Made

Vito's voice sounded earnest. Corrado couldn't lie. "Yes."

  "I ain't going nowhere if I can help it," Vito said. "Don't worry, kid."

  Could it be true? Would his father stay?

  "Get up," Vito said. "You're coming with me today."

  Once, the year before, Corrado's teacher at the private academy they attended asked the class a simple question:

  What do your parents do for a living?

  His classmate's answers were predictable—teachers, lawyers, doctors, even a few casino workers. It was close to Vegas, after all.

  "My mother stays home," Corrado said when it was his turn.

  "Your father?" the teacher asked. "Where does he work?"

  "Chicago," he replied.

  "And what does he do there?"

  Corrado stared blankly at the teacher.

  He had no answer for that.

  When he got home from school that day, he'd asked his mother. Her amused laughter filled the house, so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. "You want to know how your father makes his money?"

  "Yes."

  "He does it very carefully."

  "He's careful for a living," he'd later told his teacher. "That's what my mom says, anyway."

  She'd looked at him with pity, like she thought he didn't understand. And he didn't. Not really.

  Katrina had the same assignment. She told the teacher their father was a spy, going undercover on missions that took him away for months at a time. The lady laughed it off, but Corrado wondered if maybe Katrina actually believed it.

  After all, Vito was a secretive man. He never talked business whenever the kids were around. He could've done anything, been anyone, and they'd have never known.

  He could've been James Bond.

  So Corrado was shocked that morning when he stepped out onto the front porch and asked his father where they were going.

  "Work," Vito said.

  Work.

  Corrado climbed into the passenger seat of the Lincoln. His father started the car and shoved an eight-track tape into the player. Frank Sinatra's voice vibrated the speakers, loud and grainy, as Corrado rolled his window down.

  Warm wind blew in Corrado's face, ruffling his dark hair as his father drove toward the highway, singing along to the music. Corrado relaxed back in his seat, a smile ghosting across his lips.

  Despite living in the area his entire short life, Corrado had never been to the heart of Las Vegas before. Eyes peeled to the scenery, he watched in awe as they crept past casinos along the strip—past Sahara, Riviera, and Stardust, past Frontier, Sands, and Caesar's Palace—before stopping when they reached The Fabulous Flamingo. The lights on the tall fluorescent pink sign twinkled as Vito pulled into the parking lot, swinging to a stop right at the front door.

  Vito cut the engine and climbed out of the car. Vito kept his door open, tossing the keys to a man standing along the sidewalk. "Don't scratch the paint."

  "Yes, sir."

  Corrado followed his father, eyes wide with fascination as a man nodded at Vito before opening the door for him. "Mr. Moretti."

  Vito said nothing as he strode inside. The man at the door eyed Corrado curiously, brow furrowing, but he uttered not a word as Corrado followed his father inside the casino.

  Stepping through those doors for the first time was like entering another dimension. The world Corrado grew up in, dull and bordering on downright dreary, ceased to exist as lights and sounds flooded his senses. Vibrant tables and multi-colored slot machines filled the massive room, offset by the pale pink walls and subtle yellow lighting. The clatter of spinning roulette wheels and cranking slot machine arms mixed with the chatter of dozens of people, standing around in groups, clutching buckets of casino chips. Shuttering lights flashed as bells and whistles went off, machines spewing coins so rapidly it startled Corrado.

  They headed through the chaos, straight to a large office down a hallway in the back of the casino. Vito opened the door without knocking, startling an older man sitting behind a desk.

  He jumped to attention, pushing the chair back. "Mr. Moretti, I thought you'd left town."

  "You thought wrong." Vito took off his hat and set it atop a coat rack beside the door. He strolled over, plopping down in the chair the man had vacated, barely giving him a chance to move out of the way. Vito motioned toward another chair off to the side. "Have a seat, kid."

  Tentatively, Corrado sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes darting between his father and the other man.

  "Uh, I'll give you some privacy," the man said.

  "Yeah, you do that," Vito called, a dimpled smirk lighting up his face. "And bring me a drink, will you? Scotch, straight up. Top shelf. Don't bullshit me."

  "Of course, sir."

  "And something for my kid. A pop or whatnot." Vito's eyes darted to Corrado. "What's your favorite?"

  "Cactus Cooler."

  Vito stared at him blankly for a moment before turning to the man. "You heard the kid. Cactus Cooler."

  "Uh, yes, sir. Right away."

  The man walked out, muttering under his breath. The sounds from the casino muffled to a droning whisper once the door latched behind him. Vito kicked his feet up on the desk as he leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped together at the back of his head. "We'll see how long it takes him to dig up one of those coolers."

  "Are you his boss?" Corrado asked hesitantly.

  "Depends on what you mean by that."

  "Well…" What did he mean? "Do you run this place?"

  "I run this town, kid."

  "How?"

  "Carefully."

  Carefully.

  Corrado stared at him, remembering his mother saying that word. Vito noticed his son's baffled expression and sat up, his feet again dropping back down to the floor. He leaned forward, his expression serious. "You learn about the Boston Tea Party in school yet?"

  "No."

  "The people didn't want their tea taxed by the British, so they dumped all the tea out in protest. Screw you and your tea, they said. The British lost control of their empire. And well, I don't plan to lose control of mine anytime soon, so I make sure I'm careful." A light laugh escaped Vito's lips as he relaxed again. "You know, when I collect my taxes."

  Corrado remained confused, but he didn't ask his father anything more. Vito hated being questioned.

  The man returned with their drinks—a glass of scotch and a cold can of Cactus Cooler, the price tag from a local shop still affixed to it—followed shortly thereafter with another visitor. This man, tall and lanky, wearing a casual gray suit, clutched a manila envelope. He handed it to Vito, who opened it and pulled out a thick stack of cash. Corrado stared at it, audibly gasping and choking on his drink when he noticed the amount of money in his father's hand.

  Vito painstakingly counted it by hand, bill by bill, dollar by dollar, as the man stood in front of the desk. There had to be thousands of dollars. It took ten minutes of strained silence, the only noise in the room the sounds from the casino filtering around the cracks in the door, before Vito was satisfied. He returned most of the cash to the envelope, save for a few stray bills, and opened a drawer in the desk, tossing it in. He handed the leftover money back to the visitor.

  Without a single word spoken, the man left.

  "They say if you give a man an inch, he'll demand a foot," Vito said, "but I find if you steal a foot from a man, he's grateful to be given an inch."

  Corrado still didn't understand—not really—but one thing was sure to him then. His father may not have been James Bond, but he was definitely someone special. He felt like he had witnessed Bruce Wayne put on his Batman suit for the first time.

  And that left Corrado spellbound.

  They spent all afternoon in the casino office, sipping drinks as a steady flow of men visited. Each brought with them stacks of money, very little spoken beyond the occasional small talk. Corrado made himself at home, scooting his chair closer to the desk... closer to his father.

  He had no idea
where the money had come from, or why they were giving it to Vito, but as stacks and stacks of envelopes piled up in the desk drawer, all Corrado thought about was how the electricity should never go off again.

  His dad was rich.

  "Cactus Cooler," Vito muttered, picking up the half-empty can from the corner of the desk. Corrado's third soda of the day. "Your mother would kill me if she knew I let you drink so much of this crap."

  "I don't think she'd care," Corrado said.

  "Oh, she would," Vito insisted. "She has issues—there's no denying that—but family means a lot to her."

  Impulsively, Corrado touched his face, knowing the bruises and red marks were still visible.

  "Yeah, I know," Vito said, as if he had read Corrado's mind. "She has a funny way of showing it, huh?"

  Vito stood then and strolled over to the door, grabbing his hat from the coat rack. "Come on, lets get out of here. I'm starving, kid, and somewhere in this town there's a juicy steak with my name on it."

  Every day that week, Corrado went to work with his father at the casino, where the two sipped on drinks and bonded. Corrado drew on scraps of paper while Vito conducted his business. He's a casino worker, or maybe some kind of banker. He even entertained that his father may be a politician. Maybe he's the mayor of Las Vegas! But nowhere in the bustle of day-to-day activity—the exchanges of cash, the silent meetings—did Corrado ever once entertain the word Mafia.

  Everyone knew the Mafia was bad, and well, Corrado believed his father was the greatest man alive. His father splurged and took him to fancy restaurants all week long, spoiling him with junk food like never before, grinning proudly when he showed him off. His father was the most passive person he knew, especially compared to his mother.

  Erika whirled wildly like a tornado, whereas Vito drifted along like a spring breeze. Never once had his father raised a hand to him, or anyone else that he'd ever seen. He'd lost his temper a few times, like when he'd gotten home and seen the aftermath of the beating, but even then, he'd restrained himself from hurting anyone.

  Thoughts of that evening, his mother's assault when he'd stolen money from her, slowly faded from Corrado's mind. The bruises and welts eventually disappeared, the sting long gone. Corrado waited, and waited, for his father to leave again, for them to tell him he had to go back to school, for life to return to how it had been, but the day didn't come. Days turned into weeks, and they settled into a new routine, one where Vito became a permanent fixture.

  And his constant presence pacified Erika.

  Corrado couldn't remember a time when that ever happened before. His family felt like a real family, a happy family, and it was all because of his father coming home.

  If Corrado hadn't idolized the man before, he did now.

  4

  "On tonight's show, Italian-American Civil Rights League founder Joe Colombo will be joining us to—"

  "Rat!" Vito spat as he sat up, his back straight, his eyes narrowed at the television. "He's gonna start singing like a canary!"

  They were all gathered around in the living room like they did every other night at that time, watching The Dick Cavett Show. Vito and Erika lounged on the couch while the kids lay on the floor, sharing a bowl of popcorn.

  "Can you believe it?" Vito said. "The balls of this fucking guy!"

  "Relax." Erika rubbed his back. "He isn't there to talk about—"

  "It doesn't matter," he said. "You don't go talk on national television! You just don't! You gotta be careful! This ain't careful!"

  Corrado stared at the screen, confused as to what upset his father. He'd never heard of any Colombo guy before and didn't know what it mattered. What was the big deal?

  "Turn it off," Vito declared, his voice hard. "Right now."

  "But it's Dick Cavett!" Katrina whined, staring at their father with pleading eyes.

  "I don't care," Vito said. "We don't watch that man anymore."

  "But—"

  "You heard me, Kat!" Vito shook his finger at her, his eyes ablaze. "Never again!"

  Corrado reached for the dial and changed the channel, tuning to Johnny Carson instead. Katrina huffed, snatching a handful of popcorn as she turned her attention back to the television.

  No one said a word through the program, and Vito's posture remained stiff. He bounced his leg, his expression hard as he seemed to stare through the television, not truly watching it. The show wasn't even over yet when his rough voice shouted out. "Go to bed, kids."

  Katrina started to argue, but Corrado grabbed her arm and shook his head, warning her not to do it. She pushed away, shooting daggers at him, as she stomped upstairs.

  Corrado slowly made his way upstairs behind her and hadn't even gotten to his room when he heard his father yelling. Corrado's shoulders tensed, waiting for his mother to yell back, but his father's voice was the only one he heard. He couldn't understand what he said, Italian words flying from his lips too fast and furious for him to translate, mixing with names he'd never heard before. He stood there in the hallway, too intrigued to move, when a creak on the stairs captured his attention. Turning, he saw his mother appear on the second floor, as his father's voice grew louder downstairs.

  "Did you see it? Can you believe it? What kinda cockroach goes on television like that? Digraziato!"

  Erika raised an eyebrow at Corrado. "Didn't you hear your father? Go to bed."

  "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, heading into his room before she had to say anything else to him.

  There was a soft, timid knock on the casino door the next afternoon. Vito hollered for them to come in, his eyes fixed on a newspaper on the desk. He had been tense all morning, not acknowledging Corrado the whole drive into Vegas, not even offering him a drink when they arrived.

  The door opened, a young guy in a gray suit stepping inside. "You wanted to see me?"

  Vito cringed as the man addressed him.

  "Hey, kid, do me a favor, will you?" Vito glanced across the office at Corrado, speaking to him for the first time as he ignored his visitor. Corrado was doodling on a time sheet he'd found on the desk.

  Corrado looked at his father curiously. "Sure."

  Vito opened the bottom drawer—the one overflowing with envelopes of cash—and pulled out a small bag. It clinked and clanked as he pushed it across the desk. "Run this over to the cashier's cage. Tell them it's from Moretti. Wait there until they give you the cash."

  Corrado snatched up the bag, surprised by how heavy it was. Casino chips—white, green, and mostly red, but some black. He held it with both hands, lugging it past the visitor.

  "Here you go, shorty," the guy said, holding the door open.

  The casino was busy. Corrado weaved through the crowd, heading straight for the cages at the front of the building. He was the only kid in the place, since they weren't allowed on the casino floor. Gamblers towered above him as he waited in the line, having seen his father cash out chips a few times.

  When his turn came, he struggled lifting the bag so the cashier could reach it. She eyed him peculiarly like she wanted to object, but the moment he said 'Moretti' her expression changed. Quickly, studiously, she counted the chips and handed him a stack of bills.

  "Thank you," Corrado said, taking the money.

  The cashier smiled sweetly. "You're welcome."

  Corrado strolled straight back to the office and immediately opened the door. He took a step inside, freezing and dropping the cash with a gasp. Groans echoed through the space as his father pinned the man in the gray suit against the wall, a pistol shoved beneath his chin. Blood oozed from the guy's mouth, his cheek swollen from a blow to the face.

  Vito didn't notice Corrado, too wrapped up in the situation. "I'll kill you right now! I swear I will!"

  "I'll have it tomorrow!" the man cried. "I will!"

  "You said that yesterday," Vito spat. "I should've blown your fucking head off then."

  "Please," he begged. "I'll have the money. Just give me one more day! That's all I need!"

>   Corrado's heart raced. "Dad?"

  The moment his voice sounded, Vito grew rigid. His head snapped in his direction, a fire in his eyes Corrado had never seen before. Almost as if by some instinct, Vito turned the gun on him. "Don't you know to fucking knock?"

  A gun. His father had a gun. And it was aimed at him.

  Panicked, Corrado bolted right back out the door, slamming it behind him. He stood in the hallway, on the verge of hyperventilating as he leaned against the wall.

  He'd been wrong. Maybe his father wasn't a spring breeze. Maybe the man was actually a hurricane.

  Minutes passed before two guys came running down the hall straight toward him. Corrado pressed himself tighter against the wall, trying to be invisible, not wanting to be seen. Not wanting to be in the way. The men barely noticed him as they ran into the office. Within a matter of seconds, they returned carrying the man. He was bloodied, his eyes closed and body limp. The men quickly left with him, disappearing out a back door.

  Vito strutted out of the office then and lingered in the doorway, concealing the pistol in his jacket. He pressed his hand on the top of Corrado's head, ruffling his hair. "You really gotta learn to knock, kid."

  Corrado swallowed thickly. "Is he, uh...?"

  "Dead?" Vito asked. Corrado nodded hesitantly as Vito led him back into the office. "Nah, he's just taking a little nap."

  Vito sent Corrado on numerous errands over the next few days to get him out of the office. It started small—cashing out chips, grabbing drinks, and delivering paperwork—but before long he was passing messages and covertly placing bets. More visitors came and went during that time, some on their own accord, others carried out through the back door.

  Corrado didn't question it, but his curiosity grew and grew. Not a banker, not a casino worker, and definitely not a politician... what could his father be? Vito didn't hide so much from him anymore, openly toying with his gun a mere few feet from Corrado.

  Police officer? No.

  Maybe he's a secret agent, after all.