Made

by J. M. Darhower

  "Tell me what's wrong."

  She frantically held the paper up. As soon as he read the front-page headline, he knew what it was about.

  Chicago Man Brutally Murdered in His Home

  "Someone killed him," she cried. "They killed Daddy's best friend!"

  Corrado had prepared for a lot of things. He wouldn't have even been surprised had she accused him of the crime. But those words astonished him. "Antonio's best friend?"

  She nodded. "Daddy must be devastated! And Johnny... Oh God, Johnny! Remember Johnny from the pizzeria? This is his dad!"

  Corrado stared at her as she shook the paper in his face, trying to process that information. He took the newspaper from her and stared down at it. "I thought Sal was your father's best friend. Or maybe Sonny..."

  "They work with him," she said. "Virgil was different."

  Virgil. So that was what the 'V' stood for.

  "How was he different?"

  "Daddy trusts Sal and Sonny. Daddy respects them. But Virgil? Daddy loves him. They're like brothers."

  Love. Peculiar thing, the way Antonio DeMarco showed his love.

  "They all grew up together," Celia continued. "Daddy, Sonny, Sal, Virgil. They went to the same schools, did everything together. Virgil decided to go his own way when the rest of them went into the business, but they stayed friends. Daddy's even godfather to his Johnny! Oh God, and now Virgil's dead…"

  Celia grabbed the phone, still rambling, but Corrado knew the words weren't for him. Figuring she was calling her parents, he walked out to give her some privacy, heading upstairs to the bedroom to change. Yesterday's suit still clung to his body, soiled from sweat and sex, heavy with memories of sin and bloodshed.

  He skimmed through the article as he walked. Virgil Tarullo, found dead in his home shortly before eleven o'clock by his wife and son. No sign of forced entry. No suspects. No one saw anything. Virgil was a picture-perfect family man who had no enemies.

  He had a best friend instead.

  He stepped in his bedroom, shutting the door, when a sharp intake of air caught his attention. Looking up, his eyes met Maura across the room, a horrified expression on her face. He'd shut them in together.

  He tossed the paper down on the dresser and reopened the door. "I forgot you were here."

  "I, uh… sorry."

  He held his hand up to stop her apologies. His bed was stripped bare to the mattress, his sheets and blankets and pillows in a pile on the floor. "Did you do something to my bed?"

  "I slept in it."

  "And?"

  "And I thought… well… I didn't think you'd want to use these sheets after…"

  After she slept on them. She didn't finish, but he knew where that was going. "The washing machine is downstairs beside my office."

  "Yes, sir."

  She gathered it all up and lugged it from the room. He waited until she was gone before shutting the door again. After stripping out of his clothes, he headed into the bathroom to shower.

  He stood under the hot spray, steam fogging the mirrors as the scalding water rained down upon him. His skin tinged pink as pins and needles crept across his back, the tingling burn seeping below the surface. He stood there, silent, stoic, letting the water wash away his sins.

  A cool blast of air rushed through, chills sweeping over him. Celia climbed in the shower with him, a sharp scream piercing the air as she dodged the water. "Jesus, Corrado, that burns!"

  Reaching over, he turned the knobs to cool the water down. Once it had chilled she stepped in front of him, into the spray. He wrapped his arms around her, letting the coldness soothe the burning of his flesh.

  "I want to go see Daddy," Celia said. "Will you come with me?"

  "Anything you want."

  "I want Virgil back," she whispered. "I want him not to be dead."

  "I can't give you that."

  "I know," she said. "I know you would if you could, though."

  He said nothing, continuing to hold her in silence for a moment, before finally letting go. He stepped out of the shower, leaving her to wash those thoughts away in peace.

  A gloomy heaviness hung in every corner and walkway of the DeMarco residence, infiltrating Corrado's lungs with each breath he took. Antonio sat behind his desk as Sal and Sonny took their usual spots along the side of the office, sipping on scotch despite it being ten o'clock in the morning.

  Antonio held a glass, too, not drinking it. He stared down at the golden colored liquid, swirling it around and around in his glass, lines of worry marking his troubled face. Distress was evident in all the men… never-ending frowns, bloodshot eyes, a silence that spoke louder than words could convey. Corrado stood in the doorway, unmoving, detaching, as he tried to make sense where no sense could be made.

  Celia rushed toward her father, bolting around the desk. Sonny, usually on alert whenever anyone approached the Boss, barely even looked up. Antonio set his glass down as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, Daddy. I'm so, so sorry."

  "Thank you, sweetheart." Antonio's voice was strained. "I can't believe it."

  "I know," she said. "What his poor family must've seen!"

  "They said it was gruesome," Antonio replied. "It's gonna take a fucking bulldozer to rid that house of that mess. Stabbed right in the throat, ten-inch knife. Said it pierced the chair behind him, like he was staked in the neck. Blood everywhere. Fucking ugly."

  Celia let out a strangled cry. "God, who would do such a thing?"

  Antonio's eyes subtly shifted to Corrado as he hugged his daughter, patting her back. "A savage."

  "Is there anything I can do?" Celia asked. "Anything you need?"

  Prying out of the hug, Antonio waved toward the doorway. "Your mother's making some food for the Tarullos… some lasagna and stuff that Ginny can heat up. Why don't you go ask her if she needs help?"

  Gloom seemed to grow deeper when Celia left. Corrado remained there, unmoving, unwavering. He hadn't been invited to take a seat, but he hadn't been dismissed either. He scanned the men, trying to detect some sign of trouble, some indication of anything unusual, but their faces gave nothing away. The grief seemed genuine, tears gleaming in Antonio's eyes as he picked up his scotch once more.

  "Sonny, Sal," Antonio said. "You mind giving me a minute with Moretti?"

  "No problem, Boss," Sonny said, getting up and walking out. Sal lingered, finishing his drink before standing, eyes questionably scanning Corrado as he passed.

  "Shut the door," Antonio instructed once the men were gone. Corrado obeyed before stepping further into the room. Antonio set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing. He avoided Corrado's gaze as he pulled out a thick envelope. Tossing it on the desk in front of him, he nodded for Corrado to pick it up. "A hundred grand."

  Corrado slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had never been paid so much for a hit before—forty grand, fifty at most.

  Antonio stared at him as a sly smile lifted the corner of his lips. "You're not going to ask any questions?"

  He shook his head.

  "This stays between you and me."

  "Always."

  Antonio's smile grew until a light, airy laugh left his lips. "Go on, get out of here."

  Three days later, as autumn dawned, Virgil Tarullo was laid to rest in a small cemetery on the east side of the city. Corrado stood with his arm around his wife, holding her protectively.

  Antonio stood beside them, with Gia and Vincent, Sonny and his wife to their right. Sal came alone, lingering off to the back, while Virgil's family took up the other side of the fresh grave.

  They spoke ill of Corrado, calling him names, cursing him, damning him to Hell for what he had done… they just had no idea he was there to hear it. Their voices, their anger, their hatred washed over him, finding no way through his thick skin, unable to pierce his armor, as they grieved the man they had lost and condemned the one who had taken him away.

  It had been a job, he told him
self—a job that had paid for the black dress his wife wore, that had paid for the gas in the car that drove them, that had paid for the flowers Celia gave to the family before she hugged her friend, Johnny.

  It was nothing personal.

  Strictly business.

  24

  "Is it true?"

  Out of breath, Vincent's chest heaved as he forced out those words, sweat dripping from his forehead, running down his flushed face. His dark eyes were wild, focused on Corrado, awaiting an answer.

  Corrado stood at his front door, staring at the boy peculiarly. He had knocked feverishly, rousing Corrado from a light sleep on the couch. He had been up late working and in no mood for this. "You're panting."

  "I ran here," Vincent said, raising his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. "So is it? Is it true?"

  "Is what true?"

  "Is she here?"

  "No," Corrado replied. "Celia isn't home."

  "Not my sister. I know she's not here."

  "Then why are you?"

  Vincent groaned with aggravation and tried to step into the house, but Corrado shifted to block his way. Vincent glared at him, his mouth set in a hard line of determination. Gutsy.

  Corrado knew it straightaway, off the boy's stubborn expression. He had assured Antonio that Maura wouldn't cause any trouble, but trouble sought her in the form of a teenage boy.

  "You should go home, Vincent."

  Those eyes narrowed even more. "I don't want to."

  "Then go somewhere else," Corrado said. "But you're not coming in here."

  The door slammed right in Vincent's face.

  Corrado turned around in the foyer, catching sight of Maura down the hallway. She stared past him, eyes fixed on the closed door. She was much more put together than she had been when Vito dropped her off. Celia bought the girl an entire wardrobe and more pairs of shoes than even Corrado owned. They furnished one of the spare rooms with a nice bed and dresser, but she still didn't seem comfortable.

  In fact, she seemed more distressed now than when she had first arrived.

  Maura blinked a few times as her frown deepened. She looked as if she had something to say, but instead her shoulders slumped, her sorrowful gaze going to her feet.

  "Don't worry," Corrado reassured her. "He won't bother you."

  Every muscle in Corrado's body felt weak, strained from overwork and lack of sleep. Exhausted, he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom and fell into the freshly made bed with relief. He snatched up a pillow, snuggling against it as he closed his eyes, and fell asleep on his stomach, still fully dressed.

  His hair tousling woke him up, a tingle across his scalp that jolted him. Eyes wide, he pulled away from the extended hand and sat up, stunned to see Celia perched on the edge of the bed. Her hand remained mid-air as she eyed him with surprise. "Didn't mean to startle you."

  "You didn't."

  A smile played across her lips. "Liar."

  "You did."

  She laughed lightly. He couldn't lie to her, and they both knew it. He would skirt around the truth all day long, but blatant lies were a kind of cheating—betraying the trust she had placed in him.

  He had no qualms cheating usually—he would cheat the law, cheat the government, cheat death—but he wouldn't cheat his wife.

  Or her father, for that matter.

  "You must've been sleeping hard. I rarely sneak up on you."

  He rolled onto his back, folding his arms across his stomach. "I need a vacation."

  "You do," she agreed, reaching out to stroke his hair again. "We do. We need two weeks of just you and me, away from everything and everyone."

  Sounded nice, but getting away was practically impossible when you couldn't even get a full night's sleep without being dragged to a job.

  "Soon," he promised. "As soon as I can get away, I'm yours."

  The declaration wasn't even entirely from his lips when the phone downstairs rang. Corrado's eyes closed at the sound of it, a slight pounding starting deep in his head. "I should get that."

  "Stay." Celia pressed a hand against his forehead before running it through his hair. "Rest."

  He wouldn't argue.

  He didn't have the energy.

  She strode out, pausing in the hallway near the stairs. "Vincent! Get that, will you? Take a message."

  A dull murmur of a response came from downstairs.

  Before the ringing even stopped, Corrado was on his feet. He met Celia in the doorway when she tried to rejoin him. "Did you say Vincent?"

  "Yes."

  "He's here?"

  "Yes."

  "I told him to go home."

  "He did."

  "Then why is he here?"

  She shrugged. "I brought him back."

  Corrado stepped past her, bounding down the stairs. Celia followed right on his heels. "Corrado, wait."

  He kept going.

  "Corrado," she shouted. "Slow down!"

  She grabbed him when he reached the bottom of the stairs, getting a tentative grasp on the back of his shirt. Her other hand grabbed his arm, yanking him toward her. "Dammit, stop!"

  His footsteps faltered at the fury in her voice. He turned just in time for her to jab him in the chest with her pointer finger. Grabbing her hand, he held it there, raising an eyebrow at her. "What?"

  "Leave them alone."

  "He shouldn't be here," Corrado said. "I told her he wouldn't bother her."

  "Does it sound like he's bothering her?"

  No, it sounded like nothing. Soft subtle whispers, the words unintelligible—if they were even words at all. It was nothing more than humming to his ears. "That means nothing."

  He let go of her hand when she dropped her voice low. "Please, Corrado."

  "Don't beg," he growled.

  "Please," she said again. "Just leave them alone. That's all I'm asking."

  Laughter rang out from the living room, soft and feminine, entirely unfamiliar. A sound Corrado had never heard before. He walked to the living room, pausing in the doorway. Vincent and Maura sat on the couch, facing each other, an entire cushion of space between them, but something about the way they spoke softly felt startlingly intimate.

  Maura lit up as she laughed again at something Vincent said, her eyes peering straight into the boy's. Corrado turned away from them, avoiding his wife as he headed for the stairs.

  "She's enjoying herself," Celia said when he passed.

  "If she wants fun, buy her some toys."

  "Toys?" she asked incredulously. "She's not a child. She doesn't need dolls. She needs friends."

  He said nothing in response as he went back upstairs. He stopped when he reached the top step, seeing Celia standing at the bottom, watching him.

  "Your brother has until dusk," Corrado said. "If he's not out of my house when the streetlights come on, I'll throw him out."

  He spoke matter-of-fact, a harsh edge to his voice, but Celia beamed with satisfaction, as if she'd won something with his words.

  25

  Even in the most chaotic times, things can grow monotonous if you become desensitized to the madness.

  Day in and day out, Corrado did everything asked of him, going above and beyond the call of duty. He saw the gritty streets of Chicago more than he saw the inside of his home, running all hours of the night, helping Vito with jobs—robberies, hijacks, overseeing gambling rings, collecting taxes—as well as fielding extra work from the Boss directly.

  It's only a matter of time, his father reminded him whenever the fatigue showed on his young face. Only a matter of time before they put your name in the books, kid.

  With initiating would come a certain amount of freedom. Vowing yourself to them meant not having to constantly prove your worth… they already deemed you worthy. He'd be able to take a step back, be able to take a breath and relax.

  But until then, he was at their beck and call, available anytime, day or night. He did it all without complaint, so accurately, so automatically, that it became as inst
inctual as breathing.

  Corrado fought predictability, but he was a man of habit, finding little things that grounded him during the mayhem. He would stalk and eradicate, quick and easy, sometimes not as painless as others, and afterward, he'd stop by that same little store and buy flowers for his wife before coming home to her. It wasn't out of guilt—it was an act of balance.

  A little of the good to even out all that bad.

  He scarcely noticed after a while, as the tedium of it all kicked in, but he started bringing flowers home more and more. He never kept count, never kept a record, never even tried to remember, but the body count added up, the blood on his hands thicker and thicker.

  Even at home he merely went through the motions some days. His small house dead center of Felton Drive fell into the trap, his once quiet sanctuary now anarchy.

  He had underestimated Vincenzo DeMarco.

  The boy was in and out of his house all hours of the night. Corrado would come home and find him there, making himself at home, after he had been told to stay away. Corrado would make him leave, sometimes physically forcing him out the front door, but without fail, the very next morning, he would be right back.

  Corrado wasn't blind. He saw what was happening. He may not have understood—not completely—but he saw it. And he struggled against it. It was constant, round and round, over and over, another monotonous habit Corrado grew too numb to break. And while he clashed with Vincent, Celia grew distant, contradicting him every step of the way.

  She would never condemn Corrado's life. She grew up in it. But she would never like it. She would never get used to his absences. When he came home at night, sometimes clutching a bouquet of flowers, she would give him a look of indecision.

  "What did you do today?" she'd ask.

  "Work," he would say, or, "ran errands for your father." He kept it vague, and she accepted his answers, but questions lingered in her eyes, the part of her that wanted details he couldn't bare the thought of giving.

  "You know you can tell me anything," she would say. "I want us to be able to talk about everything."

  He'd simply nod, grateful when she dropped the subject.