Made

by J. M. Darhower

  "Yeah?"

  "My gun."

  A sinister smirk twisted Luca's lips. "My gun now."

  Corrado's stomach twisted in knots. Vito had handed him that gun after the incident at the casino, telling him to keep it, that it was lucky. Although Corrado didn't believe in luck, the gun was special to him.

  Other than the long ago fractured bat, it was the only thing he remembered Vito ever giving him.

  He wanted to argue, to demand it back, but a voice in the back of his head told him to retreat.

  Corrado slipped into his car and drove away, his hands trembling against the steering wheel. He went straight home, arriving before dawn, the sky lightening but the neighborhood still startlingly dark. On his porch sat a figure, the soft orange glow of a lit cigar illuminating his father's face.

  Vito glanced up as he approached. "You make out okay?"

  Corrado shrugged. "I survived."

  Vito flicked ashes onto the sidewalk as Corrado sat down beside him. "Looks like you're getting a nasty bruise on your cheek. You didn't draw on him, did you?"

  Corrado rubbed his jaw, wincing. "Yeah, I did."

  "You can kiss that gun goodbye." Vito chuckled under his breath. "Guess you'll know better next time."

  He narrowed his eyes, studying his father. Next time? Vito peeked at him, seeing the questions in his eyes… questions he wouldn't ask. He knew better.

  "The crazy bastard's good at what he does," Vito explained. "Nobody's better. And if he ain't working for you, he's working against you. Remember that."

  Vito stood, clasping his son's shoulder and laughing lightly to himself. "Better find yourself another gun somewhere, kid."

  No, he wanted his gun. And he would get it back someday.

  A few days later, Corrado watched the news when a familiar face flashed on the grainy screen. Johnny Canella, reputed mob associate, had been reported missing, vanished from his bed as he slept beside his wife.

  A chill shot down Corrado's spine. Luca Esponzio struck again.

  Less than two weeks later, Vito showed back up at Corrado's door in the middle of the night, again carrying a thick envelope. Corrado stared at it with disbelief before getting dressed and heading out, concealing his new dull black pistol in his coat. He'd bought it off one of the local thugs, the serial numbers scratched off, the trigger stiff and hard to squeeze. He hated the feel of it, missed the ease of his revolver, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  He drove across town to the address on Kessler Street, stepping onto the porch and knocking on the door. Once again he heard the subtle rustling, but this time he remained still, not reacting. His heart hammered in his chest in anticipation as shadows swept across the small porch, the man stepping behind him, towering over him.

  "Back again, I see."

  Corrado said nothing as Luca reached past him, unlocking the door and again violently shoving him inside. He stood there, pulling out the envelope and holding it out. Luca took it, once more skimming through the cash and glancing at the included photo before taking his spot on the couch with a container of Chinese.

  He clearly had a strict schedule, one he stuck to in order to keep himself straight. Following a routine cut down on the number of mistakes you likely made, but it also painted you very predictable. A trait of a true psychopath. Methodical. Organized.

  "You can go," Luca said, waving him off without Corrado ever speaking.

  Every few weeks he repeated the visit, so much so that by the fifth time, Luca merely opened the door, and Corrado strolled in on his own. Luca took the envelope, settling on the couch with his dinner, hardly even sparing Corrado a glance.

  "You try Lang Miens yet?" he asked, obnoxiously chewing a mouthful of orange chicken.

  "No."

  "You don't know what you're missing," Luca said. "I could eat it every day."

  More containers had piled up over the weeks. Corrado suspected he did eat it every day.

  "I'll try it this week," Corrado said.

  Luca glanced at him, eyes narrowed as if gauging whether Corrado were lying to him. "Get on out of here. Grab some on the way home. You won't regret it."

  Corrado nodded, turning to leave, when a flash of silver caught his eye. He hesitated, watching as Luca pulled out the familiar revolver.

  My gun.

  The man set it beside him on the couch.

  It took everything in Corrado walk out the door.

  Next time, he told himself.

  There would be more visits, more opportunities.

  But much to Corrado's surprise, the envelopes stopped being delivered.

  9

  Winter had come early to Chicago. A frosty wind whipped through the neighborhood, violently shaking the tall maple trees that surrounded the brick mansion at the end of Felton Drive. Thick wet flakes fell from the sky, sporadically sticking wherever they landed, while a thin layer of ice coated everything. It glistened, like a fresh topcoat of clear paint.

  Corrado stood in the middle of the slick driveway, huddling between his father and a Cadillac DeVille. The Boss's car, he knew. He'd seen it drive by a few times, seen it parked outside his father's house twice, but he'd never been so close to it before.

  In fact, he rarely even got this close to the Boss.

  Antonio DeMarco, the Don of the Chicago syndicate, stood on his porch, surrounded by some of the most dangerous men in the country. Salvatore Capozzi, the underboss, stood statuesque on Antonio’s right. He was hefty with a high-pitched voice, like an Italian Porky Pig without the stutter. On Antonio’s left was Sonny Evola, his consigliere. Sonny was tall, six-and-a-half feet, but walked slumped over because of scoliosis.

  They were the top rungs of the ladder, the men who called the shots. Corrado had encountered Antonio once before, as a child, in his father's office at The Flamingo.

  He was even more intimidating in his own territory.

  All around them stood La Cosa Nostra's finest, most of whom Corrado didn't know. They were the most powerful Capo's, the strongest soldiers, the ones who night-after-night terrorized Chicago's streets. As a mere street runner, Corrado knew he didn't belong there, but he'd been with his father when Vito got the call to show up.

  “What we gonna do, Boss?” a capo asked. “This is getting out of control.”

  “I know it is,” Antonio said. “Why do you think I called you here? It needs handled. Now.”

  “I’ll do it,” someone chimed in from the center of the crowd. “Whatever it is. Let me do it.”

  Corrado had no idea what they were discussing, the meaning of the meeting lost on him. Cold seeped through his thick wool coat, the damp air feeling like ice clinging to his skin. He tried to ignore it, keeping a straight face while they talked, but it proved difficult. He wasn't yet used to the cold weather, so every snowflake made him shiver even more.

  The house he stayed in was only a few blocks down the street. He considered heading home, to get out of the cold, but walking out while the bosses were talking? That was asking for a death sentence.

  The Boss surveyed the crowd, not saying much of anything. Corrado's teeth chattered while he waited, another shiver ripping down his spine as his gloved hands gripped his coat tighter around himself. He rocked on his heels, anxious for dismissal, so unfocused that he didn't notice the Boss watching him until he spoke.

  “Are you cold?” Antonio asked.

  Corrado glanced at him, sensing the impatience in his voice. “No, sir.”

  “Really?” Antonio asked, raising an eyebrow. “You shivered.”

  “Excitement.”

  “Your teeth were chattering.”

  “Anticipation.”

  The curt responses flew from his lips. Beside him, his father cursed under his breath. Not good.

  Antonio’s eyes narrowed. Corrado knew little about the Boss, only the stories he'd been told and the vague childhood memory from years ago. He knew the man lacked tolerance, though, and it wasn't easy to earn his respect.


  And Corrado had a sneaking suspicion based on the man's expression that what little respect he might've earned for just being there had already withered away.

  “Since you seem to be so eager, I have a job for you,” Antonio said. “Do you know Luca Esponzio?"

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the men. Everyone in the godforsaken city knew the name. Corrado didn't know if it were a trick question, given he'd been handling business with him, and decided to tread lightly in case it was a test.

  “I’ve heard of him,” he said. “The serial killer.”

  “Right.” Antonio glanced around at the others again and shook his head. “You see, he’s being a thorn in my side, and I need it removed right away. You get what I’m saying?”

  Corrado nodded. “You want him taken care of.”

  “Exactly. You think you can do that for me? You think you can get rid of my little problem?”

  Corrado remained stoic. “Yes, sir.”

  Antonio dismissed him with the wave of a hand. “Do it, then.”

  “How will you know I did it?”

  The question came out abruptly, catching Antonio off guard. He seemed torn between answering and killing him. “He wears a ring, middle finger. It’s covered in diamonds, a big L in the center of it. Bring it to me.”

  Corrado remembered that ring. Without another word, he disappeared into the night, feeling the Boss's eyes on him as he strolled away. He reached his father's Lincoln and slipped into the passenger seat, turning the key dangling in the ignition. The heat blared, a burning stench filling the car as he cranked it the entire way up to thaw his frozen body. To hell with walking.

  Vito climbed in beside him and slammed his hands against the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

  "What?"

  "You can't take on Esponzio," Vito said, raising his voice. "No fuckin' way. He's a savage. He'll chop you up in pieces and throw you in a barrel of acid. And he'll do it without even breaking a sweat! No… no way. You ain't doing it."

  Corrado glared at his father as they drove away from the house, tires squealing as the car skidded down the icy driveway. Vito doubted him. He underestimated him.

  Corrado would show him.

  "The crews will get him," Vito continued. "You just lay low until it blows over. The Boss will be pissed, yeah, but he'll get over it once Esponzio's dead. He'll forgive you. He's that kind of man."

  Despair laced Vito's words as his voice dropped low. Antonio DeMarco wasn't that type of man. He couldn't be to run the business. He wouldn't forgive.

  Vito pulled up in front of Corrado's house, the car again skidding, nearly hitting a man crossing the street. The guy yelled, slamming his hands down on the hood of the Lincoln as he berated Vito about his driving. Corrado expected his father to lash out—to shoot the guy—but he merely muttered, "Fuck off!"

  Corrado climbed out and stood on the curb in the darkness, watching the taillights of the Lincoln as it sped away. As soon as it disappeared from sight, Corrado pulled out his keys and took the journey to Kessler Street.

  The neighborhood was quiet, as usual, the boarded-up brick building seeming as vacant as ever. Corrado parked down the street, gripping the gun in his coat as he headed onto the small porch. He took a few deep breaths, trying to prepare himself, before tapping on the door.

  He waited. And knocked. And waited. And knocked. Eventually he heard the subtle rustling, barely detectable. He remained still, watching the porch around his feet and waiting for the man's hulking shadow to fall over him. It happened finally, and Corrado clutched the gun tighter, his finger hovering on the trigger. He started to greet Luca, to shoot him, when the shadow whisked away. The sound of crackling brush met his ears, accompanied by hushed voices around the side of the house.

  Corrado barely had time to look at Luca when the man pulled the revolver from his coat. Gunshots shattered the night air as he blindly fired around the side of the house at whoever approached. Mere seconds passed before screams accompanied the noise and gunfire returned.

  An ambush.

  Someone had beaten Corrado there.

  Heart thudding in his throat, Corrado dodged off the porch. He wasn't one to retreat from a fight, but he knew better than to involve himself in someone else's battle.

  Furious didn't cover his feelings as he drove home. A familiar numbness coated his body as his thoughts raced. The pure resentment brewing inside of him caused a fracture, forcing a detachment between body and mind. Underestimating him was one thing… undermining him was another.

  He could've done it.

  He would've done it.

  They hadn't even given him the chance.

  He'd show them.

  He'd show all of them.

  "Can I get you something?"

  Corrado reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the glass door of Dolce Vita Pizza, glancing at the boy with a filthy red apron tied around his waist. He barely looked old enough to be off the tit, much less working there.

  "Water."

  Corrado turned away again, thinking the boy would take a hint, but he didn't budge.

  "Nothing to eat?"

  "No."

  "We make a fantastic deep dish pie."

  "No."

  From the corner of his eye, Corrado watched the boy shrug before walking away, whistling to himself. Corrado focused his attention back through the glass door, out to the quiet neighborhood. The pizzeria would be closing soon for the night, as would the small green building across the street. Lang Miens. The florescent sign flickered, half-lit, the dim restaurant vacant except for the couple working. A woman at the front counter, cashing out the register, while a man occasionally popped his head out from the back.

  It had been two days since the ambush… and ambush that left half a crew dead and Luca Esponzio missing. Nobody knew where he'd run off to, but he hadn't gone back to his hideout on Kessler Street. He was in the wind, they believed, but Corrado knew better.

  Luca was a man of habit.

  Corrado glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until midnight.

  The boy returned with the water, setting it down on the table in front of Corrado. "Here you go."

  Corrado nodded his thanks. He had no intention of drinking it.

  The boy lingered there as if waiting for Corrado to speak, but gave up and walked away. Corrado's focus remained outside as he counted down time in his head.

  At a quarter till, the woman at the register grabbed her purse and walked out the front door… exactly like the day before.

  Corrado stared at the building, watching, waiting. At ten till, a cloaked form stalked down the street, heading right for Lang Miens. Luca stealthily slipped inside the restaurant, keeping his head down. He moved like a shadow, blending into his surroundings, and disappeared into the back where the lone worker waited.

  Exactly like the day before.

  A moment later, Luca reappeared, carrying his dinner. Orange Chicken, Corrado knew. Just like every other day.

  After Luca vanished around the side of the building, Corrado tore his gaze away from the door. He grabbed a few dollars from his wallet and tossed them on the table, nodding politely at the boy working before leaving to go home.

  Twenty-four hours later, Corrado strolled back into the pizzeria, taking the table adjacent to the door again. Before he could do anything, the boy from yesterday approached, carrying a glass of ice water. "Water," he said, setting it down on the table in front of him.

  Corrado was put off by it. "Thanks."

  "You want to try that deep dish today?"

  "No."

  "Sure?"

  "Positive."

  He shrugged. "Okay, then. Let me know if you change your mind. My name's John, by the way."

  Corrado spared him a glance, seeing his expectant look, as if he anticipated him actually introducing himself.

  Ignoring, Corrado glanced at his watch before focusing his attention outside. He couldn't be bothered with pesky pizzeria workers today. Twenty minutes until
show time.

  At a quarter till, the lady working at Lang Miens packed up to leave. Corrado stood, tossing a few bucks down on the table, and headed outside. After making sure the area was clear of threats, he headed across the street as the woman left. He slipped inside, cringing as a bell on the door chimed. It startled him—he hadn't accounted for it—but he didn't have time to hesitate.

  "Luca, my man," the guy hollered from the back. "Your Orange Chicken is coming right up."

  As he walked, Corrado unfastened his tie, pulling it off. Gripping the ends of it with both hands, he shoved the door open to the kitchen and caught the worker off guard by jumping him from behind. Corrado wound the tie tightly around his neck, pulling it from both ends with all his strength, cutting off his flow of air. He gasped, struggling to breathe, and tried to fight off the attack, but Corrado held on. In less than a minute, his body went limp, passing out from lack of oxygen. Corrado let go, not wanting to kill the man, and he dropped to the floor. His head hit the linoleum with a sickening crack.

  Corrado retrieved his tie, carefully slipping it around his neck again, before glancing at his watch. Two minutes to go.

  Just like clockwork, the bell above the door chimed two minutes later. Heart hammering in his chest, Corrado reached into his coat and pulled out a gun. This was it. In thirty seconds, one of them would be dead.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and Corrado didn't hesitate. The moment he caught a flash of Luca's face, he aimed and squeezed the stiff trigger. The explosive gunshot echoed through the restaurant, making Corrado's ears ring as a bullet ripped through Luca's forehead, exploding out the back of his skull. Eyes as wide as saucers, he plunged to the floor instantly.

  Corrado was in a haze, his hearing fuzzy as he dropped the pistol and walked the few steps over to Luca. Gloved hands grasped Luca, and Corrado tried to pry the ring off, but it wouldn't budge past the first knuckle.

  Glancing around, Corrado grabbed a butcher's knife from the counter and a rag. Without giving it a second thought—knowing he'd lose the nerve if he dwelled on it—he hacked the finger with the blade, whacking it off. He wrapped it up in the rag and slipped it into his coat before patting Luca down. Reaching into the man's pocket, he pulled out the shiny Ruger Mark II revolver.