"Work?"
"Something like that."
"Be careful," she said, hugging him again before pulling away. "I'll meet you at home, okay?"
He nodded, watching her walk away, dreading he had to leave her at a time like this, but it was unavoidable. Taking a deep breath, shoving back the emotion that had bubbled up inside of him, he strode out back. He found his brother-in-law in the yard, the back porch light illuminating the grass around him as he tossed a football to his boys. Maura sat along the side, on the bench, watching.
"Vincent," he called. "We have to go."
Vincent stared at him, body rigid, not paying attention to his kids. Corrado caught the movement from the corner of his eye as Carmine pulled his arm back, using every ounce of force the little boy possessed to launch the football. It flew through the air, wobbling a bit as it spiraled, before slamming Vincent straight in the side of the head. The boys broke out in laughter as Vincent grabbed his ear.
"Shit," Vincent spat, stunned, as he turned to Corrado. "You distracted me."
Corrado shrugged. "The boy has decent aim."
Vincent scoffed under his breath, holding up a finger to tell Corrado to wait as he ran over to his wife and whispered something in her ear. She nodded as Vincent hollered to the boys. "Gotta go, kids. Mom's gonna take you home."
They whined, but the men didn't stick around to listen to it. Corrado trudged back through the house with Vincent right beside him, fixing his shirt and tightening his tie.
"You're not going to say goodbye to your mother?" Corrado asked as they stepped out front.
"Do you want to get there on time?" Vincent shot back.
"Are you getting smart with me?"
"Do you really want to argue about this?"
Corrado almost took the bait—nearly argued back—but he restrained himself. Vincent had gotten good at avoiding answering questions. And Corrado, well… he hated asking them.
"Let's go," he said, unlocking his car doors. "Can't be late."
Rita's had been chosen as the meeting place. 8 o'clock sharp. Corrado struggled finding a parking spot, having to swing his car in a lot a few blocks away. The closed sign hung in the door, the light inside dim, despite the hours listed on the glass stating they stayed open until midnight. Corrado opened the door with Vincent right behind him. Vincent stalled on the outskirts, remaining in the back, as Corrado slipped past the men gathered in a sort of obscure circle. He paused in the center, taking his place at the proverbial table, right where Antonio had told him he belonged.
They were the last to arrive. Sonny scanned the group of men, assessing, assuring they all belonged, before clearing his throat. "Nominations."
His voice was meek. The word had to be forced from his lips.
"Me."
All eyes shifted to Salvatore when he spoke, nominating himself.
Sonny scanned the men again, eyebrows rose as he waited for someone else to speak up, but nobody did.
"Seconded," Sonny said quietly. "Any objections?"
Once more, Sonny looked around, awaiting something, but nobody said a word.
"It's done," he said, frowning. "This never happened."
All at once, men shuffled out of the restaurant, some through the front door, most out the back. Corrado stood there, watching Sal as the man grinned smugly.
La Cosa Nostra had a new Boss… and Corrado wasn't sure how to feel about that.
'Don't worry about me,' Antonio had said. 'It's everyone else you should worry about, son.'
Those were his last words, the last spoken breath to escape his lips before death took him. Those words echoed through Corrado's head in the days that followed as he picked them apart, trying to find some hidden meaning… a cryptic message he was sure existed in the sentiment.
'It'll be a cold day when that salamander succeeds me,' Antonio had told him on the way back from the barbershop that day.
Had Antonio sensed this was coming?
Vincent grabbed his shoulder, drawing his attention away, as he motioned toward the exit. Corrado followed his brother-in-law to the door when Sal spoke behind him.
"We need to open the books again."
"Already?" Sonny asked.
"Yeah," Sal said. "I got just the guy to nominate."
"Who?"
"Carlo Abate," he replied. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a more loyal man than him."
The next morning, Corrado walked out onto his porch and grabbed the newspaper. He stepped into his foyer as he opened it, surveying the front page, coldness running through him when he read the headline.
Chicago Mafia Has a New Boss
Frowning, Corrado scanned the accompanying article, tripping over some words two paragraphs in.
Sources say the former Don was against Capozzi succeeding him. "Antonio believed it would be a cold day in Hell when that happened."
Corrado read those lines again and again as he let out a resigned sigh. Strolling to the living room, he threw the newspaper into the fireplace and dialed a number… one he hadn't called before.
Salvatore Capozzi.
"Yes?" Sal answered on the first ring.
"It's Corrado."
"Ah, what can I do for you?"
"I'd like to make a request, sir."
"Twenty minutes, my house."
Corrado hung up and headed upstairs to get dressed. Celia was still asleep when he slipped out of the house, driving to Lincoln Park where Salvatore lived. Corrado knew the address but had never been there before, never having much reason to visit. But he was the Boss now.
The Boss.
Corrado would never get used to it.
They met in Sal's den, the morning's newspaper laying in front of him, the headline glaring at the men as Corrado got right down to business. "I know who it is."
Sal regarded him curiously. "How?"
"I just do."
Pouring himself a drink, despite it being so early in the morning, Sal lounged in the chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I know all about you, Corrado. I know how much trust Antonio put in you. If you say you know who it is, I'll believe you. The only question I have is what are you going to do about it?"
Corrado glanced down at the headline. "Permission to take out the rat?"
A small smirk overcame Sal's lips as he waved him away. "By all means, exterminate."
44
Corrado checked his mirrors as he drove, intentionally making wrong turns and weaving through traffic to ensure he wasn't being followed. It took him an hour to get to a run-down section of the city that should've taken half that time, maneuvering past abandoned factories that people barely noticed anymore. The jobs had been shipped overseas, given to foreigners willing to work for pennies on the dollar. The companies used to sustain the neighborhoods, but now unemployment forced people to steal to feed their families.
And the government claimed they ruined Chicago. They said La Cosa Nostra destroyed families, degraded the people and made it hard for others to make an honest living.
I think people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
He pulled his car in beside the large warehouse, concealing it between two buildings. He made his way inside, securing the door behind him.
The place was dark, the few windows boarded up. It smelled of mold and stale cigarettes, trash scattered throughout that had been there for years. Rats infested building, scurrying past, ducking away from sight, but there were more of them than there were hiding spots.
Corrado made his way to the back of the warehouse, to a sectioned off portion with no exit to the outside. It had once been a break room, the ceiling lower and the area enclosed.
The moment he stepped inside, two guys from his crew greeted him. Corrado nodded, unsure of their names. Soldiers were soldiers. They weren't who he was there for, anyway.
Huddled in the corner, frightened, was Amando. He was disheveled, wearing only a pair of sweat pants. They had dragged him right out of bed. Although he cried, Corrado wasn't at
all sympathetic. The truth was he hadn't endured real suffering yet.
"Manny, the man of the hour."
"Sir—"
Corrado cut him off before he got anything out. "That's not how this is going to work. You've done enough talking."
Manny stared at him with horror-filled eyes.
"Antonio was a big believer in penance," Corrado said. "So if you take your punishment and adequately repent, you'll be forgiven. It's as simple as that."
"I'll do anythi—"
Hauling his foot back, Corrado kicked him right in the face. Manny cried out, trying to block himself as he huddled further into the corner.
Corrado glanced around, seeking out supplies, as a soldier kicked a black duffel bag toward him.
'Make it hurt.' If Antonio were alive, Corrado knew he'd say those words. Manny had fucked him over again and again.
Tossing the bag on a worn wooden table, Corrado unzipped it to pull out a coil of rope. He motioned for the soldiers to pull Manny to his feet. Corrado stood behind him, tying his wrists together. He left no wiggle room, the rope digging into his flesh, the friction burning his skin. After ensuring the knots wouldn't budge, he dragged him to the center of the room.
Manny provided little resistance. Fighting meant certain death, whereas he still believed he was strong enough to survive.
Too bad Corrado had yet to meet a man who was.
Above their heads and along the walls of the enclosure, portions of the framework of the building were exposed, leaving an elaborate maze of steel beams. He took the loose end of the rope and threw it up over one beam above them so it dangled down on the other side. A soldier grabbed it, tugging just enough to tie the other end to a portion of steel along the wall.
"This might hurt," Corrado warned.
Panic flared in Manny's eyes as the soldiers yanked on the rope, wrapping it tighter. The more they pulled, the further Manny's arms were forced into the air behind him.
After a moment, he had nowhere to go but up.
Inch by inch his feet rose from the ground, his cries growing louder with every tug. The weight of his body was held by his wrists, most of the strain placed on his shoulders. The ropes, they called it. It had been used to torture many men over the years for information, the excruciating pain loosening tongues.
A few feet from the ground, Corrado ordered them to stop, the men breathing a sigh of relief as they secured the rope for the last time.
Not Manny, though.
There would be no relief for him.
Corrado pulled the knife out—Antonio's knife. "When you took your oath, you swore your loyalty. Do you remember the promises you made?"
Manny nodded, trying to remain silent despite the pain.
"So where was the loyalty when you went to the reporters? Where was the honor when you turned your back on family? Where was the love when you turned on the Boss?" Corrado sliced an 'X' on Manny's chest. "Where was the heart?"
Manny grunted, gritting his teeth as blood streamed down his chest. Corrado itched to plunge the knife in but kept his composure, not wanting to kill him.
Yet.
"You're a disgrace," Corrado said. "If we have nothing in this world, we at least have our word, but you don't even have that. You swore your life on something and then went back on it like it meant nothing to you. Does it mean nothing to you?"
"No, I swear I—"
Corrado hauled his fist back to punch him, losing his temper. Manny whimpered as Corrado returned the knife to the bag and grabbed a small propane blowtorch, slowly unscrewing the back of it to release the gas. The hissing noise registered with Manny's ears as he started to cry again.
"God," he sobbed. "Oh, God! Not this! Please, God, help me!"
"God?" Corrado asked as the man delved into frantic prayers. "You're trying to appeal to God?"
"Please," he whimpered, hanging his head in shame, sobbing so hard he hiccupped. "I'm begging you."
"Go ahead and beg." Corrado shut off the blowtorch. "We'll give your God some time to answer."
Corrado leaned against the old table and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at his watch, the seconds ticking away. It felt like an eternity as Manny sobbed and begged, praying again and again.
"Guess your God's busy," Corrado said, looking away from his watch once five minutes had elapsed. "Not surprising, considering he has Antonio up there to contend with."
Corrado ignited the blowtorch again. "Confess."
"What?"
"Confess."
"I did nothing wrong!"
Corrado shook his head. "So burns this saint, so will your soul."
He hit the trigger, flames shooting out the end. Manny screamed as the fire lapped at his bare feet as the piercing sound echoed through the warehouse. He writhed, fighting against his restraints as the sickening stench of burning flesh surrounded them. "Please! Please, God, I'm begging you! Oh, God, it burns! It fucking burns!"
Manny grew frantic, inconsolable, his pleading bordering on incoherent. Corrado flicked off the blowtorch, screwing the back in again to stop the flow of gas.
Crying, Manny whimpered under his breath, still whispering prayers. Corrado dropped the blowtorch. "Blood in, blood out. Rules are rules."
"What do you want us to do with him?" a soldier asked.
"Please let me go," Manny begged. "Fuck! I'm begging you!"
Corrado shook his head. "Get rid of him."
Manny's cries grew even louder upon those words as blood, and snot, and tears coating his face. "Why?"
"We wanted penance," Corrado said. "You never even asked for forgiveness."
"I'm sorry!" Manny shrieked. "Please! I'm sorry!"
Too late.
"The canary sang," Corrado told the guys. "Take it to the roof and see if it can fly."
45
Stepping up on the creaky porch, Corrado knocked on the dingy red door, flakes of paint coming off on his knuckles. Shaking his head, he wiped them on his black pants when he heard noise inside. The front door opened, Maura appearing in front of him.
"I need to speak with—"
"Vincent!" she hollered, not letting him finish. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving the front door hanging wide open.
Not one to invite himself in someone else's house, and not receiving an invitation from Maura, Corrado strolled over to the side of the porch and leaned against the railing, cringing when the wood groaned from his weight. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the open doorway. It was a warm fall afternoon and Corrado was sweating, his skin flushed. He'd woken up that morning with a ferocious headache. Although he popped painkillers throughout the afternoon, his head still throbbed, the ache settling deep down in his bones.
He hoped he wasn't getting the flu.
A minute or so passed before Vincent appeared, only half-dressed for the day. He tilted his head, regarding Corrado as he finished buttoning his shirt. "Why are you standing outside?"
"Your wife didn't invite me in."
Corrado merely stated a fact, but Vincent acted as if it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. He let out a deep laugh as he tucked his shirt in, motioning with his head. "Come on in, Corrado."
Stepping inside, Corrado followed his brother-in-law down the short hallway to the living room. He paused there, his eyes drawn to the empty spot in the far back.
"Piano," Vincent said, answering his unasked question. "It's supposed to be delivered tonight sometime."
"Didn't know you were in the market for one," Corrado said. "I could have given you mine."
The piano at the club hadn't lasted long. Corrado couldn't be there every hour of every day, and drunk people had no respect for others property. He'd had it repaired and put into storage, where it collected dust.
Vincent shrugged. "Carmine had his heart set on this limited edition Steinway grand piano he saw."
"He's eight," Corrado said. "He's a bit young for a grand piano."
"You ques
tioning my parenting?"
"Of course not," he said. "I didn't ask any questions."
Vincent sat on the couch. "Yeah, we spoil the boy, but he's earned it. He's worked hard these past few weeks learning his first Beethoven song."
"Beethoven?"
"Moonlight Sonata," he said, grabbing his shoes to slip them on. "It's depressing as hell to listen to. He plays it pretty well, but I'm hoping I never have to hear it again after tonight."
Vincent was tying his shoes when Carmine ran into the room, breezing right past Corrado toward the vacant spot in the corner. Vincent snatched a hold of him before he made it there, yanking him onto the couch in his arms.
Carmine tried to wiggle out of his father's grasp. "Let me go!"
"Go where?"
"Over there!"
"Why?"
"Because I wanna!"
"Why?"
"Dad!" he whined, drawing out the word. "Let me go!"
"Let the poor boy go, Vincent," Maura said, stepping into the living room. "He's excited."
Vincent let go, and Carmine shot out of his arms. Standing up, Vincent motioned for Corrado to follow him as he strode toward the door. No business talk allowed around Vincent's kids.
Corrado stepped back out on the porch, taking a deep breath of the fresh air.
"What are we doing?" Vincent asked.
Corrado shrugged. He didn't know any more than Vincent did. Salvatore had called them up, saying he had some work he needed to do, and he wanted the two of them to go over it with him. It baffled Corrado, but then again, most of what Sal did made little sense to him.
"I'm missing my son's piano recital for this," Vincent said. "Whatever it is better be good."
"I'm sure it is." At least, he hoped. The way he felt, he wasn't in the mood for nonsense.
The door behind them opened. Carmine skipped outside, his mother right behind him. Vincent reached out again when Carmine tried to skirt around him, roughing up the boy's already messy hair. "Good luck, kiddo."
Carmine groaned and pulled away. "Must you do that?"
"Yes, I must," Vincent said. "You need a haircut."
"I like my hair," Carmine muttered.
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