"Nope, not me. Apparently somebody told him to face the problem head on, and well, seems he's taking that advice."
His brow furrowed. "Who?"
"You, Corrado," Celia said. "You did."
He ran his hands down his face in frustration. He had.
The arguing in the den continued, voices raising before dropping low again, bitter words spat back and forth, only half of it reaching Corrado's ears. Antonio's refusal was steadfast, but Vincent put up a fight, deflecting everything his father said, throwing it right back in his face. Anyone else and Antonio would have had them killed on the spot.
It pays to be a DeMarco.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Dad, but it changes nothing," Vincent said, his words with a sharp edge to them although his voice had leveled out. "I want to be with her."
"You're spoiled," Antonio chided, pulling out the same argument he had used against Celia. "You've had the entire world handed to you. I won't give this to you."
"I don't expect you to. I've never even asked you for anything before. But her… I love her."
"Then earn her. You want this girl? Prove it, Vincenzo."
"I will," he swore. "I'll do anything. Just name it."
"Corrado!"
Corrado cringed when the Boss yelled his name and walked to the doorway of the den. "Yes, sir?"
"This slave of yours… whatshername."
"Maura."
"Maura," he repeated, his face contorting at the Irish sounding name. "How much do you want for her?"
Corrado stared at him blankly. How much did he want?
"Just throw out a number," Antonio said, waving toward him. "Name your price."
Vincent responded before Corrado could, an angry growl about how she was nobody's property, but Antonio raised a hand to silence him, his eyes fixed on Corrado.
"Well?" Antonio said. "I'm waiting."
"I didn't pay anything for her," he said. "I don't expect payment."
"I don't care what you expect," Antonio said. "I told you to name a price. Vincent is interested in the girl, and we're certainly not going to just hand her to him."
Vincent couldn't be silenced then. "I don't want to buy her!"
Antonio's gaze shifted to his son. "You said you'd do anything… or have you changed your mind?"
Vincent shook his head. "I'm not changing my mind."
"So?" Antonio looked back at Corrado. "How much is the going rate for a little Irish slave?"
Vincent inhaled sharply, on the verge of speaking out again, but Corrado responded before the boy made it any worse. The Boss was testing them.
"Twenty thousand," he replied. "That's how much my father said he gave for her."
"And that was years ago." Antonio lit yet another cigar. "She's a bit more used up now."
Corrado fought a grimace at those words, keeping his expression straight, but Vincent couldn't stop the emotion from twisting his face.
"So taking into account depreciation, I'd say she's valued at about half that now." Antonio glanced at his son. "Ten grand, and the girl's yours."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "I don't have the money, and you know it."
"Ah, well, I'm sure Corrado can find a way for you to make it," Antonio replied. "Isn't that right?"
Corrado stared straight ahead, expressionless. He couldn't say no, as much as he wanted to. "Yes, sir."
"It's settled then," Antonio said, standing up as the second half of the game started. "You come to me, Vincenzo, when you have your money, and we'll negotiate the terms of her sale."
Antonio walked out but hesitated in the hallway near Corrado.
"I expect him to earn it," Antonio said quietly. "The easier you take it on him, the harder I'm going to be on you. Capice?"
Corrado nodded stiffly. Message received.
Yet again, Corrado found himself being shadowed by someone as he went about his daily business. Unlike cocky Michael Antonelli, Vincent seemed to be a ball of frayed nerves, edgy and disgruntled, wanting to be anywhere in the world but on the streets with Corrado.
Corrado couldn't blame him. He didn't want him there, either.
He straddled a fine line between taking it easy on Vincent and putting him through Hell, doing just enough to make him sweat, to make him earn what little money flowed his way, but he found himself safeguarding the boy from real danger. Every time he looked at him, every time they headed to a job, all Corrado saw was Celia's little brother, the one she fiercely protected, the one she detrimentally tried to help.
The boy who wanted to be a doctor.
Corrado took him on a few of the easier hijacks, letting him stay in the shadows and watch, acting as their lookout. He forked over a few bucks here and there—more than he would have paid anyone else—but it wasn't enough to satiate the boy.
"This is really all you do?" Vincent asked one night as they sat in the room beneath the bar, cashing out the gambling game. Corrado had done it so much in his father's place it felt like a tedious chore.
"What did you expect?" Corrado asked, keeping his eye on the cash as he counted. "Pandemonium?"
"I don't know," Vincent replied. "I think I expected more glamour."
Glamour? "I don't do this for excitement, Vincent."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because I can't imagine not doing it."
"Why?"
Corrado lost track of his counting when that word echoed around him. Why? "You ask as many questions as your sister."
"It's a legitimate question," Vincent said. "Why would you do something that doesn't excite you?"
"Because life isn't a game," he said, hesitating before changing his mind. "Actually, no, it is. This life is a game. It's a perpetual game of Simon Says. And I do this, because Simon says so."
"I'm guessing my father is Simon?"
"Yes, and I'd like to stay in the game, so I do what Simon says."
"That doesn't explain why you started playing in the first place."
"Because my father played the game."
"So?"
Corrado tossed the stack of money down. Lost count again. "This may come as a surprise to you, Vincent, but not all of us despise our fathers. Mine isn't perfect, but he's an honorable man."
"Honorable?" Vincent asked. "They're criminals."
Corrado refrained from pointing out that, over the past week, Vincent had broken more laws than most people would their entire lives. "You define honorable as someone who follows society's rules. I define it as someone who makes their own rules. Honor isn't being a follower… it's being a leader."
"Yet you follow my father's every order," he pointed out.
"I suppose I'm not a man of honor yet."
Man of honor. Vincent didn't get the double meaning of those words, but Corrado felt it when he spoke them. Made men were called men of honor, and someday soon… very soon… Corrado would get that title.
"So this is it," Vincent said, surveying the grungy room. "You spend your days lugging boxes off trucks and catering to gamblers."
"Not as glamorous as being a doctor," Corrado said, emphasizing the word, "but it's a job."
"Well, what can I do?" Vincent asked. "At this rate, it'll take me a year to make enough. There has to be something more."
"You don't know what you're asking for, kid."
Vincent sneered at the word kid. "I'll be eighteen soon. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Besides, the sooner I get the money, the sooner I can walk away from all of this."
It was a good concept, walking away, but implausible. Once the life had you, it had you for life. Maybe Vincent didn't yet see that, but Antonio knew what he was doing.
He had shoved Vincent right into his footsteps by dangling the girl in the path in front of him.
"Fine," Corrado said. "You want more? It's yours."
He took him to stick-ups, took him to assaults, and took him to robberies, anything to make a few extra bucks. Vincent earned the money in less than two weeks—two weeks that found Corrado
more and more in debt. He skimped on his own pay, his interest bill to Pascal going unpaid.
Corrado drove Vincent home that final night, the boy's pockets loaded with wads of cash, all ten thousand dollars. Corrado followed him into the house, lingering behind, as Vincent headed straight to the office. Vincent's steps were steadfast, a fierce determination in his expression.
This wouldn't end well.
Vincent shoved open the office door without knocking and stepped right inside as Corrado lingered in the hallway. Antonio sat behind his desk, rage brewing in his eyes. "Get out!"
Vincent's steps stalled, his hands in his pockets, prepared to pull out the money. "What?"
"Get out," Antonio said again. "You knock on that door and wait for permission before you walk in this room. You hear me?"
Vincent nodded slowly. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Antonio said. "Get the hell out and knock."
The boy hesitated before striding back out of the office, shutting the door as he went. Sighing dramatically, he knocked on the door, waiting for acknowledgment, but no response came.
"You gotta be kidding me," Vincent muttered, knocking again.
Corrado struggled against the urge to laugh. It wasn't that he got pleasure from Vincent's frustration, but… well… it was nice to see someone else being hassled.
Vincent knocked twice more before Antonio called out, "who is it?"
Closing his eyes, Vincent leaned his forehead against the door in annoyance. "It's me… Vincent."
"Who?"
He groaned. "Vincenzo."
"It's open."
"Of course it is," Vincent muttered, opening the door.
Antonio relaxed back in his chair, gazing at his son when he entered. "What can I do for you?"
"I have your money."
Surprised passed across Antonio's face. "My money?"
"The ten thousand."
"Oh, Vincenzo, that's Corrado's money." Antonio waved toward the hallway. "Come on in, Corrado. Join us."
Slowly, Corrado stepped into the room as Vincent pulled money from his pocket and set it on his father's desk. Antonio watched, curiosity in his eyes, as they boy splayed it all out.
"That's all of it," Vincent said. "That's it."
Antonio snatched up the cash, arranging it all in a thick stack before shoving it in an envelope. "That may be all of the money, but that's certainly not it."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I said get the money, Vincenzo, and we'd negotiate."
"Negotiate," Vincent repeated. "What does that even mean?"
"It means there are terms to this sale," Antonio replied, his expression serious. "You might not like them, but your purchase requires a warranty."
32
January 21, 1983, on the evening of his eighteenth birthday, Vincenzo Roman DeMarco was inducted into La Cosa Nostra.
His initiation broke tradition. He hadn't earned his place. He hadn't worked in a crew. He hadn't proven himself. His hands were spotlessly clean. He was inducted based solely upon his family name, and he did it to be with the girl he loved.
Corrado hadn't been there—he wasn't a made man, so he hadn't been invited to the sacred initiation—but he heard the story. Nobody had questioned it. Nobody had objected. Another DeMarco, embraced with open arms, welcomed and wanted.
Loved.
While it happened, Corrado had been across town, sticking up a jewelry store with some other guys in his father's crew. Guys who had robbed, and murdered, and extorted. Guys who had earned their place time and again. Guys who, as usual, were disregarded.
Corrado seldom fell victim to the cardinal sins—greed, maybe, and occasionally pride—but a rare one simmered in his veins, tainting his bloodstream like spiked punch… one the DeMarco kids seemed to bring out of him too much for his liking. Envy.
It should have been him.
Why wasn't it him?
The question nagged him, again and again, over and over, for days following Vincent's initiation. A few men had been brought in, nominated for membership, and the books were set to close again. It would be months, maybe years before they reopened.
Hadn't he earned it?
It was a question he wouldn't ask out loud. He couldn't.
A week later, after the last scheduled man had been inducted, they found themselves at Rita's, gathering around plates of food and bottles of expensive wine.
Celebrating, Antonio had said.
Commiserating, Celia called it.
Corrado leaned toward agreeing with her. He remained ill-tempered, but he showed up as expected. The Boss's son-in-law. Antonio greeted him as soon as he walked in, pride on his face as he slapped him on the back. "How's my favorite son-in-law?"
"I'm your only son-in-law," Corrado replied.
He had moved past being Vito's kid and unknowingly stepped right into another shadow... a bigger one, this one with no blood to fuel the bond. He was family, technically, but not literally. He was nothing more than a title by marriage, given to him by the woman on his arm.
The bitter reality was like gasoline sloshing through his veins.
Vincent sat quietly through dinner, him and Maura across from Corrado and Celia. Maura's first outing with the DeMarcos. Corrado could tell she didn't want to be there any more than some of the others wanted her there. She had been included at Vincent's insistence… a fact that made the boy's own mother refuse to attend.
If they thought Antonio had been hard to crack, Gia was impossible. No son of hers would lower himself to be with someone like Maura, she had said. And if Vincent chose to slum, she wouldn't stand around and watch.
Corrado stared at Vincent the entire dinner, studying him, as the boy tampered with the wound on his right hand. The jagged slice across his palm started to heal, red and somewhat inflamed. Painful, Corrado gathered, from the grimace on Vincent's face whenever he closed his hand into a fist.
Corrado felt no sympathy.
Vincent believed he had fought to get there, sacrificed, but Corrado saw it different. Once again, the boy had it all handed to him... freely given what Corrado had worked hard for but got denied.
The sting of rejection ran deep.
"You're quiet, Corrado," Antonio said, gazing at him from his seat at the end of the table as dinner wound down.
"I'm fine," Corrado said.
"You don't seem fine."
"I am."
He swirled the spaghetti around on his plate. He hadn't eaten a single bite. He wasn't hungry.
"How's business?"
"Fine."
"You pay off your debt yet?"
Corrado's eyes cut down the table to where Pascal sat beside the Boss, relaxed, smirking, drinking a glass of wine. He had—for some reason—been invited to Vincent's celebration, forcing Vincent to sit at the same table, beside the woman he loved, near the man who had raped her. A cruel test of will power. "No."
"No?" Antonio raised his eyebrows. "Why haven't you made good on your loan?"
"My loan," Celia chimed in. "I borrowed the money."
"Quiet, honey," Antonio chided. "The men are talking."
Celia narrowed her eyes at her father, muttering "asshole" under her breath, barely audible, but Antonio heard it, based on the amused smile curving his lips.
"Well?" Antonio continued. "Why haven't you paid it off?"
"I'm working on it, sir."
"Apparently not hard enough."
"It's a lot of money."
"That sounds a hell of a lot like an excuse." Antonio turned to Pascal. "How much does he still owe?"
"Five hundred and seventeen thousand."
All hints of amusement died from Antonio's eyes. "That's more than he borrowed."
"I borrowed," Celia muttered.
"Interest," Pascal explained. "He was short a few weeks, missed some all together."
Antonio tensed, his muscles rigid as a sharp edge accented his words. "How many points was the loan?"
"Five."
Pascal shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "I'm just that kinda guy, you know? I help out when I can."
Vincent scoffed under his breath.
"You need to work harder, Corrado," Antonio said. "This isn't acceptable."
"Yes, sir."
The subject seemed to be dropped, all men turning back to their food, but Celia's harsh laughter ignited it again. "Work harder? You know what's not acceptable, Dad? The fact that all my husband does is work. That's it! That's all he ever does!"
"Celia," Corrado warned, his voice low. "Don't."
"Listen to your husband," Antonio said, sipping his wine. "He doesn't need you fighting his battles."
"Of course he doesn't," she continued. "But he respects you, so he'd never go against you, even though sometimes someone needs to."
"That's why I married your mother."
"Whatever," Celia said. "Mom's the president of your fucking fan club."
Corrado cringed at her profanity-laced outburst as Antonio set his glass down, glaring at his daughter. "You don't speak like that, young lady."
"You say worse all the time."
"That's because I'm a man," he said.
"Oh, stop with the double standards already," she spat, jumping up from her chair, wagging a finger. "I'm an adult. I can speak any way I want."
Antonio slammed a hand down on the table, shoving his chair back to stand. "Not in front of me!"
Their back-and-forth bickering went on, neither backing down. Corrado glanced across the table at Vincent again. The boy sat so close to Maura their arms brushed together, both staring down at their plates. Corrado turned away from him, too, his eyes drifting to the vast glass window covering the entire wall of the restaurant.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, he caught sight of the black Ford creeping to a stop in the street, the faint glow of the streetlight illuminating the side of it.
Corrado's heart stalled for a fraction of a second. He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breathe as he stared at the car, the world around him falling into slow motion. Adrenaline spiked his blood, intoxicating his senses, as numbness coated his skin.
The passenger side window slowly rolled down.
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