Made

  Celia's eyes drifted to him as he approached. "I'm not."

  "Then what's wrong?"

  "I'm scared."

  He stopped right in front of her and brushed some wayward hair from her face before grasping her chin and tilting her head up. Genuine fear glistened in her dark eyes. It made his chest tighten. "Don't be."

  She grasped his hand. "I can't lose you, Corrado."

  "You won't."

  She didn't believe him. It was written all over her face.

  "I love you," he said. "I'll do whatever it takes to make this go away."

  29

  Whatever it takes.

  The beginning of 1982 found Corrado doing just that.

  Every waking minute was spent working, doing every job imaginable for a bit of extra cash. Hundreds of thousands poured in every month but went back out as fast as he made it. He passed money along to the organization in exchange for help from connections. He hired the best criminal defense team in the city, financed lab work from the smartest scientists, paid the most respected expert witnesses to stand in his corner, hoping to discredit the prosecution and make the murder case go away. The assault charge from the fight had been dropped when Pascal refused to cooperate, so the lawyers argued his arrest was unfounded, therefore anything found on him that night had been seized illegally. But given he had no permit to carry a weapon, the evidence stuck.

  When going legit didn't help, he called in favors, making deals in the dark as his wife slept soundly beside him. So peaceful, so trusting… he had told her she wouldn't lose him, and he was determined to make it so.

  The trial started in early spring of that year. As soon as the jury was seated, Corrado calculated how to sway the verdict in his favor. The trial flew by, deliberations taking longer than the testimony. Every day that passed, every hour that dragged by, every tick of the clock found him more on edge. Celia paced the house, bordering on tears every time the phone rang or someone knocked on the door.

  A week later, the jury deadlocked. A mistrial.

  The prosecution immediately filed to retry him, the process starting all over again. He worked even harder this time around, hemorrhaging money, the trial slowly bleeding him dry. He could barely afford to make the interest payments to Pascal, much less pay off the loan. Every week that passed, every dollar he shelled out, found him just as much in the man's debt as before. Pascal knew it, too, and continually took it upon himself to call all hours of the night for menial jobs.

  Corrado's resentment grew. He would stand in Pascal's living room, glaring at the man as he lounged on the couch, his arm draped over the shoulder of a young girl—a new one every time. Pascal would fondle her, make her go down on him as they discussed business, and Corrado—the good little soldier he knew he needed to be—would stare him square in the eye as it happened, unflinching. He waited him out, let him push him around, swearing one day he would see justice. As soon as he earned his place in the organization, as soon as Antonio made him, his first order of business would be formally requesting he be allowed to blow the cockroach's brains out. Soon.

  The second trial, like the first, fizzled out with a hung jury.

  "Well?" the judge said. "How does the prosecution plan to proceed?"

  The district attorney conferred with his associates, heated whispers swaddling the courtroom. Corrado spotted Detective Walker in the gallery, glaring at him. A smile threatened to tug Corrado's lips as he nodded in greeting, only looking away when the DA stood up to speak.

  "Your honor, the prosecution isn't prepared to make a decision at this time. We're going to need some time to assess whether or not to retry the defendant."

  "Think long and hard," the judge said, his voice with an edge of aggravation. "Because if this happens again, I'm in the right mind to grant a full dismissal. This has gone on long enough."

  Corrado stared at the judge when he banged his gavel. The judge, mid-sixties with graying hair and drooping eyes, leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face in exhaustion. He was clearly fed up with his job, out of patience and bordering losing respect for the process.

  Maybe I shouldn't have bothered with the jury. Maybe I should've gone after the judge instead.

  The Omen.

  Corrado stood in the doorway to the living room, staring at the glowing television as the movie played. He watched, transfixed, only vaguely aware of the quiet murmuring from the couch nearby. It was the middle of the night—midnight, maybe one o'clock—and he had just got home from collecting money for his father.

  "Sweet, huh?"

  Celia wrapped her arms around Corrado, laying her head against his chest. Corrado hugged her, his eyes remaining on the television.

  "It's a horror film," Corrado said. "Most people find that scary."

  "I'm not talking about the movie. I meant them."

  Corrado glanced down at his wife, following her gaze over to where Vincent and Maura sat together, whispering in the darkness. Vincent's arm was draped over her shoulder as she snuggled against him. "They're hogging my couch and not even watching the movie."

  "You're such a hopeless romantic, Corrado Moretti," she deadpanned. "It's amazing more women don't swoon over you."

  He shrugged a shoulder as his gaze shifted back to the television. The nanny stood on the ledge at the birthday party. Celia shifted around in Corrado's arms, glancing at the television when the woman jumped.

  Celia gasped, her body tensing. Horror rocked the characters on the screen before shifting to a close up of the little boy's passive, unaffected face. "What the hell's wrong with him?"

  Corrado pulled her closer to him. "Maybe he's a Moretti."

  "I'm serious."

  "So am I," Corrado muttered, moving her hair aside to kiss near her ear. "I'm pretty sure he's supposed to be the anti-Christ."

  "That little boy?" Celia shuddered. "He's awfully cute to be evil."

  "That's supposed to be what makes it so terrifying."

  "Supposed to be?" Celia asked. "Come on, that kid doesn't scare you?"

  Corrado couldn't restrain his amusement at her sincere question. She honestly thought he might be scared. "No more than every other kid does."

  Celia jabbed him in the ribs as he chuckled. He laid his head on top of hers and closed his eyes as he inhaled, breathing in the scent of her perfume.

  "You'd make a good father, you know," she said, the words barely audible as she whispered them into his chest. He opened his eyes, still holding her there, but didn't respond.

  What could he say?

  Soft giggles sounded out from the couch as Corrado turned his attention back to the television. Celia, realizing he wasn't going to respond, loosened from his hold. "Do you think they'll be okay together?"

  "I think the anti-Christ plans to kill them."

  Celia laughed. "Again, not about the movie."

  Corrado pulled Celia away from the living room, into the hallway, out of earshot of Maura and Vincent. They hadn't been paying them any attention, too wrapped up in their own little world on the couch, but he didn't want to take a chance of them overhearing what he had to say.

  "Well?" Celia asked, hands on her hips.

  "She knows too much."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I said—she knows too much. She's seen too much, been around for too long."

  Confusion lined Celia's eyes. "What?"

  "They won't forget that."

  "Who?"

  "The people who make sure we keep our mouths shut."

  "Huh?"

  He shook his head. "Don't make me spell it out for you, Celia."

  She stared at him, confusion melting away. "Are you suggesting the Mafia won't let her have a life because she knows some of their secrets?"

  "That's what I said."

  "That's not what you said," she declared. "You were talking in riddles like this is some game, when it's not."

  "I know it's not," he replied. "But it's also none of our concern."

&
nbsp; "None of our concern?" She scoffed. "She lives with us! I can let her go free if I want, and maybe I want to, okay? Who's going to stop me?"

  He admired her determination, even if it were gravely naïve. "You're playing with fire. Your father—"

  "I can handle him," she said, matter-of-fact.

  She was being absurd, but he said nothing. He had to let her fight her own battles.

  Denying her would only make it worse.

  The next afternoon, Corrado sat in the DeMarco den as Celia ranted and raved in front of her father. Antonio relaxed in his favorite chair, swirling a glass of scotch around, the ice clinking against the sides. His eyes focused intently on his daughter, emotionless, as he absorbed every word from her animated voice.

  "And Maura's such a nice girl," Celia said, smiling brightly. "I've never met someone as sweet as her before. She's trustworthy, too. So just… loyal."

  She quieted, batting her eyelashes. Antonio stared at her for a moment before the loudest, most boisterous laughter burst from him. He slammed his glass down on the table beside him, spilling some of the liquor, as he waved her off, unable to contain himself.

  Corrado's stomach twisted in knots for Celia.

  Expression falling, Celia gaped at her father. "What's so funny?"

  "You're talking about that slave girl. She's Irish, Celia. Irish!"

  "So?"

  Wrong thing to say. As soon as the word came out of her mouth, every ounce of amusement sucked out of the room. Antonio's laughter cut off like a needle ripped from a turntable, his eyes darkening. "Those people killed my parents… your grandparents. And you call her loyal?"

  "She's not like them."

  "They're all the same," Antonio said. "Every one of them."

  "You're wrong," Celia said. "You don't know her."

  "And I don't want to."

  "But I like her," Celia argued. "She's my friend. Doesn't that matter at all?"

  Antonio tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. He stared at his daughter like he would stare at a stranger who walked into his home unwelcome. His voice was low when he spoke again, a bitter edge as he ground out the words. "You're spoiled, Celia Marie. I spoiled you, and based on the fact that Corrado let you come here, that he let you say all this to me, I'd say your husband spoils you, too."

  Celia's eyes narrowed. "I don't need his permission. Or yours."

  Antonio wasn't dissuaded by her declaration. "This here? This isn't happening. Whatever plans you're conceiving in your head stop now. You're my daughter, and I love you, but this isn't happening."

  "But—"

  "That's final."

  He left no room for argument. Celia gaped at him before her face clouded with anger. She stormed out of the room, heading straight for the front door, slamming it behind her as she stomped outside. Corrado didn't move, remaining in his seat as Antonio's eye shifted to him. "You said that girl wouldn't be any trouble."

  "I guess I underestimated your kids."

  Corrado nodded at Antonio as he stood to leave. He barely made it to the doorway when the man spoke again. "Kids?"

  Corrado's footsteps faltered.

  "You said kids," Antonio said, stressing the 's' on the end. "What don't I know, Corrado?"

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  Antonio studied him for a moment before standing. "My office. Now."

  Corrado's stomach sunk.

  He slowly followed him into the office, begrudgingly shutting the door. Corrado could keep secrets from his father-in-law, could have a private life, could come and go as he pleased, but the Boss held his life in his hands.

  "Sit down," Antonio ordered. "And tell me what you know."

  Corrado carefully sat in the chair but said nothing. Antonio stared at him expectantly.

  "This isn't the fucking police department," Antonio barked. "You don't have the right to remain silent with me."

  He still said nothing.

  Furious, Antonio stormed back across the room. Corrado tensed, half expecting the man to hit him, to physically force him to respond, but instead he flung open the door and stepped out into the hall.

  "Vincenzo Roman!" he hollered, so loud Corrado grimaced. "Get down here, now!"

  Antonio retook his seat, leaving the door wide-open. Minutes of strained silence passed before hesitant footsteps neared the office. Vincent appeared, faltering in the doorway, his gaze darting between his father and Corrado with alarm. "Yes?"

  "Sit down," Antonio ordered, pointing at the chair Corrado sat in. He took that as his cue to get to his feet. Stepping aside, he lingered in the office, as Vincent shut the door and plopped down in the chair.

  "Is something wrong?" Vincent asked.

  "You tell me. Is there something I ought to know?"

  Vincent slowly shook his head.

  "Huh." Antonio feigned nonchalance as he grabbed a cigar. He didn't light it, instead rolling it between his fingers as he stared at his son. "You sure you don't want to talk about Maura?"

  The color drained from Vincent's face as he swung around in the chair, wide eyes piercing through Corrado. "You told?"

  Antonio slammed his hands down on his desk, drawing everyone's attention right back to him. "No, he didn't, but you just did. And you're going to tell me everything, Vincenzo."

  Corrado's heart pounded rapidly. He didn't want to be there. It was none of his concern.

  Vincent stammered, struggling for words. "I just… I like her. She's a nice girl."

  "And she's loyal and trustworthy, right?" Antonio asked. "Sweetest person you've ever met?"

  "Well… yes."

  "She's Irish."

  "So?"

  Corrado cringed. Same thing Celia had said.

  Antonio narrowed his eyes. "You're not to go near her ever again! I want you to stay away from that girl."

  "That's not fair!"

  "Get over it. It's time for you to grow up. You're not a child anymore!"

  "Then stop treating me like one!" Vincent said. "Why do you keep trying to make me do what you want me to do? Why can't I do what I want to do?"

  "Because I know what's best for you!"

  "How can you? You don't even know me! You keep trying to turn me into you, but I'm not you! I don't care that she's Irish! I like her. No, I love her, okay?"

  "You don't."

  "I do!" Vincent said, jumping up from his chair. "I love her!"

  "You're just saying that to spite me."

  "You would think that," Vincent spat. "But it has nothing to do with you, Dad. I love her. Her. I don't care what you think. I don't even like you!"

  "Take that back," Antonio spat, clenching his hands into fists, breaking the cigar in half.

  "Fine," Vincent ground out. "I hate you, then."

  Vincent stormed out, not waiting to be dismissed, his feet stomping down the hallway. Corrado stood still as Antonio stared at the empty doorway, a shell-shocked expression Corrado had never seen on his face before.

  Heartbreak.

  "He doesn't really hate you," Corrado said.

  Antonio's expression shifted, the despair morphing straight to fury, while his eyes sought out Corrado as if just remembering he was there. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

  Corrado squared his shoulders. No, he hadn't.

  Throwing the broken cigar down on the desk, Antonio leaned back in his chair. "How do you know?"

  "Because Celia said the same thing when you forbid us from being together."

  "My daughter said she hated me?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe she does."

  "She doesn't," Corrado said. "She loves you. She respects you. She just doesn't agree with you."

  "Or listen to me," Antonio muttered. "Neither of you listened to me. A lot of good forbidding you did. I control hundreds of men. They do what I want, when I want it. But my own fucking kids…"

  "They're just like you," Corrado said. "You wouldn't let anyone stop you from having what you want, either."

  "There you go
, thinking you know me again." Antonio rolled the broken cigar around on his desk, deep in thought. "Get out of here, Corrado, before I decide to punish you for speaking out of turn again."

  The first week of June, the District Attorney filed to retry Corrado for the murder of Miguel Pace. Corrado went through the motions again, blowing every cent he earned trying to ensure he would walk away a free man.

  When the third jury was seated weeks later, he used his father's crew to bribe and intimidate as many of them as possible.

  But he didn't stop there.

  No, this time he got to the judge, too.

  A week later, the third jury came back deadlocked. The judge declared a mistrial, banging his gavel as he spoke the words Corrado waited for: "Case is dismissed with prejudice."

  He couldn't be tried again.

  It took a few weeks, but the judge got a long-awaited appointment to Federal court… two days after Corrado's revolver was mysteriously returned to him.

  30

  "Here, kid, here's your take for the week."

  Vito tossed an envelope at Corrado as he sat on top of one of the old casino tables in the basement hangout. Corrado caught it, opening the envelope as his father stuffed the rest of the gambling cash into the safe beneath the bar.

  Corrado skimmed through the stack, flimsier than usual. "There's only twenty thousand here."

  Vito shrugged. "Slow week."

  Corrado had been running himself ragged for his father, hardly seeing his wife all week long. "I need the whole twenty-five."

  "I need a lot of things, kid," Vito said. "You don't see me complaining."

  Corrado shot his father a pointed look. "I owe Pascal that twenty-five. I'm supposed to drop it off tonight on my way home."

  He barely made a dent in the loan, taking a few thousand off here and there, but the interest payments alone were bleeding him dry.

  Vito flopped down in a chair. "Tough break."