Made

by J. M. Darhower

  Heart racing, Corrado put the car in park and moved his foot off the brake. Slowly, he raised his hands in the air, to show he wasn't armed. No sooner his hands hit the roof, someone yanked his door open and snatched a hold of him, dragging him out of the car. He groaned when he slammed the ice-coated road on his stomach, his face scraping against the grainy asphalt. He felt the burn along his cheek when it tore the skin, a knee in his back as his arms were yanked behind his back. Handcuffs went on, digging into his wrists, before he was jerked to his feet by the metal chain linking his hands.

  As soon as he was upright, his eyes met a familiar face. Detective Walker. "Corrado Moretti, you're under arrest for the murder of Miguel Pace."

  Corrado's brow furrowed. "Who?"

  This question had been genuine, out of surprise, but nobody clued him in. Instead, they read him his rights as they dragged him to the closest police cruiser, forcing him in the backseat. He laid his head against the cage in front of him, closing his eyes. He still heard the music rattling from his car speakers through the open door. Miguel Pace. Corrado tried to place the name.

  Who the hell is Miguel Pace?

  The question was answered when they took him to an interrogation room at the police station. Detective Walker sat down across from Corrado, another man beside him. Corrado had been released from the handcuffs and given a bandage for the scrape on his cheek, but he tossed it on the table, ignoring the injury.

  "Miguel Pace," Detective Walker said, sliding a gruesome photograph across the table to Corrado. Barbershop basement guy. "Look familiar?"

  "Hard to say," Corrado said. "I can't make out his face."

  "That's because someone beat him with a baseball bat." The detective laid out some other crime scene photos, including a picture of the bat Antonio had discarded on the basement floor. "And that was before they put a bullet in his head. What do you have to say about that?"

  "I'd say somebody wanted him dead."

  "You?" the detective asked. "Did you want him dead?"

  "I have no reason to want him dead. I'm not even sure who he is."

  "He's Miguel Pace," the detective stressed before launching into a biography about the man's life, making him sound like a picture-perfect citizen, but Corrado knew a faultless man would never even cross Antonio's path, much less be tied up in a basement by him.

  "Why am I here?" Corrado asked, interrupting the detective. "What makes you think I did this?"

  "Ah, the million dollar question." The detective sorted through a stack of papers before pulling out another photograph and setting it on top of the others. Corrado stared at it, recognizing his revolver. "Now does this look familiar?"

  Corrado didn't answer that.

  "It should," he said. "It was taken off your person by one of our officers the same night Miguel Pace was murdered. We processed the gun, just routine testing, and I'm sure you can guess what we found."

  The detective stared at him, as if he actually expected Corrado to guess.

  "We found blood splatter on it consistent with Miguel's blood type," he replied. "A ballistics test confirmed the bullet found in Miguel was consistent with the test-fire from this gun."

  "That's a lot of consistency I hear," Corrado said. "And not a lot of certainty."

  The detective glared at him. "Cut the shit, Mr. Moretti."

  "I'd like to speak to a lawyer now. I don't appreciate profanity."

  The detective stood, shoving his chair back roughly, and slammed his hands down on the stack of photos. "What, murder doesn't seem to fucking bother you, but foul language does?"

  Corrado stared at the man, refusing to react.

  One count of first-degree murder

  Half a day had passed by the time Corrado was issued a jumpsuit. The heavy orange material hung from his body, scratchy against his skin. He was led to a phone and grabbed the receiver, ignoring the corrections officer as he tried to instruct him. He knew the deal. He had been here before.

  He dialed the number from memory and leaned against the wall beside the phone, blocking his mouth for some privacy. It rang, and rang, and rang some more, before the curt female voice answered. "DeMarco residence."

  "Gia," Corrado said politely. "Can I speak with Antonio?"

  She laughed dryly. "You sure you want to? He's been on it for the past few hours. You must've done something wrong."

  Corrado missed an appointment with the Boss. There wasn't much worse than that. "The sooner I speak with him, the better."

  "Yeah, sure," she said. "Hold on."

  A minute of rustling, of muffled arguing passed, before the phone was picked back up, Antonio's gruff voice on the line. He launched right into it, not even giving Corrado a chance to explain. "I told you to be at Rita's at 8 o'clock. I told you it was important. I don't fucking say these things for my health. I say them because I mean them."

  "I know, sir."

  "Then why weren't you there? I don't even get the courtesy of a call? I don't get a note? Nothing? You just leave me high and dry?"

  He ranted on and on, his voice so loud Corrado was sure everyone around heard. He remained quiet, absorbing the Boss's anger, but after four minutes had passed he knew he couldn't take any more. The phone would cut off soon. "Sir."

  Antonio stalled mid-sentence. "You have the audacity to interrupt me now?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but—"

  "And now you're apologizing? You're just pissing me off more and more. You know what? I'm done with this conversation. I expect you at my house in ten minutes so we can discuss what we're going to do about this."

  "I can't."

  "You can't?"

  "No, sir, I can't." He took a deep breath. "I'm tied up."

  "With what?"

  His eyes drifted toward the corrections officer, waiting to escort him to a cell. "Handcuffs, momentarily."

  There was a long pause. "You're in jail?"

  "Yes."

  "And you called me? You know these calls are monitored, and you fucking call my house? And you don't even warn me I'm being recorded?"

  "I just wanted to tell you I wouldn't be at the meeting."

  "I got that, Moretti. I got it when you didn't show up!"

  He pushed away from the wall. "It'll never happen again."

  "It better not. And don't ever call me from that place."

  A second before the voice came on informing Corrado that time was over, Antonio ended the call.

  Bail was set at half a million dollars.

  Corrado remained in jail as Christmas passed, December slowly fading away. He lay in the bottom bunk of his cell, staring at the bed above him night after night, exhausted and irritated. He kept mulling over every word the detective had said to him. How would he get out of this?

  New Years Eve rolled around when a corrections officer came to get him from his cell. "You're being released, Moretti."

  Corrado sat up in the bed. "Someone bailed me out?"

  "So it seems."

  Half a million dollars… who would put up that much money?

  He was processed out of the system and given his clothes back. After haphazardly dressing and collecting his things, he stepped into the lobby of the jail to find his wife sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs by the window, gazing out into the parking lot. Sighing, he strolled toward her as her eyes drifted his way, a frown tainting her soft face. "Bellissima."

  There was always a brief moment whenever Corrado came face-to-face with his wife after being away that it felt like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

  His chest tightened, and the air was suddenly thick, making it impossible to breathe. He was suspended in time, nothing existing except for them. There was no anger or hatred, no violence, no pain. No worry about the future or what would happen tomorrow. It was only then and there, and it was only them.

  His heart stalled then, when their eyes connected, before pounding so hard that he felt the blood surging under his skin. He grew dizzy, his vision blurring from the
intensity as his body flushed. He worried for a split second that he was going to pass out, every ounce of strength and resolve he fought so hard to maintain disintegrating. He was weak, vulnerable, with his chest cracked open, leaving him completely exposed.

  All because of her.

  It hurt, more than he ever expected such a thing to hurt. It felt like his body was giving out. Rebelling. Revolting. Like he was dying.

  He never felt more alive.

  But it was only for a moment. A simple moment where, for once, he felt normal, like maybe the world wasn't so horrible.

  Pity it couldn't last.

  Celia stood slowly, smoothing her dress, her expression unreadable. Without uttering a word, she walked away. Corrado followed, shoving his hands in his pockets as the cold air gnawed at his skin. He saw every single exhale from his wife's lips, the cloud of shaky breath speaking enough for her as she marched toward her father's DeVille in the parking lot.

  He stopped in front of the vehicle. "You didn't drive my car?"

  "It was impounded."

  "You didn't get it out?"

  Her eyebrows rose. "I was too busy trying to get you out."

  "How did you?" he asked. "We don't have that kind of cash just laying around."

  "I borrowed it."

  "From where?"

  She avoided his eyes, hesitating. His suspicion skyrocketed.

  "Celia," he growled. "Tell me you did not go to a loan shark."

  "What else was I supposed to do?"

  "Get a loan from a bank."

  "With what credit?" she asked. "I don't even have a job. I have nothing in my name. I couldn't even get a bondsman to work with me because of it!"

  "Then you should've left me in there."

  "I refuse," she said, narrowing her eyes as she pointed at him. "You belong at home, with me. I'm not leaving you to rot in some stinking jail cell when I can do something about it."

  A rush of anger surged through Corrado, but he clenched his hands into fists, forcing it back. He wouldn't yell at her. This was his fault, not hers. "What were the terms?"

  "Five points a week," she replied. "For five-hundred thousand."

  He stared at her as he did the math in his head. Five percent interest was an extra $25,000 a week. "Who did you get it from?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Answer me," he demanded. "Who gave you those terms?"

  "Pascal Barone."

  That was the last name he had expected to hear. "You asked him for money? Him?"

  "Nobody else had that much on hand."

  Corrado's voice came out with broken, ragged breaths. "You know better than this, Celia. There's no way I can pay that much back anytime soon. I'm in his debt now."

  "No, you're not," she said. "I am."

  She climbed in the car, slamming the door, and started the engine. She sat there, clutching the steering wheel, glaring at him through the windshield. Corrado shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat, not saying a word as she drove to her parent's house. The mansion on Felton Drive was lit up, surrounded by dozens of cars, as music and loud voices rattled the windows.

  New Years Eve.

  "I'd rather go home," Corrado said, staring at the house.

  "Yeah, me, too," Celia grumbled. "Too bad we can't."

  She got out, slamming the door again, and headed for the house without him. Corrado once again followed, blindly tying his tie in the darkness, attempting to pull himself together to face the Boss.

  Once Celia stepped into the house, her expression shifted, a forced smile straining her lips. She greeted people, offering hugs and handshakes, as Corrado trailed behind, reaching out to grasp her hip.

  When they neared the den, Corrado glanced inside, seeing the Boss gathered with the usual made men. Pascal was present, puffing on a cigar, relaxed, not a care in the world.

  Fire raged beneath Corrado's skin.

  Antonio caught Corrado's eye. The man said something to those gathered around as he stood, carrying his glass of scotch. He walked out, merely casting Corrado a pointed glare, as he headed straight for his office.

  Corrado pulled Celia closer to him and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead before letting go. Concern shined from her eyes, but she said nothing as he followed her father.

  Corrado stepped into the office behind Antonio and shut the door as the man took his seat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a cigar, clipping the end and lighting it.

  "So, murder, huh?" Antonio said casually, his voice betraying his hard expression. "Do they have any evidence?"

  "They have the gun."

  "How'd they get it?"

  "It was on me the night it happened," he said, "when I was arrested."

  "Ah, I heard about that," Antonio said. "You assaulted a made man. Why was that?"

  "He's a rapist."

  Antonio stared at him blankly. Unaffected. "He's also a murderer and a thief, but you don't see me beating him up for it, do you?"

  "If he did it in your home, yes, I think you would."

  "Do you?" Antonio asked. "Do you think so, Moretti?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You think you know me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then tell me… what am I thinking now?" he asked, sitting forward. "What do I want to do now?"

  He hesitated. "I don't know."

  "Well, I'll tell you," Antonio said. "I'm thinking about how I'd like nothing more than to skin you alive, how I want to cut your balls off and shove them down your fucking throat for fooling me."

  Corrado blanched. Fooling him?

  "I gave you my blessing to marry my daughter under the assumption that you wouldn't ever leave her. And here you are, facing twenty to life for murder because you let your pesky little feelings cloud your judgment, and you got careless. I don't like careless, Corrado. I don't let careless in my family. I'd rather my daughter be a widow at nineteen than spend her days with a jamook. And right now, that's how you look, fighting a made man like you're the fucking morality police."

  Corrado remained silent. The Boss hadn't asked a question, so he wasn't going to speak.

  "Sit down." Antonio waved at the empty chair. "I want to ask you something."

  Corrado carefully sat down.

  "What do you think about my son?"

  That wasn't the question Corrado expected. "Vincent?"

  "Yes, Vincenzo," Antonio said. "He is my only son."

  Something about the way he said that made Corrado bristle defensively. "He's a good kid."

  "A good kid," Antonio repeated, his lips twisting contemplatively as he puffed his cigar. "He concerns me more than my daughter, and she's the one always finding trouble. That girl got detention in school, broke curfew, talked back to me, fell in love with you..." He let out a dry laugh. "My son, though. He worries me. I asked him the other day, I said, 'Vincenzo, what do you want to do with your life?' And you know what he said?"

  "What?"

  "Be a doctor." Antonio shook his head. "He wants to go to medical school."

  "That's honorable."

  "What did you want to do?"

  "I'm doing it."

  "Before you knew about the life?"

  "I wanted to be like my father, so I guess I wanted to do it before I even knew what it was."

  "Now that, to me, is honorable," Antonio said. "That's how I was. I followed in my father's footsteps, too. So what's wrong with me? What's wrong with my footsteps to make my boy want to go to medical school instead?"

  Corrado had no answer. He scarcely understood Vincent.

  Antonio put out his cigar and downed the rest of his scotch in one large gulp. "Go thank Pascal for saving your ass again, since he funded your release, and then you're free to do what you want with your night."

  "Yes, sir."

  He stood to leave, heading straight for the den. Pouring himself a drink, he threw it back, letting the burn soothe his nerves, before approaching Pascal. "I appreciate you helping my wife."

&
nbsp; Pascal glanced at him. "I know you're good for it."

  Corrado extended his hand to shake Pascal's. He let go just as Vito walked over to him, throwing an arm over his shoulder, forcing another glass of scotch on Corrado.

  "Murder in the first," Vito said. "I'm not sure if I wanna laugh or lecture you, so I'll just have a drink with you instead."

  Corrado took the glass, clinking it to his father's, before downing the bitter, golden liquid. Shuddering, he set the glass down. He hardly felt like celebrating tonight. "If you'll excuse me, I haven't spent any time with my wife in days, and well..."

  Vito waved him away. "Don't let me hold you up. You take care of your business, kid."

  Corrado strode away, mingling through the crowd as he searched for Celia. He found Vincent sitting out back alone, drinking from a glass. Vincent grimaced, shivering with disgust as he took a swallow. Alcohol.

  "I'm not twenty-one yet," Corrado said, "so I know you're not."

  Vincent's back stiffened. "I saw you drinking."

  "True." Hesitating, Corrado sat down on the step beside the boy. "I figured someone who wanted to be a doctor would be more law-abiding."

  Vincent laughed dryly. "I see you've been talking to my dad."

  "Yes."

  "You going to mock me, too?"

  "No," he said. "I don't believe your father mocked you either."

  "He was offended," Vincent said. "Like I'm not allowed to have my own life."

  "He just can't understand you."

  "He doesn't even try."

  "Antonio's a good man," Corrado said. "You're fortunate to have him as a father."

  "You're only saying that because he's not your dad."

  "Look, maybe you don't want to be like him, but you should appreciate having a father who cares what kind of man you'll be."

  "He thinks being a doctor is stupid."

  "No, he doesn't. He just can't stand you thinking he is." Corrado stood back up. "You seen your sister?"

  "She's upstairs." Corrado started to walk away when Vincent spoke again. "You're not gonna tell on me for drinking, are you?"

  "I'm not a rat, Vincent. Never have been, never will be."

  Corrado headed upstairs, wandering down the quiet hall to the old bedroom Celia used to occupy. She sat on the end of the bed in the room, staring at nothing in the darkness. He faltered in the doorway, taking in the sight of her frown, her shoulders slumped. "You're angry at me."