Made

  Antonio motioned to the bench, his gaze on his wife. She hesitated for a few seconds before sliding in beside her son… beside Dominic… as Antonio flanked the other end.

  Corrado laughed to himself, drawing Celia's attention. "It's something, isn't it?" she whispered. "Mom's playing nice."

  He draped his arm over her shoulder, pulling her closer. "It's a Christmas miracle."

  They stood for the elaborate procession as the choir sang Come All, Ye Faithful, Celia belting the song out at the top of her lungs while Dominic enthusiastically clapped his hands, watching his aunt. Mid-song she reached over, snatching him from his father's arms. She sang to him, planting a kiss on his puffy cheek, leaving a smudge of red lipstick behind as he squealed with excitement.

  "You're going to fit in wonderfully, kiddo," she whispered to the little boy. "Just keep that sense of humor. You're gonna need it."

  Corrado smirked, standing with his hands clasped in front of him.

  The passionate service flew by as Father Alberto poured his soul out through his words, never forgetting to urge them to respect, and cherish, and love one another. Celia held tightly to Dominic the whole time, giving Vincent a break, as Carmine slept through the entire Mass. After it was over, Corrado followed his family outside, hoping to avoid conversation, but Father Alberto caught him by the exit.

  "Mr. Moretti," the priest said, grasping his arm when he attempted to slip by. Corrado glanced down at where the man's hand clutched his bicep before looking him in the eyes, surprised he would have such nerve, but the priest showed no apprehension. A small smile touched Father Alberto's lips at the incredulous look on Corrado's face. "I've had many men just like you walk through these doors and find asylum once inside. You don’t have to be an exception."

  Corrado stared at him. "Church sanctuary is a myth."

  "But the seal of the confessional is real."

  The man let go of Corrado's arm to address another worshiper.

  Shaking his head, Corrado stepped outside into the cold Chicago night. His family stood on the steps, Dominic still in Celia's arms. He approached them as Celia's eyes lit up. She focused on her brother and Maura. "Can we keep him?"

  Whoa. Corrado's footsteps faltered.

  "Just for tonight," Celia said, wrapping her arms tightly around him, his head lying on her shoulder. He was still awake, for now, but heaviness accented every blink of his eyes. "We'll bring him home tomorrow."

  Skepticism twisted Maura's expression as she pursed her lips. "I don't know."

  Celia's expression fell. "If you're worried, you know, because of my husband—"

  "No, no, that's not it," Maura said. "It's just that… it's Christmas."

  "So?"

  "So there's cookies, and stories, and I know they're still little now and won't understand, but…"

  Corrado stepped up behind his wife, clearing his throat as he leaned down toward her. "She's saying Santa Claus doesn't come to our house."

  Celia tensed a bit, realizing he had been listening. "He can."

  "No, he can't."

  "We have a chimney."

  "If something comes down my chimney, I'm shooting it… especially a fat man wearing a suit."

  Celia gasped, covering Dominic's ears, as Vincent let out a laugh.

  "Fine," Celia conceded, handing the boy over to Vincent. "Another night then?"

  "Another night," Maura assured her. "Any other time you want the boys, they're yours."

  Corrado had never seen Celia so radiant.

  Maura made good on her promise and let Celia keep both the boys on New Years Eve. Corrado made sure he had work to do all night as they slept soundly, safely, in his bed.

  1989 dawned, life moving in a blur as January whittled away, Dominic and Carmine's christenings approaching. Carmine's ceremony was an event to rival that of Midnight Mass, elaborate, the pews packed with well-wishers, family and friends, all watching as the quiet little boy was christened. Salvatore Capozzi stood up at the front, superiority in his stance as he stood before the priest and agreed to be his godfather, committing to help raise the child in the Catholic faith.

  The moment the priest anointed Carmine, splashing holy water on him, he let out a startled, piercing shriek that made Gia close her eyes and shake her head, muttering, "the devil's in that boy."

  Dominic's christening, a week later, was more laid-back. Gia didn't even make the effort to show up. Sonny Evola quietly stood before the priest, his expression serious as he took on the role of godfather.

  Vincent hadn't bothered asking Corrado.

  When the priest anointed Dominic, the boy blinked rapidly, stunned, before squealing.

  Happily.

  39

  Corrado parked his Mercedes in the packed lot, hesitating in the car, trying to convince himself he wasn't making a mistake being there. It felt absurd, traitorous in a way, for him to step foot on these premises. But he had made a promise… a promise he wouldn't break.

  He climbed out, fixing his tie as he strode toward the crumbling apartment building. The buzzer was broken, the entire intercom hanging by wires, a cinderblock used as a makeshift doorstop. Unsafe.

  Corrado stepped into the dingy building, grimacing at the stench of mildew streaming off the damp, dark carpet. The sky blue paint chipped, completely gone in places, exposing a filthy white under layer of plaster. He took the stairs, not trusting the elevator, and trekked up four flights to reach the right floor.

  Apartment 42.

  He strode down the hallway, hands in his pockets, the lights hanging from the ceiling flickering and buzzing like a scene from a low-budget horror flick. He reached the right door, staring at the numbers, the 4 hanging upside down by a lone screw.

  Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the door.

  It only took a minute for it to open a crack, a chain lock still connected as a pair of brown eyes peeked out at him. They studied him peculiarly before the door slammed right in his face, the chain jingling before the door flew open again.

  Corrado tensed as Vivian launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling in his neck as she cried, her body trembling. Corrado rubbed her back as he walked her into the apartment.

  Once inside, he shut the door and pried her away from him. She let go, smiling sheepishly, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. It's just... it's like seeing Vito again."

  He tried to ignore his discomfort. "How are you holding up?"

  His question brought on another round of sobs. "I just wish I could see him. Wish I could talk to him. It hurts so much, and I feel like I can't breathe. I love him with everything inside of me. And he doesn't even care."

  "He cares," Corrado insisted.

  "Then why won't he let me visit?"

  "He doesn't want you to see him that way, caged like an animal."

  "That doesn't matter to me!"

  "But it does to him. He needs to keep his pride. It's about the only thing he has."

  "It's not fair," she cried. "I miss him."

  "I know."

  As much as Corrado didn't want to admit it, he missed him, too. There were months of his life where he went without hearing from his father, without seeing his face, but this was permanent.

  Vivian told him to make himself at home and offered him something to drink. He asked for some water, his anxiety making him parched, as he sat down on the edge of her frayed couch. The apartment interior wasn't any better than the outside—grimy floors, chipped paint, and a slight foul odor she tried to conceal with an abundance of fragrant candles. It created a peculiar aroma that clung to the furniture, like wilting flowers in an old leaky vase.

  It wasn't the kind of place he expected his father to house his mistress. He worried about infection just breathing the polluted air.

  Vivian returned, handing him a fresh bottle of water. Thank God, because he wasn't sure he trusted a glass from her cabinets. Taking a drink, he scanned the room.

  "I know what you're thinking," she sai
d, sitting down beside him, so close their knees touched. Corrado wanted to move over, to get some personal space, but he was pinned right against the arm of the couch. "You're wondering why Vito would ever slum it with someone like me."

  "Actually, I'm wondering why my father would let you live like this. I thought he was better than that."

  "He is." Vivian frowned. "This place wasn't always this bad. I lived here when I met Vito, but I stayed with him so much that most of my stuff ended up at his house. I kept this apartment as Plan B, I guess. I knew he was married, so part of me always expected to end up back here. The building went to hell since then, but there isn't much I can do about it. Your mother took control of Vito's assets, and well, you see where that leaves me."

  Corrado surveyed the squalor again, watching a bug scurry across the floor. He put the lid back on his water, no longer thirsty.

  "I should be going," he said, standing up. "I just wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay."

  "I am," she said, not sounding confident. "Or I will be, anyway."

  Corrado headed toward the door, hesitating with his hand clutching the knob. Half a dozen locks aligned the splintered wooden door. "I'll see what I can do about getting you out of this place."

  "You don't have to do that," she replied, standing right behind him. "I know it has to be awkward, being around me, knowing what I was to your father."

  He shook his head, turning to her. She had warmth in her eyes, a softness to her face. He could see what Vito saw in her… kindness.

  That he didn't get from Erika.

  "No more awkward than being around my mother," he replied.

  He opened the door to leave when her body slammed against his, her arms wrapping around his torso from behind. She buried her face against his shoulder as a fresh wave of sobs rocked her.

  "Thank you," she whimpered. "You're a great man, so much like your father."

  Corrado nodded, acknowledging the compliment, and slipped away before she cried anymore.

  The stench from the building seemed to have embedded into the fabric of his clothes, infiltrating the fibers, pressing upon his skin. He drove home, breathing through his mouth to avoid smelling it any more than necessary.

  Celia wasn't home when he arrived. Heading upstairs, he stripped out of his clothes, throwing them in the hamper. They needed a good soaking. Feeling the same about himself, he jumped in the shower, standing under the hot spray, scrubbing his skin.

  Afterward, he threw on a pair of sweat pants and strolled downstairs, hearing noises in the kitchen. Celia worked studiously, putting away groceries. Corrado watched her for a bit, standing in the doorway until she spun around, catching him there.

  "Hey!" she said. "I hoped to get to see you tonight."

  "Here I am." He had missed dinner the night before, having to call and tell her he wouldn't be coming home. He had heard the disappointment in her voice, something that bothered him. He promised a night of just the two of them, no interruptions, a nice dinner where she didn't have to cook, and he planned to deliver.

  "How long are you home for?"

  "All night," he replied.

  "You, not working on a Friday night? I don't think that's ever happened before."

  He had bitten the bullet and entrusted the day-to-day operations to his crew. "I took a personal day."

  "A personal day? Is that like paid vacation?"

  "Something like that."

  "So what did you do on your personal day?"

  "Ran some errands."

  "Ran errands," she echoed, putting away the last of the groceries before walking over to him. "Sounds like work to me."

  He shrugged. Felt like work, too.

  "So you're all mine tonight?" she asked, pressing her hand flat against his bare chest. "No one else's?"

  "All yours," he replied, grabbing her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss on the back of it.

  "How about we order pizza and watch a movie?" she suggested. "We can watch one of those scary films you like."

  "Whatever you want."

  Poltergeist.

  Corrado had seen it a few times, but he never got Celia to sit down and watch with him. He pulled the VHS off the shelf, waving it at her, chuckling at the apprehension on her face.

  "Can't we get zombies or something instead?" she asked. "A little girl being kidnapped is bad enough. Adding evil spirits to it is unforgivable."

  He glanced at the shelf again, scanning the titles. "Night of the Living Dead?"

  "Sounds wretched," she said. "How about vampires?"

  "Salem's Lot."

  "Ugh." That one she sat through. "Werewolves?"

  "The Howling."

  "Do you have Teen Wolf?"

  "That's a comedy."

  "So? It's cute."

  "I don't do cute."

  "You do me," she argued. "I'm cute."

  He glanced over at her. She leaned against the arm of the couch, her knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. "You're beautiful, Celia. And that movie is terrible."

  "Fine." She huffed, waving him away. "Put in the first one, then."

  Corrado slid Poltergeist into the VCR and grabbed the remote before sitting down on the couch beside his wife. She shifted her body, snuggling up against him.

  Despite her reluctance, it didn't take long for Celia to get engrossed in the movie, so much so that when the ring of the doorbell echoed through the downstairs, a high-pitched yelp tore from her lips. She jumped, her eyes darting around in shock. Corrado held back laughter, his arm draped over her shoulder.

  Celia sat, frozen stiff, before logic seemed to return to her. "The delivery guy's here."

  "Okay." Did she think he couldn't hear? He sensed her gaze as the doorbell rang again. Dragging his attention from the movie, he saw the expectant look. "What?"

  She shook her head as she stood. "Don't worry, Corrado. I'll get the door."

  "Okay," he said again.

  "Sometimes I just don't know about you," she grumbled, grabbing her purse.

  He smiled, watching her stomp out. If she wanted him to get it, all she had to do was ask.

  She returned with the food and placed it on the coffee table before sitting back down on the couch. The plain box had an orange checkerboard pattern, Pizza written along the top. Dolce Vita Pizza had closed down the year before, the economic downturn taking a hit at businesses in the neighborhood, but the building hadn't stayed empty long. A mere two months later, a white Grand Opening banner flapped in the wind beneath the brand new sign reading Tarullo's Pizzeria.

  Bought and paid for by John Tarullo with the money he received from his father's life insurance policy.

  Corrado opened the lid, taking in the massive hoard of pepperoni piled on top of the pizza. Celia grabbed a slice, winking at him.

  He took a piece. "This counts as your dinner rain check."

  "No, it doesn't," she said. "We're not even sitting at the table."

  "So? We said dinner; this is dinner."

  "It doesn't count as a real dinner if we don't have plates or forks."

  "Yes, it does."

  "No, it doesn't."

  "Then what is this, if not dinner?"

  She shrugged. "Call it a snack for all I care. It doesn't count."

  "Then what's for dinner tonight?"

  "Nothing," she said. "We're not having dinner tonight."

  "Who doesn't have dinner?"

  "We don't," she said. "Not when we order pizza."

  She was one of the most stubborn people he had ever encountered. "You're wrong."

  "I'm right," she said, turning away to watch the movie again.

  Before he could counter, the phone beside him rang. He tensed at the sound and Celia laughed. "Okay, maybe I'm wrong, after all. The phone is interrupting, so it must be dinner."

  Sometimes it seemed like she just enjoyed giving him a hard time. "I won't answer it."

  "You will," she said. "What if it's important?"

  "It can wait.
"

  "What if it's my dad?"

  "It's not."

  "You won't know that until you answer it."

  Knowing she wouldn't drop it, he snatched up the phone, eyes still on the television. "Moretti speaking."

  "Corrado." Antonio's voice greeted him. "You busy tonight?"

  He hesitated. "No, sir."

  "Good," he said. "I got something that needs taken care of. Come to my house."

  The line went dead. Without saying another word, Corrado hung up the phone and set his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box.

  As usual, she was right.

  "Like I said…" Celia kicked her feet up on the couch, shifting away from him, her attention returning to the movie. "…this doesn't count as my rain check."

  The house was pitch black when Corrado got back home in the wee hours of the morning. The cold, stale air hung eerily silent. Corrado walked to the living room to start a fire, not close to being tired, knowing Celia would be asleep at this hour.

  He stepped into the room and reached for the light switch when movement on the couch caught his eye. He froze, heart thumping wildly, as he stared at the form in the darkness. The light from the window, a nearby streetlight, gave enough of a glow for him to make out her features. "Celia?"

  "Who is she?"

  Her tone was icier than the house.

  "Who?"

  "Don't do that," she said, a quiver in her voice. "Don't treat me that way, Corrado. Be a man and tell me."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't lie to me!"

  He flicked the switch, wincing at the sudden bright light, as he stepped closer to the couch. Celia jumped up, her hair a mess, makeup wiped off. She didn't cry… no, not anymore… but she had. Her bloodshot eyes were puffy.