught his eye.

"It was my
Nonno
," Celia explained, closing the scrapbook as she set it down on the bed. Her grandfather. "The newspapers said the Irish killed him. Killed my
Nonna
, too. She was in the car with him. I just remember Daddy being upset and saying he was going to make sure the Irish paid for it. The newspapers after that said he took over
Nonno
's
job… that my dad became the boss."

"My dad calls him that," Corrado said. "Boss."

Celia nodded. "I think it's true."

"Did you ask him?"

"No."

Corrado was surprised. Celia, always full of questions, didn't ask her father something she wanted to know?

She seemed to sense his
confusion
as she lay across his bed sideways, bunching up the comforter to use it as a pillow. Corrado hesitated but lay down facing her, doing the same.

"He says I shouldn't be so nosy," she mumbled. "My questions bother him, too."

Corrado didn't know what to say about that. He stared at her in the dim lighting, watching as her eyelids drifted closed, her breathing steady as she drifted off to sleep. He didn't move, didn't close his eyes.

Sleep evaded him all night long.

Three days later, as they sat around the dinner table, picking at pork roast and potatoes, the shrill sound of ringing shattered the silence of the house. At once, the children tensed as Mrs. DeMarco shoved her chair back and ran for the phone. She snatched it off the wall in the hallway, just within eyeshot, and brought it to her ear. "Hello?"

Her next breath was a long exhale of relief. "Antonio. Thank God."

Celia dropped her fork and jumped up to face her mother.

"Yes, I know." A smile touched Mrs. DeMarco's lips. "I never doubted it."