Made

  It neared the end of November and Corrado was out one night with his father, cleaning up from an underground gambling tournament. Corrado sat on top of one of the stained green poker tables, discarded chips splayed out all around him. Vito sat in a chair beside him, puffing on a cigar, tall stacks of cash piled up in front of him as he painstakingly counted every bill. It was late—two o'clock in the morning. Corrado glanced around, a small dim room beneath a local bar, a filthy concrete floor and faded brick walls, the air infused with the scent of piss and old beer.

  You'd think the Mafia could find a better place to hang out in.

  "Your mother's in the hospital."

  The words came out of nowhere. Corrado's attention shifted to his father, all thoughts of the shabby hangout disappearing. "The hospital?"

  "Yeah." He let out a deep sigh. "Doctor came out to the house and found her. Called an ambulance. She was having seizures."

  "That's, uh…"

  "Terrible," Vito said, finishing his sentence.

  Corrado had been thinking something more like 'karma'.

  "Anyway," Vito continued. "She's gonna be there for awhile, you know, getting real help now. I told her no more. She says she isn't drinking, that she just took too many of them pill the doctor gave her. An accident. But she agreed to stay in the hospital until they got her clean."

  From booze to pills? He wasn't surprised. "Okay."

  Vito stopped counting and looked at his son. "Your sister's coming to visit."

  "Okay."

  "She'll be here next week," he said. "I thought maybe we could have Thanksgiving together, you know, like old times."

  Like old times. The way Vito said those words, with a sense of hopeful longing, irked Corrado. "I don't know. It would be nice to have a holiday for once where people don't throw things."

  The smile playing on Vito's lips faded away. He stared at him hard for a moment before shrugging it off and counting the money.

  Corrado jumped down from the table. "I need to get going. I have court in a few hours."

  "Yeah? For what?"

  "I'm not even sure."

  Along with the uniformity had come repeated arrests, every few weeks like clockwork. He had seen Detective Walker's face enough the past month alone to last a lifetime.

  Vito laughed. "Good luck with that."

  Corrado slapped his father on the back, squeezing his shoulder as he passed. "I'll talk to Celia about Thanksgiving."

  Vito didn't respond, but his smile returned.

  "Fine."

  Corrado stared at his wife skeptically when she shrugged and said that word. Fine. "You don't mean that."

  "Why don't I?"

  "Because that isn't what I thought you'd say."

  Celia dug through the cabinets in the kitchen, pulling out everything to make dinner. "You thought I'd say no?"

  "Yes." He paused. "You did hear what I said, right?"

  She turned to him. "Your sister's coming to town, and your father wants us to spend Thanksgiving together."

  "Yes."

  "Then yes, I heard you."

  "And your answer is 'fine'."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I don't know. I just thought you'd be more opposed."

  "They're your family, Corrado. And yeah, I'm not your sister's biggest fan, but she wasn't too bad at our engagement party."

  "That's because my mother monopolized the crazy."

  "Come on. There has to be something redeeming about Katrina. You two shared a womb, after all."

  "Celia." He pulled her to him. "The fact that I'm her brother is the only redeeming thing about her."

  Celia laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "As right as you may be about that, I think we should give her a chance. Who knows? She might surprise us."

  He conceded. "Fine."

  "Fine," she repeated, pulling away from him to go back to her work. "We'll have dinner here. Maura and I can cook."

  The following week, a rainy Thursday afternoon in the suburbs of Chicago, the Moretti family gathered for Thanksgiving dinner. Celia was polite, the perfect hostess, greeting their guests with warm smiles and cold drinks. As soon as Vito stepped in the door, he snatched a hold of Celia and whirled her around in a circle, dipping her playfully, before pulling her against him and planting a kiss right on her lips. Corrado stood at the bottom of his steps, leaning against the railing, a bit of tension receding from his body when his wife laughed. "Oh, Vito… maybe I married the wrong Moretti."

  She cast Corrado a teasing look.

  "No, you picked the right one," Vito said, slapping his son on the back. "I don't look nearly as good in a suit as this kid."

  Corrado's eyes drifted to the open doorway when his sister appeared. Katrina stepped into the house, wearing a black sleeveless dress, shivering slightly, as Michael paused to put down an umbrella. Setting it aside, he stepped in the house behind her, his hand on her hip.

  "Katrina," Celia said. "Nice to see you again."

  "You, too." There was no warmth to his sister's voice but no hostility either. Indifference. "Nice house."

  Celia's smile brightened. "Thank you."

  Corrado greeted none of them verbally, offering slight polite nods instead as Celia led the family toward the dining room. Dinner was already prepared, piled along the long table. Corrado went to slip into a chair beside his wife when Vito shoved him out of the way to take that seat instead.

  "Your house." Vito motioned toward the head of the table. "Your seat."

  Instinctively, Corrado had yielded to Vito. After all, Vito wasn't just his father—he was his boss of sorts.

  Corrado took the spot at the head of the table and grabbed the carving knife. He stared at the turkey before gripping the knife and jabbing it straight down the top of the bird. Something cracked, bones breaking away as the blade wedged into the rib cage. Celia cringed while Vito laughed heartily, putting his arm around her shoulder. "It's already dead, kid. You ain't gotta kill it."

  Corrado sloppily carved the turkey, cutting away big slabs of meat. They dug in once he finished, piling their plates high with food. Friendly chatter filled the air, mostly from Vito as he bridged the conversation. Corrado didn't have much to say, only speaking when spoken to, but dinner held none of the strain he was used to with his family. It was friendly. It was happy.

  Corrado didn't like it.

  "So, Michael," Vito said, relaxing back in his chair, arm once again around his daughter-in-law as he sipped a glass of wine. "I'm glad you decided to make the trip to Chicago."

  The words, casual on the surface, ran deeper in Corrado's mind.

  "It's good to be here," Michael said. "I've always been interested in, uh… Chicago."

  Definitely deeper.

  "Good, good… you know, your father and me are good friends," Vito said. "It'll be nice to have Frankie's kid around. I'm sure Corrado wouldn't mind introducing you to the city."

  Corrado stopped eating. He didn't like where this was going. "I'm busy."

  His clipped tone caused the women at the table to glare at him, but Vito brushed it off. "Nah… you're never too busy for family, kid."

  Corrado chose to remain silent then, dropping the subject, knowing he couldn't argue against that point without it coming back to haunt him.

  After dinner, Katrina and Michael settled into the living room with Vito, while Celia grabbed everyone drinks in the kitchen. Maura sat at the small table along the side, as she quietly ate a plate of food Celia had set aside for her. Corrado helped his wife, growing aggravated by the animated voices ringing through his house. It was obvious to Corrado that dinner hadn't been out of some warped sense of nostalgia. It was little more than a dressed up, dragged out business meeting.

  Frustrated, Corrado reached into the cabinet and slammed some glasses down on the counter. Maura flinched at the noise whereas Celia grabbed his arm to stop him. "What's gotten in to you?"

  Laughter rang out from the doorway as Vito stepped into t
he kitchen. "He's pissed at me."

  "You?" Celia turned to Vito. "Who could be mad at you?"

  Vito shrugged, grinning. "My wife's always mad at me, and you know, he's got her blood in him."

  Corrado slammed the cabinet door and picked up the bottle of scotch, filling one of the glasses to the brim. Picking it up, he guzzled the liquor.

  "Might not be the only thing he got from her, either."

  Resentment ran through Corrado. He clutched the glass tightly, struggling against the urge to throw it.

  "Go on," Vito taunted. "Ain't a Moretti holiday unless something breaks, right?"

  Corrado set the glass on the counter instead of launching it at him.

  "What in the world is going on?" Celia asked, glancing between the men.

  "Not a big deal," Vito said. "How about giving us a moment alone?"

  Shaking her head, muttering to herself, Celia grabbed some drinks and walked out. Maura jumped to her feet then and tried to scurry out, but Vito stopped her, grabbing her abandoned plate from the table. "Whoa, sweetheart, don't forget your dinner."

  She took it from him, wide-eyed, and muttered her thanks before leaving. Once the two of them were alone, Vito turned his attention back to his son. "Say your piece."

  "I don't like him."

  "You ain't got to, kid," Vito said shrugging. "But we do what we gotta do."

  "And why do I have to?"

  Vito raised his eyebrows. "You questioning an order?"

  "Was it an order?"

  "You know it was."

  "Then you know I wouldn't question one."

  Vito smirked at that. "Look, Frankie Antonelli's a made man. You know that. And when a made man needs a favor, we follow through for him. We ain't gotta like it. You ain't gotta like him. Hell, I don't like most people. But he's Frankie's kid."

  "Frankie's kid." That was the second time Vito had called him that. "What happened to making our own name?"

  "I told you to make your own name."

  "What's the difference?"

  "The difference is that moron ain't never gonna be anything better than just 'Frankie's kid'."

  Despite Corrado's reluctance, he obeyed his father's order. He included Michael Antonelli on thefts and hijacks, showed him the bookmaking rings, took him to collect money and make deals. Any job Vito sent him on, he hauled Michael along, letting the boy ride his coattails for a way inside the crew. Michael would smirk, overconfident, as he introduced himself as Frankie Antonelli's son and Vito Moretti's son-in-law.

  Corrado remained mute as Michael exploited those connections, garnering attention while he stood back in the shadows, doing what needed to be done. On the rare occasion someone acknowledged him, it was with a small nod of the head and a mere half-smile.

  They knew who he was. They knew what he did.

  They knew enough to recognize they didn't want to know any more about him.

  26

  A harsh winter set in almost overnight as a blizzard battered Chicago weeks before Christmas. Nearly two feet of snow covered the city in less than twenty-four hours, shutting down transit and clogging the streets. Life came to a proverbial standstill, iced over with a blanket of bitter frozen white.

  But a little snow couldn't stop Corrado.

  His phone had been ringing constantly for work—do this, do that, take this here, discard this there. He had been up all night as the white flakes fell from the darkened, cloudy sky, huddled under a thick coat, black leather gloves on his hands, making sure everything got where it needed to be. Made men were holed up in their homes, having no desire to brave the weather, which shifted even more onto Corrado's plate.

  Dawn had just broken when Corrado drove home, navigating the frozen streets. He had called Michael hours earlier and told him to meet him at his house, but Corrado was running late. Exhausted, he pulled into his driveway, spotting Michael's Cadillac parked along the street, but seeing little else as he strode toward his front door. He rubbed his weary eyes as he stepped inside, hoping for some peace and quiet, but utter chaos met him at the door.

  Before he had even shut the door, Vincent knocked right into him. Corrado snatched a hold of the boy's coat, shoving him roughly against the nearby wall. "Why are you here?"

  Vincent stared at him, the force of the blow knocking the breath from his lungs.

  "Let him go," Celia said, exasperated, as she stepped into the foyer and slipped on her coat. "He just came to get me."

  "Get you for what?"

  "Church," she said. "Since you clearly forgot it was Sunday."

  Sunday. Huh.

  "Anyway, I figured since you weren't here, you weren't coming. And then when your sister showed up…"

  Corrado's brow furrowed. "Kat's here?"

  She motioned toward the living room. "With Michael and some other guys. Not sure who they are."

  "You're not sure who they are and you let them in my house?"

  "I didn't let them in," she said, matter-of-fact, as she shoved him away from her brother. Corrado let go so the boy could slip outside. Celia paused there, her eyes scanning his face as she smiled. Softly, she kissed him, whispering against his lips, "Vincent did."

  He let out a groan of irritation. "I'm going to kill that boy."

  "No, you're not," she said, bumping against him as she skidded out the door. "You wouldn't dare hurt me that way."

  He stood there after she was gone, listening to the voices in his living room. They were vaguely familiar, recognition striking him as he walked that way. Pascal Barone and Alex Como.

  Capos.

  More work.

  Stepping into the doorway, Corrado addressed them. "Gentlemen."

  "Moretti!" Pascal said. "About time you make it home."

  "I was… working."

  "Long night?" Alex asked.

  Corrado shrugged nonchalantly as he sat down on the couch beside his sister, who flipped through one of Celia's girly magazines. "You could say that."

  "Well... gonna be an even longer day." Pascal cast a sidelong glance at Katrina, assessing whether he should talk in front of her. To Pascal she probably looked like she wasn't listening, but Corrado knew she would absorb every word. "I won't bullshit you. Here's the deal. There's this shipment coming in this afternoon from Maine that we're going to hit. I don't need many guys, two or three at most. Simple job, quickest money ever made. I had some guys lined up, but with this weather..."

  Corrado thought that over. "What's in the truck?"

  Pascal laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "And it can't wait for the weather to break?"

  "No, it's now or never."

  Corrado was quiet for a moment. His father had a poker game set up in the hideout beneath the bar that needed cashed out, and he had a few loansharks to check in with, but the rest of the evening was wide-open. "You're hitting it tonight?"

  Pascal shook his head. "Broad daylight."

  "It's hard to push merchandise when the sun's up."

  "Not what we're stealing."

  "Okay." If the man said it, Corrado would believe it. Pascal was a capo, and he didn't have the influence to override him. "Just say when."

  Corrado and Michael spent the morning handling Vito's business, running from place to place, meeting with some of the guys from the crew. A quarter till two they were in the car, heading to the docks out by Lake Michigan to meet up with Pascal and Alex. The men waited in an idling Chevy, the windows open a crack to let the smoke from their cigars filter out. Corrado parked beside them, cutting the engine and staring at the empty dock as they waited.

  Nearly two thirty on the dot, a refrigerator truck crept up. Pascal and Alex got out, no hesitation. Corrado tossed his keys to Michael. "Don't wreck my car."

  In. Out. Over. Corrado chanted those words in his head as he followed the men. Get in, get out, and get it over with. He reached into his coat, clutching his gun, as Pascal signaled for him to go around to the other side. He listened as Alex took up residence
at the back of the truck, standing guard. Corrado ran around to the passenger side. It was a routine he had done so often he could manage it with his eyes closed.

  He pressed himself against the truck and gripped the door handle. Be unlocked.

  Within a matter of seconds, he heard the bang, something striking the back of the truck. His cue. Pulling the handle, he yanked it open and blocked the door with his body the same time the other door opened. The driver startled, yelping, and threw up his hands in panic when both men aimed guns at his head.

  "Move over," Pascal demanded, cold voice leaving his lips in a bitter cloud of breath.

  The driver slid over in the seat as Pascal and Corrado both climbed in, shoving the man in the center. Pascal started the truck, throwing it into gear and speeding away from the dock as Alex ran back to his idling Chevy.

  They drove to a small, shabby motel in a remote part of the city, parking the truck behind the building. Pascal forced the driver out, the gun pressed to his side as he led him to the room on the end, rented under an obscure name. The driver sat down on the edge of the bed, sheer terror in his eyes as they darted from gun to gun, panicked pleading flying from his lips in stutters.

  "Shut up," Pascal said. "Give up your wallet."

  The driver slipped it from his pocket. "Take whatever you want. Anything. It's yours. Whatever you want."

  Alex snatched it as Pascal hit the man, knocking him off the bed. "I said shut up!"

  Alex pulled out the driver's license, throwing the rest of it on the floor. "Jason Marshall," he read aloud. "Center Street in Augusta, Maine."

  "What you're gonna do, Jason Marshall," Pascal said, gun aimed at the man as he clicked on the television, "is sit here and watch something. And in an hour, you're gonna go out that door and walk about a mile back the way we came to the closest payphone to call a ride to pick you up. That's it. It's as easy as that."

  The driver stared at him skeptically.

  "But if you leave any sooner? I'm gonna have to kill you. And not just you—your whole family, too. I know where you live." He took the driver's license from Alex and slipped it in his pocket. "You see my face? Yeah? Well, take a good look at it. Because if you breathe a word to the cops, it'll be the last face you ever see. I guarantee it."