Made

  On the contrary, Corrado knew nothing about it. Except for a few vague childhood memories, their operations around Nevada remained a mystery to him.

  He, respectfully, pointed that out, but Antonio dismissed it. "Doesn't matter. You could use a vacation."

  So Corrado stood beside his rental car in the desert, just over the border into California, surveying the barren ground, mulling over the Boss's words. Nothing to see for miles except cracked earth with a splash of occasional trees. That wasn't Corrado's idea of a vacation.

  Who would ever come to this hellhole willingly?

  A door opening drew his attention to the lone house in the vicinity. He had driven in circles around the abandoned town of Blackburn for over an hour before catching a gleam of something off in the distance. There was no mailbox, no sign, nothing to indicate anyone lived there, but as Corrado followed the narrow, worn path through the desert, he came upon the large ranch.

  Frankie Antonelli stepped out onto the porch, his sleeves rolled up. "I see you found the place."

  "Wasn't easy."

  "That's the point. Hard to get in, even harder to get out." Frankie waved him forward. "Come on out of the heat."

  Corrado stepped inside, expecting the man to lead him to his office, but instead he veered left to the living room. Corrado took a seat in the closest chair as Frankie plopped down on the couch, documents splayed out in front of him on the coffee table.

  "Monica!" Frankie shouted. "Come here!"

  Footsteps descended the adjacent stairs. In less than a minute a woman appeared, wearing a yellow summer dress, her dark hair pulled up. She stalled in the doorway, not coming any closer. "Yeah?"

  Frankie glanced up at her before motioning to Corrado. "That's my wife, Monica. Monica, honey, this is Corrado Moretti."

  His name sparked something in Monica's eyes. "Katrina's brother."

  Corrado refused to humor that title with a response.

  "Yeah," Frankie answered for him. "The in-laws."

  "Well, it's nice to meet you, Corrado," Monica said.

  He nodded. "You, too."

  "Before you go back upstairs, get us something to drink." Frankie focused on the stacks of paper. "Bourbon for me and whatever Corrado here wants."

  "Water," Corrado said.

  Monica disappeared, returning with their drinks. She hesitated in the doorway again, holding them, not stepping any closer.

  She knew better than to come near Frankie's work.

  Seeing her conflicted expression, Corrado stood and stepped toward her, taking his water and Frankie's alcohol. He thanked her, seeing the relief in her eyes, while Frankie blatantly ignored her.

  Corrado watched her curiously as she left. He couldn't imagine ever treating his wife so dismissively.

  Over the next few hours, Frankie broke down the Vegas scheme for Corrado… things his father had never bothered to explain. The entire operation was being shifted to Frankie, territories Vito once controlled being turned over. Corrado helped him line up connections to make the takeover as smooth as possible, using his family to bridge the divide. Antonelli was a made man and had seniority, but he had never earned the clout in Vegas that the Moretti name carried.

  After all, Vito Moretti was a legend in the streets.

  It neared dusk when Corrado grew tired and hungry. He smelled food cooking in the kitchen, the scent of simmering marinara. It seemed to be affecting Frankie too, because he closed a notebook and sat back. "How about we call it a night?"

  Corrado nodded. He could use a long shower and some sleep.

  "Wanna stay for dinner?" Frankie asked. "Monica makes a mean Chicken Parmesan."

  "Not tonight," Corrado said.

  "Tomorrow, then." Frankie reached out to shake his hand. "I won't take no for an answer."

  Corrado stepped out of the living room just as Monica burst out of the kitchen, sweating, an apron shielding her dress.

  "Leaving?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," Corrado said. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

  She smiled sweetly as he left.

  The moment Corrado stepped onto the porch, the heat blasted him again, nearly taking his breath away. He inhaled, blinking a few times to adjust to the dusty air, as he scanned the property. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a young woman along the nearby horse stables, her back to him. The screen door slamming behind him caught her attention, and she swung around, stunning Corrado with the swell of her stomach beneath her filthy white tank top. Pregnant.

  Corrado's eyes narrowed as he scanned her. She was a small girl… young and naturally pretty, with a round, soft face. No more than sixteen, with rich sun-kissed skin, splashed with red along her cheeks. "I wasn't aware you had a daughter."

  The Antonellis didn't have one. Michael was an only child. This girl… she wasn't theirs.

  "Yeah, uh, no… she's not my child."

  "Is she carrying your child?"

  That thought was unfathomable to Corrado as the memory of Pascal invaded his mind. Not long after Vincent had killed Pascal, Alex had also been found dead. Corrado didn't ask who did it, didn't question it, but part of him wondered if Vincent had more blood on his hands.

  "No," Frankie said. "I'd never touch the girl like that."

  "But somebody did."

  Corrado left it at that. The man remained silent, but shame shined from his eyes.

  Not his child... his grandchild?

  Michael Antonelli was that kind of person.

  Corrado turned back to the girl, watching as she clutched her stomach and winced, hunching over as the pain registered on her face. It was brief, lasting a few seconds before she straightened back up.

  Corrado stepped off the porch, motioning toward the girl. "She's going to have that baby soon."

  "I know," Frankie grumbled. "I figure it's due in another two months or so."

  "More like days," Corrado stressed, glancing back at the girl as another wave of pain hit her. "Or maybe even hours."

  Early the next morning, Corrado arrived back at the Antonelli ranch to find a much somber atmosphere. Frankie sat on the couch, his voice barely a mutter as the two of them finished work.

  Monica was nowhere to be found.

  Frankie offered him a drink, getting up to get it himself. Corrado watched him skeptically when he got back to work. "It's peculiar that you have help around here, yet your wife does the cooking and you're serving."

  Frankie paused, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. He was silent for a moment before picking up where he left off. "Ever hear you sound like your father?"

  "Occasionally."

  "My son's nothing like me."

  It didn't escape Corrado's notice that he deflected the attention instead of addressing it.

  "I blame his mother," Frankie continued. "I'm guessing yours didn't coddle you."

  "Unless coddling involves bruises and welts, no."

  "Spare the rod, spoil the child," Frankie muttered. "I tried to teach Mikey right, but his mother made him think the world owes him. She spoiled him. And she's spoiling the girl, too."

  Corrado's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Spoiling a slave?

  "You were right," Frankie said. "The girl had that baby late last night. Monica found them, wanted to bring them in the house. She's always trying to do that."

  "Does she have a name?"

  "I don't know," he muttered. "I didn't ask about the bastard."

  "I meant the girl."

  "Oh. Yeah. We call her Miranda."

  "And you're keeping..." your granddaughter "...the bastard?"

  "She's here, isn't she?"

  Frankie's voice turned defensive. Corrado dropped the subject, knowing better than to push him.

  They finished their work mid-afternoon, and Corrado left, never once seeing Monica. There was no invitation for dinner.

  He wouldn't have stayed, anyway.

  He had other things to do.

  The house was a disaster. A layer of dirt coated the w
ooden floor, a muddy carpet adorned with footprints. Glass shards splattered the short path, sunlight reflecting off of them like twinkling stars.

  Corrado didn't knock. All hope of civility had gone out the window months ago. He had a purpose and it had nothing to do with playing nice.

  The rotten stench of decay hung thickly, not an ounce of air flowing through the house. He closed the door behind him, blocking the natural light, everything falling into darkness.

  It was eerily silent, not a single noise. No humming, no buzzing...

  No electricity.

  Some people never change.

  Corrado strode through the downstairs, stopping in the living room. No sign of his mother.

  He sat down on the couch, his shoes crunching in a pile of debris. Glancing beside him, he was surprised to see his father's face smiling back at him. The frame was broken, only a few jagged pieces of glass still connected to it. The picture had been scratched up, handled so much the faces were smudged with fingerprints.

  The only family photo they ever took.

  Corrado had been seven at the time and dressed in a suit that matched his father's perfectly—black, with a light blue button down and black silk tie. Vito was impeccable, as always, whereas Corrado's shirt was covered in wrinkles from playing, his tie crooked and loose from him fiddling with it all afternoon. Staring at the photo, glancing between him and his father, he noticed the resemblance for the first time. He had his father's strong jawline and deep, dark eyes, his curls and even the same cockeyed smirk. He never much noticed it growing up, but now, looking back, he saw what everyone else saw.

  Looking at himself, he saw Vito.

  His mother hadn't left him uncontaminated, though. Although he had learned to hide his feelings like his father, he shared a common anger with his mother… anger that churned deep inside of him when he heard the tromping on the floor above. The footsteps headed down the stairs. He heard her profanity laced muttering as she navigated her way to the kitchen, avoiding the jagged glass. Cabinets banging, things tossed around, the unmistakable sound of a bottle of wine being uncorked. Corrado remained silent, sitting back on the couch as he set the photo face down on the table.

  Vito wouldn't want to see what was happening there today.

  Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his revolver, spinning the cylinder nonchalantly. The subtle ticking reverberated through the air void of all other noises. The footsteps started back out of the kitchen as she headed his way.

  He caught sight of her from his peripheral when she entered the dark room, a full glass of wine in one hand with the rest of the bottle in the other. "I'm surprised you bother with a glass at all."

  The sound of his chilling voice stalled her footsteps and shocked her so much she jumped. The glass slipped from her hand, shattering as soon as it hit the floor. She nearly lost her grasp on the bottle but caught it by the rim, clinging to it with a shaky hand. She stared at him, trying to pull herself together and hide her surprise, but even in the darkness, it was clear as day.

  "I guess I won't be bothering now," she mumbled, glancing down at the glass before taking a drink straight from the bottle.

  Shaking his head, Corrado spun the gun's cylinder once more before closing it. "Where is he?"

  "Who?"

  "My father."

  She laughed as she took another drink. The fear faded, her posture relaxing. "You always were an idiot, Corrado, but I didn't think you were delusional. He's dead. Gone. Never coming back."

  Corrado acted like she hadn't spoken as he asked again. "Where is he?"

  "Go to Hell," she spat. "That's where you'll find him."

  Corrado was on his feet, lunging at his mother before her diluted senses even realized he'd left the couch. He snatched a hold of her, his firm hand wrapping around her neck as he shoved her into the wall so hard everything around her shook. She gasped painfully, stunned, losing her grip on the bottle of wine. It clattered to the floor, tipping over, the red alcohol spilling out all around her bare feet.

  He leaned in close, his voice dangerously low. "Tell me what you did with him."

  The time for questions was over.

  "I burned that bastard until he was nothing," she growled, struggling against him, but he was too strong and she was much, much too drunk.

  "Give me his remains."

  "Too late," she said. "They're gone."

  "I need them."

  She laughed again, the humor choked as he grasped her tighter, anger surging through him.

  "There's nothing funny about this," he said. "My father deserves to be buried. He deserves a funeral."

  "I gave your father exactly what he deserved. I made sure he was nothing more than dust in the wind."

  "No."

  "Yes. I dumped him on the ground and kicked him around until he blew away."

  "You wouldn't."

  "I did," she said. "He never wanted to be here, anyway. This time, he's gone for good."

  Losing his composure, Corrado slammed her back against the wall again, so hard she lost her breath, as he pointed his gun to her temple.

  "Do it," she taunted, tears streaming from the corner of her eyes, the sight of them stalling Corrado's finger as it hovered over the trigger. "Kill me."

  He glowered at her, pinning her against the wall.

  "Do it!" She spit right in his face. "I dare you!"

  Corrado let go of her, stepping back as he lowered the gun. Hesitating, he slipped it back in his coat and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  "You fucking coward!" she yelled, her tears coming on harder, choking her words as she shook. "You're just as chicken shit as he was!"

  He pointed at her, trying to rein in his anger. "Killing you would be too merciful. Instead, I'll give you what you deserve… misery. You can stay here, all alone in your house, and drink yourself to death for all I care. Because you're already dead to me, mother."

  "Fuck you!" She came toward him, but he turned his back to her and went for the front door. "You were dead to me the day you were born, Corrado! I never wanted you. Nobody did, and nobody ever will!"

  He paused as he opened the front door, watching as she winced in the afternoon sunshine, backing away from the light as if allergic to it. "I used to believe you when you said that, but you're wrong. Somebody told me a long time ago that you were wrong about me, and I should've believed her. She was a better woman than you'll ever be."

  "Who?"

  "Zia," he said. "My Zia."

  With that, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Vito's Lincoln was parked in the driveway, gleaming under the sun's rays. Every window had been shattered, the outside dented, scratches carved into the paint. Corrado ran his hand along the hood as he walked around it, the metal burning his fingertips. He let out a deep sigh, gazing at it, seeing his father's fedora on the driver's seat.

  Reaching through the broken window, he grabbed the hat and placed it on his head, cockeyed. He gave one last look at the Lincoln before turning away.

  "Arrivederci, Dad."

  41

  "This is absurd," Corrado muttered, pulling the oversized black hoodie on overtop of his plain white t-shirt. The temperature outside hovered in the mid-sixties. Sweat already started building beneath the layers.

  He grabbed the bulletproof vest from the bench as Celia groaned. "Now that is absurd. Do I have to wear it?"

  "Absolutely."

  He motioned for her to come closer and she begrudgingly shuffled his way, a pout on her lips. He pulled the heavy vest on over her fitted white tank top, securing it tightly, before handing her one of his long-sleeve black button down shirts. She put it on, buttoning it the whole way up. It hung loose on her frame, but not as loose as the camouflage cargo pants she wore. She drowned in them.

  Vincent's pants, apparently.

  "You don't have to wear a vest," she whined, tugging at her heavy clothes. "Why do I?"

  "I'm made of Kevlar, remember?" he joked, pulling on his favo
rite black leather gloves. They clung to his hands like a second skin while Celia shoved her hands in a pair of enormous camouflage gloves.

  Vincent's again.

  She continued to pout as Corrado grabbed the black knit hat and put it on her, tugging it down around her ears. His hands grasped the sides of her head as he stared her in the eyes.

  "You're fierce," he said, kissing her forehead as he concealed his smile. She was a mere house kitten trying to wander into a lion's den. "I don't know what possessed you to want to do this, though."

  "Daddy thought it was a great idea."

  Corrado tensed. The Boss. "He's not coming, is he?"

  "No, he said his involvement would be unfair."

  Thank God. "I can't believe he'd even approve of this."

  She shrugged weakly, her shoulders bogged down from the armor. "He said it would be interesting."

  Interesting, indeed, but still... absurd.

  Corrado loosened his hold on her, gently smoothing her hair flowing out from beneath the hat, as he glanced around the dingy locker room. There were a dozen people besides the two of them. Corrado recognized them all—if not by name, by face. Nine men, including Vincent and Manny, the others just guys on his crew. The three women were less familiar... Sonny Evola's daughter, Manny's wife, and one of Celia's long-time friends.

  Everyone was clad in layers of protective clothing and body armor. Corrado was probably the least prepared. "I'm just not sure about us doing this."

  "Oh, come on," she said. "Don't ruin your party, Corrado. You've never had one before."

  He regretted sharing that tidbit of information. "I'm not eleven, Celia. It's not a big deal."

  "You're thirty," she said. "That makes it an even bigger deal."

  She grabbed a protective mask and shoved it at him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to argue. Corrado took it, conceding. He still thought it was a terrible idea, but he wouldn't spoil her special day.

  Even if it was his birthday.

  He perched the mask on top of his head as he picked up the gun, getting a feel for it. Paintball.

  "You know I'll kill anyone who shoots you," Corrado said, eyeing the weapon.

  "You won't," she said playfully. "No murdering on your birthday."