Made

by J. M. Darhower

  Corrado hadn't been one of them.

  Closing the card, he eyed the front again before his gaze drifted to his watch on his wrist. A quarter after nine. The nuptials were long over.

  The knob jingled, the front door shoved open as he sat there. High heels clicked against the wooden floor as Celia strolled down the hallway. She stepped into the living room, the smell of her perfume entering a fraction of a second before she appeared in front of Corrado. His eyes moved from the card in his hand to her, starting at the tips of her toes and working their way up to her face. She wore the tallest pair of heels she owned, making her legs look long and deadly as they jutted out from a form fitting, strapless blue dress.

  Her best dress… she had worn it on their first date.

  Her hair was pulled up, wispy curls falling loose. Celia's gaze settled on the invitation in his hand. "Regretting not coming?"

  He shook his head. It had been the right decision. "They shouldn't start their life with someone like me hanging around."

  Smiling sadly, Celia squeezed between him and the coffee table, knocking the vase over as she sat down in front of him. She set a foil-covered plate beside her. "Vincent wanted you there."

  "Maura didn't."

  "She never said that."

  "She didn't have to."

  Celia reached over and took the invitation from his hands, running her fingers across the image on the front. "It was a nice wedding, simple and sweet. Maura wore a white dress and had a bouquet of fresh lilies. They said their vows in the living room. Vincent was so nervous… he was convinced Maura would change her mind about him."

  "She should."

  Celia kicked his leg, her heel striking his calf. He grimaced, reaching down to rub it, as she laughed. "They make each other happy."

  "I'm happy for their happiness," Corrado said. "Doesn't change the fact that your brother is a made man."

  "And, what? Made men aren't worthy of being loved?"

  He shrugged, sitting back on the couch as he gazed at her. "It's debatable."

  Celia didn't entertain that with a response when she turned back to the invitation. "Daddy showed up. We didn't think he was coming. Father Alberto had already started the ceremony when he waltzed in. He said, 'you couldn't wait for me, Father?' Father Alberto said, 'I would think you, of all men, would know the importance of being on time.' "

  Corrado smirked. "I bet your father liked that."

  "He laughed," she replied. "Lightened the mood a bit. He didn't stick around after the ceremony… said his congratulations to Vincent and then left. Didn't speak to Maura at all, but at least he came."

  "Yeah," Corrado muttered. "At least there's that."

  Celia stared at him for a moment before standing up, motioning toward the plate on the coffee table. "I brought you some cake."

  "I don't eat cake."

  "You can eat this cake," she said. "Maura made it for the wedding. It's Italian Cream cake. You'll like it."

  She spoke pointedly, her eyes piercing him as if imploring him to argue. He knew he wouldn't win this one. "Fine, I'll eat it."

  Celia kicked off her shoes right there in the living room before strolling to the kitchen to grab some forks. She returned, snuggling up against him on the couch, as they shared the plate of cake. The icing was rich, not too sweet, and melted in his mouth every bite he took. After finishing, he tossed the plate back down on the coffee table and pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.

  "Do you have anything for me?" she asked quietly.

  He glanced down at her. "Like what?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Jewelry? Chocolate? Something?"

  "No."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  "Not even flowers?"

  He eyed the knocked over vase. "Why would I give you flowers?"

  "Because it's Valentine's Day."

  Oops. Corrado shifted around to face Celia as she sat up, eyeing him expectantly. Reaching out, he brushed the back of his hand along her warm cheek before trailing his fingertips down her neck and around her collarbones. "It should be illegal."

  "What?" she asked.

  "You going out of the house looking so beautiful."

  A small smile tugged the corner of her lips, but she suppressed it. "Are you trying to distract me?"

  Leaning over, Corrado kissed her neck. "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "On whether or not it's working."

  She wrapped her arms around him as she lay back, pulling him on top of her. His hand grasped her hip, shoving her dress up as he pressed himself between her legs.

  She let out a soft moan as he nipped at her jawline with his teeth. "It's not working."

  He kissed her lips. "Didn't think it would."

  Celia laughed when he pulled away. "You gave it a good try."

  "I do what I can." Corrado stood, picking the vase up from the floor, and set it on the table beside the invitation. "It's such a generic invitation."

  "Still better than that graduation card you gave me."

  Corrado pulled his car to a stop at the top of the DeMarcos driveway, parking adjacent to the porch. He didn't get out, didn't blow the horn or make a move. He sat there, waiting, staring straight ahead.

  After a moment, someone exited the house and opened the car door to slip inside. Corrado spared a glance at the passenger side as Vincent settled into the seat, not bothering with a seatbelt, not saying a word. Corrado eyed him curiously. The Boss had called, ordering him to pick up Vincent. No explanation, no further instruction—just pick the boy up.

  "Where to?" Corrado asked.

  Vincent shrugged a shoulder, mumbling, "wherever."

  "Where are you supposed to go?"

  "Wherever you go."

  Vincent seemed on edge, head down, eyes fixed out the window as he fidgeted. The sight of his obvious nervousness stirred up the same within Corrado. He didn't like it.

  "Wherever I go," Corrado repeated. Shadowing him again.

  Corrado went about his usual nightly business—checking on the betting games and collecting La Cosa Nostra taxes. Vincent remained quiet, never relaxing, as the hours wore on. Corrado watched him curiously, knowing the boy was up to something. He was a made man now… there was no reason for him to be following anyone. He had propelled right past him and hundreds of others.

  Vincent should be forming his own crew, leading others, enforcing rules… not tagging along on menial tasks on a Saturday night.

  Corrado pulled up in front of the grungy bar on the south side. He climbed out, needing to cash the game out for his father, but Vincent made no move to follow. He remained still in the passenger seat, staring out the side window at the old building.

  "Come on," Corrado said.

  "I'll wait here," Vincent replied.

  Corrado wanted to object, to tell Vincent to get the hell out of the car, but he couldn't order around a made man… not while he was still a peon. Slamming the car door, Corrado headed inside the bar and went straight down to the basement. He hastily broke up the game, cashing out the chips and sending men on their way with nothing more than a brusque wave.

  Once the last guy left, Corrado counted the rest of the cash, dividing it up and putting it in the safe for his father. He grabbed his take, skimming through it—twenty-five thousand—before locking up and heading out.

  He slowly approached his car, his footsteps faltering when he glanced in the open passenger side window. Vincent stared down at his lap. In his hands, he fiddled with a small .22 caliber handgun. Corrado's heart stalled. Definitely up to something.

  On guard, Corrado climbed in the driver's seat, itching to grab his own weapon. He cast Vincent a wary glance as the boy tucked the gun away.

  "Are you feeling okay, Vincent?" Corrado asked.

  "Yeah, fine."

  His voice betrayed him, the hitch in the words telling Corrado he was anything but fine.

  "How about we call it a night?" Corrado suggested. "I just ne
ed to drop by Pascal's quick."

  "Yeah," Vincent said, "sounds great."

  Corrado drove across town to Pascal's, relieved to find the house quiet, the usual Saturday night party not waging. He got out, not oblivious to the fact that Vincent followed this time. Pascal swung the door open, doing a double take as he glanced between them. He wore a black three-piece suit, the smell of his cologne powerful.

  "Corrado," he greeted him, his breath smelling of mint and not the usual alcohol. Peculiar. Pascal's gaze drifted past him to Vincent. "Junior. I'm surprised to see you here. I was just heading out."

  Corrado reached into his pocket, pulling out the envelope of cash. "Just dropping off what I owe this week."

  "Ah." Pascal relaxed a bit, motioning with his head for them to come in. They walked into the house, waiting as Pascal closed the door, before following him into the living room. The man took the envelope and skimmed through the cash. "Just the twenty-five."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You still owe over five-hundred," Pascal said. "You know that's unacceptable."

  "I know."

  "Anyone else and I would've sent my guys out to bust your fucking kneecaps by now," Pascal continued, hastily shoving the money back into the envelope. "I can't keep letting this go on. If you can't make good on your wife's deal, I'll have to go to her and make her make good on it."

  It was a fine line Pascal walked, subtly threatening the Boss's only daughter. He would never hurt her—couldn't hurt her—without unleashing Antonio's rage. But the insinuation was there. Five hundred thousand was a lot of money, maybe worth causing a mutiny.

  Pascal threw the envelope down on the table as he turned to face them. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his gaze darting over Corrado's shoulder. Something flashed in his eyes—a reflection, maybe, or a blast of passion, the man's steel blue eyes darkening to gray, as if the color had been sucked from them, frightened and withdrawing, running away.

  Fear. Corrado saw terror.

  "What—?"

  The deafening explosion tore through the living room, the flash of gunfire like a grenade detonating behind Corrado. The world spun around him. Corrado watched, shocked, when a single bullet ripped through Pascal's chest, right over his heart. Pascal flew backward, straight into the table, before collapsing to the floor. Blood oozed from the wound out onto his white button-down shirt as horrid gurgling noises erupted from his throat. His chest heaved, his body struggling to breathe, but consciousness faded before he even hit the floor. Blood streamed from his nose, staining his chapped lips and dripping from his chin.

  Pascal was a dead man.

  Defensively, Corrado reached into his coat, reacting impulsively, and pulled out his gun. He swung around, aiming at the boy in the doorway. Vincent scarcely noticed, the pistol clenched between both hands, still aimed at Pascal with his finger on the trigger. Vincent stood still, unblinking, unresponsive. Sheer fury unlike anything Corrado had ever seen before was frozen on Vincent's face. This wasn't Celia's little brother anymore. This was someone else.

  This was a man of honor.

  A vengeful man of honor, out for blood.

  "Vincent!" Corrado stepped toward him, aiming right for his head. "Put down the gun!"

  The sound of Corrado's voice brought Vincent back to awareness. All at once his hands shook, violently rattling the gun before letting it clatter to the floor. He turned to Corrado, rage melting into shock. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared down the barrel of Corrado's gun.

  "What have you done?" Corrado ground out, heart pounding like a steel drum against his ribcage.

  Vincent's eyes drifted back across the room to Pascal. "What he ordered me to do."

  "What who ordered you to do?"

  Vincent stared at Pascal, not speaking, no longer responding. Seconds ticked away, lasting a lifetime yet no time at all. Corrado's ears rang, buzzing from the gunfire. Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, he lowered his gun. "We need to get out of here, Vincent."

  No response.

  "Vincent," he said again, grabbing the boy. "Did you hear me? We need to leave."

  He nodded slowly, reaching down and grabbing his gun again. The sight of it in his hand put Corrado on edge, but the boy slipped it into his pocket, putting it away. Vincent turned, keeping his head down as he stalked toward the front door.

  Corrado remained right on his heels, jogging to the car and speeding away before Vincent even got the door closed. His mind raced as fast as his heart as he tried to sort through what had happened, trying to decide what to do next.

  "We need to call your father," Corrado said. "We have to tell him."

  "He already knows."

  He already knows. Those words washed through Corrado, soothing his nerves, as they answered the question of who ordered it.

  Antonio.

  He was the only one with the authority to sanction the murder of a made man. "Why didn't you tell me? Warn me?"

  "I, uh… I didn't want you to do it instead."

  Corrado laughed bitterly under his breath, checking his mirrors, making sure nobody followed them. He wouldn't have killed Pascal. He couldn't have. He had wanted to, so many times, but he hadn't been given permission. And without permission, he, too, would have been as good as dead.

  He drove toward home. Vincent sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his hands still shaking. His first hit. Corrado remembered how he felt the first time he murdered someone.

  Charlie Klein.

  "Eighty-nine seconds," Vincent whispered, pulling Corrado from the memory before he fell into it. "It took him eighty-nine seconds to die."

  Corrado shot him a peculiar look. "You counted?"

  "Eighty-nine seconds," he said again. "Doesn't seem long enough after what he did. That lasted longer than eighty-nine seconds. She suffered more than him."

  Corrado had no idea what to say.

  "Did he feel it?" Vincent asked. "Did it even hurt him?"

  Corrado hesitated. "Until he lost consciousness."

  "How long was that?"

  "A few seconds."

  Vincent wiped a wayward tear from his eye. "That's it?"

  Corrado nodded once. "It was a good shot."

  "I wanted him to suffer."

  "He suffered. If you saw what I saw, you'd know it."

  "What did you see?"

  "I saw his life flash before his eyes," Corrado said. "Maybe his death didn't hurt so bad, but realizing he lived for nothing? That he accomplished nothing with his life? That he ended up being nothing? He suffered, Vincent. Dying senselessly is the worst way to go."

  It's the way most of us will go.

  Vincent wiped his eyes again. "It's still not enough."

  "No," Corrado agreed, "it never is."

  Corrado drove toward Felton Drive, slowing in front of the house Vincent had recently rented for him and Maura, but Vincent waved him on. "We need to go to my father's."

  He sped up again, driving to the mansion at the end of the street. He slowed the car, about to pull into the driveway, but slammed the breaks when he nearly rear-ended another Mercedes sticking out into the street. The entire driveway was covered, the overflow along the street. Corrado's eyes scanned the area, counting at least a dozen familiar cars.

  He considered dropping Vincent off and leaving, but one glance at Vincent told him that was out of the question. Something was happening, and the boy beside him could barely keep himself together. The nervousness had returned, maybe even worse than it had been to start with.

  Antonio had asked him to look out for Vincent, and well… a job was a job.

  Throwing the car in reverse, he flew backward down the street to the closest parking spot. He flung the Mercedes into it and got out. Corrado's footsteps were confident, quick, as he fiddled with his tie, trying to straighten it. He reached into his coat, wrapping his fingers around his gun for reassurance, as he strode past the cars in the darkness, leading to the front door.

  Antonio stood on the por
ch in the shadows, dressed in all black, puffing on a cigar all alone. Corrado slowed as he neared the man, coming to a halt in the yard in front of the porch, as Vincent stepped around him. Antonio eyed his son. "Is it done?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Pride gleamed in his eyes that he suffocated as quick as it surfaced. "Go on inside, son. Give me a moment with Corrado."

  Vincent said not another word as he dodged past his father. Antonio strolled closer, stopping at the edge of the porch, and stared down at him. "He do good?"

  Corrado nodded stiffly. "Clean shot through the heart."

  "Instant?"

  "No," he replied. "About a minute and a half."

  Eighty-nine seconds, Corrado recalled.

  Antonio took a long drag from his cigar before putting it out on the porch banister and discarding it there. His stern eyes studied Corrado, scanning him, as his lips twisted contemplatively. "Give me your gun."

  Corrado didn't hesitate, his hand still gripping it. He handed it over to the Boss.

  Antonio took the gun, holding it in both hands as he stared down at the silver revolver. "Nice. Where'd you get it?"

  "Took it off a guy when I was seventeen."

  "Robbery?"

  "Yes." Corrado hesitated before explaining. "He tried to rob me, anyway."

  "And this was his gun?"

  "Yes. I disarmed him… shot him."

  Antonio raised an eyebrow. "First kill?"

  He nodded.

  "Did you know him?"

  Another nod.

  "How?"

  "He was my friend."

  "A friend, eh?" Antonio glanced up, his eyes locking with Corrado's. "How would you like some more of those?"

  "Friends?"

  Antonio cracked a smile. "You ready to join us, son?"

  The stagnant air fell deathly silent. Men lined the room, standing shoulder to shoulder, backs pressed against the walls. None of them moved. None of them spoke. The fortress of criminals locked Corrado in.

  A row of lit candles ran right down the center of the dining room table, the dim lighting casting dancing shadows along the floor. Not so much as a peep could be heard, not a breeze felt, the air warm and muggy. It slithered across Corrado's skin as sweat gathered along his brow.