Made

by J. M. Darhower

  "So do I," Maura responded. "It's adorable."

  "Adorable?" Carmine looked at his mother with horror. "Babies are adorable, Mom. I'm not a baby."

  "You're my baby," she said. "You always will be."

  Carmine dramatically rolled his eyes.

  "Adorable or not," Vincent said, "the boy needs a haircut."

  "I guess I can take him tomorrow," Maura said. "After Dominic gets home."

  "But I don't want a haircut," Carmine insisted.

  "Don't you want to impress the girls?" Vincent asked.

  Carmine grimaced. "Why would I?"

  A black sedan pulled up in front of the house before Vincent had to answer that, a chauffeur getting out. Corrado vaguely recognized the man as someone he had used before for Celia.

  Sal had proven to be a less passive Boss than Antonio. His two years in charge had spawned violent clashes with the Irish. Sal continually insisted their problems all linked back to them, despite increasing evidence that Volkov led some of it. Corrado had come face-to-face with the man a few times and yearned to put a bullet in the savage, but he never said a word for the sake of peace.

  "Bye, Dad!" Carmine yelled, rushing off the porch. "Love you!"

  "Love you, too," Vincent said, his attention shifting to Maura as she headed off the porch after her son. He grabbed her arm to stop her. "I know you aren't leaving without telling me goodbye."

  "Of course not," she said, pausing beside him. "I'd never."

  Vincent yanked her toward him, leaning down to kiss her. Corrado turned away, not wanting to invade their privacy. He had never seen such a public display of affection from the two.

  "Hurry back to me," Vincent said when he broke the kiss. "We haven't gotten much alone time lately. I miss you."

  "I miss you, too," she whispered. "You've been so busy."

  "I know," he said. "Hopefully that'll change soon. It's been too long."

  Medical school, on top of La Cosa Nostra business, kept Vincent away from his family more than he was around them. He hadn't given up, though, had refused to stop pursuing legitimacy.

  "Way too long," she murmured. "I have to get going. I love you."

  "I love you, too," Vincent responded. "Always have and always will."

  Corrado looked at them again as Maura pulled away from her husband, smiling. She stepped off the porch and headed toward the waiting car, turning back to them.

  "Oh, I forgot," she said, waving playfully. "Goodbye."

  Vincent laughed. "I'll see you later, Maura."

  Maura's smile dimmed as she turned to Corrado, but it didn't fade completely. "Corrado."

  He froze, surprised by the acknowledgement. "Maura."

  Maura slid into the backseat. Vincent's eyes followed the car as it cruised down the street, out of sight, before glancing at his watch. "Sal will be here soon."

  What Corrado had assured Vincent would be important had turned out to be tedious work, the things they had moved passed doing years ago. They gathered at Vincent's house, since he was waiting for the piano to be delivered, and poured over books for hours on end, going through the other capo's records of games and bets, ensuring they weren't skimming from the organization. Corrado's head pounded harder and harder as the night wore on, the throb so vicious he could hardly read the numbers on the pages anymore.

  Sal rambled on with thoughts and theories, ideas for other schemes he wanted to get in on, distracting Corrado to the point he had to redo his own work.

  And he never had to do something twice.

  The house phone rang after a while. Vincent got up. "Might be the delivery guys."

  He headed into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall, out of earshot. Corrado continued working, hoping to finish soon so he could go home. Vincent returned after a moment, retaking his seat.

  "Was it?" Sal asked.

  "Was it what?"

  "The delivery men."

  "Oh, no," Vincent said, picking up a notebook he had been working on. "It was Dominic... wanting to talk to his mother."

  "Ah, he's staying with Nunzio tonight, isn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "Good boy, that Nunzio."

  Corrado refrained from scoffing… barely. Nunzio was a neighborhood menace, but he was loosely kin to Sal, so they tolerated the immature brat.

  "Yeah," Vincent agreed. "He is."

  It didn't escape Corrado's notice that Vincent was distracted after that, his eyes frequently shifting away from his work to the clock on the wall. Time had steadily ticked away, hours passing as darkness swept through the city, casting everything in deep shadows.

  After a while, the mind-numbing work got to be too much. Corrado shoved a notebook away from him and ran his hands down his face. He couldn't take anymore.

  "You don't look so well, Corrado," Sal said. "You feeling okay?"

  "A little under the weather," Corrado admitted.

  "Go on home," Sal said, his expression serious. "We're almost done here. Vincent and I can finish up."

  "Yes, sir." Corrado wasn't one to skirt on responsibilities, but he wouldn't argue. He was starting to feel lightheaded, darkness lingering after every blink.

  Vincent was on his feet faster than Corrado could stand. "I'll walk you out."

  Corrado followed his brother-in-law onto the porch. He could tell from Vincent's expression, the strain in his jaw, the shadowy gaze, that something worried him.

  "Do you know a guy named Arthur Brannigan?" Vincent asked.

  "Never heard of him."

  "That's who called," Vincent admitted, his expression hard. "He's a private investigator. He was calling for Maura."

  Corrado's brow furrowed. "What's he want with her?"

  "He wanted to make sure she received her refund," Vincent said, his lips twisting with anger. "Apparently she hired him to find out more about Haven Antonelli."

  Corrado's stomach dropped, making him even woozier. "You said she would stop."

  "I thought she would," Vincent said. "She said she would."

  "Make her," Corrado said, "before somebody gets hurt."

  "I will." Vincent glanced at his watch. "They should've called for a car now. I don't know where they are. Anyway, thanks for sticking around tonight so long, even though you felt like shit."

  "It's work," Corrado responded, shrugging as he stepped off the porch. "We do what we gotta do."

  He strolled away, deeply breathing the fresh night air. The breeze felt good against his feverish skin. Definitely the flu.

  The short walk to his house felt like miles tonight, his body sluggish. He needed sleep desperately. The sounds around the neighborhood—the revving engines, the blowing horns, thumping music, excited shouting—seemed magnified in his ears, throbbing along like a bass drum to the beat of his headache. Felton Drive used to be a quiet, respectable area, but times had changed. He didn't like it, didn't like the disrespect the younger generation had, with their reckless behavior and lack of civility.

  Sure, they were criminals, but they didn't have to be savages.

  As that thought passed through Corrado's mind, he heard a succession of bangs in the distance. An untrained ear would've called it a car backfiring, but Corrado knew a gunshot a mile away.

  Chicago, the town his father had often called Heaven, was going to Hell right before Corrado's eyes.

  46

  The deranged banging echoed through the house, making Corrado's head pound to the beat of the knocking. He staggered down the steps toward the front door, groggy and half-asleep, wearing nothing but a pair of sweat pants. He went home because he didn't feel well, so for someone to interrupt his night took guts. There was never any telling what he'd find on the other side of the door, but whatever it was at this hour had better be important.

  And by important, he meant life or death, because if it wasn't he'd make it so.

  Somehow, as he made it to the foyer, the knocking managed to grow more frantic. He groaned and ran his hands down his face, trying to clear his head
and wake up. He was agitated, and that wasn't a good thing for whoever was standing on his front porch.

  "I'm coming," he yelled, his voice gritty. "Relax."

  All he wanted was one night where his phone didn't ring. One night where he could spend time with his wife without interruption. One night where he didn't have to worry about who was doing what with who and why. One night where people left him alone.

  One night where someone didn't come knocking.

  He yanked the front door open, irritated at the disturbance, but before he had a chance to speak or even get a good look, someone rushed right past him into the house. Startled, he saw Vincent pacing the foyer.

  Corrado blinked a few times, trying to clear his head. Something wasn't right. "Vincent?"

  "I can't…" Vincent furiously shook his head, frazzled, his clothes askew and hair a mess. "I can't... he, uh… they… she… oh God! My fucking God! Why?"

  Vincent turned in his direction. Corrado froze, horrified, at the blood splattering his shirt. Vincent grabbed onto his hair as if he were trying to pull it out, his legs giving out on him. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, his back pressed against the foyer wall as a piercing scream exploded from him.

  Corrado flinched as a sharp pain shot through his skull at the sound, his ears ringing. For a second, he grew dizzy and worried he would collapse, too. He held onto the wall to stabilize himself and knelt down beside Vincent once his vision cleared.

  Full on hysterical, tears streaked Vincent's face. Corrado had never seen him so out of control before. Vincent didn't show emotion around him. The only time he'd ever even seen him tear up had been the day Maura had been raped.

  And just like that, Corrado knew. "Maura."

  Vincent sobbed louder at the sound of her name. "My wife, my beautiful wife! Oh God, they got her! They got my Maura!"

  "Got her?"

  "She's gone!" His body violently shook. "They got her! Why her? Why did it have to be her?"

  Corrado grabbed a hold of Vincent, trying to get him under control as he rambled. He needed to know what happened. He needed details, and he needed them now.

  "Where?" Corrado asked. "Where is she?"

  Vincent continued his maniacal muttering. Corrado shook him hard, trying to snap him out of it. Vincent grasped onto his arms tightly, like he was holding on for dear life. His hands looked like they'd been soaked in blood, stained red with some of it caked under his fingernails.

  "Vincent!" Corrado shouted in his face. "I need you to talk to me. You need to tell me what you know. We need to fix this."

  "We can't." Vincent swallowed thickly, choking back a sob. "It's too late."

  Too late. Vincent didn't say the words, but Corrado knew what he meant. There was only one thing you couldn't come back from, one thing that couldn't be fixed. Death.

  "She didn't come home," Vincent cried. "I was so mad. I went after her; I went to find her. I found the lights, heard the sirens, and then I saw. I saw her there, in the alley. I went to her. They tried to stop me. They tried to fucking stop me, but I fought them. I fought them, and I went to her, I grabbed her, but they wouldn't let me hold her. They wouldn't let me have her!"

  "What in the world?" Celia's soft voice resonated from the top of the stairs as she started down them, clutching her robe around her. "What's going on down here?"

  "Go back to bed, Celia," Corrado called out.

  "What?" Celia ran down the steps. "What's happening?"

  Vincent's sobs came on harder, his pleading eyes seeking out his sister. Celia, noticing him, let out a painful gasp as she rushed over, shoving Corrado out of the way to get to her brother.

  "Vincent?" Her hands frantically assessed him. "What happened to you?"

  He shook his head and tried to speak, but all that came out were cries, merging with the telephone ringing. Corrado stared at them, something stabbing at him through the fog.

  Something missing.

  Something unmentioned.

  "Celia, get the phone," Corrado demanded, tearing her away from her brother. "Now."

  She looked like she would argue, but his expression stopped her. Wordlessly, she bolted away, rushing for the telephone, as Corrado grabbed Vincent to try to get his attention. Vincent was slipping further and further from coherency, falling deep in the throes of grief. "Where's Carmine?"

  "What?"

  "Your son," Corrado growled. "He was with his mother. Where is he?"

  "He's, uh…" Vincent wildly shook his head. "He wasn't there. He wasn't with her."

  "What do you mean he wasn't with her?" Corrado asked. "Where did he go?"

  "I don't know," Vincent cried. "Oh God, I don't know!"

  "Corrado!" Celia called from the doorway, her eyes wide with horror. "It's, uh, Johnny on the phone. Johnny Tarullo. He's asking for you."

  "The pizza guy?" Corrado asked. "Take a message."

  "He says it's important," Celia said. "He said it's about Carmine."

  Carmine. Corrado let go of Vincent as he shot to his feet, his vision blurring at the abrupt movement. Hell of a night to get sick. He darted around his wife, going straight for the telephone. "Moretti speaking."

  "Mr. Moretti, it's—"

  "I know who you are," Corrado said, cutting him off. "You know something about Carmine?"

  "I found him," John said. "He's, uh… he's here. At my shop."

  "Is he alright?" The stark silence that followed was answer enough for Corrado. "Stay there. Call no one. Wait for me."

  Corrado slammed the phone down and ran out of the room, sprinting upstairs. He threw on clothes, dressing faster than he had ever dressed before. Grabbing his gun, he made sure it was loaded before running back downstairs, shoving it in his coat as he hit the foyer. Celia was on the floor with her brother, holding him in her arms, rocking him and consoling him. Corrado wasn't sure if she even knew why, but the expression on her face, the tears streaming from her eyes, said she knew enough.

  "I'm heading out," he said to his wife, knowing talking to Vincent was useless right now. "If he tries to leave, don't let him."

  "How do I do that?" Celia asked.

  "I don't care," Corrado said. "Shoot him if you have to. Just don't let him out of your sight."

  He was out the door and to his car before she responded.

  Corrado sped through the streets, giving little thought to police, nothing else mattering. It was only a few blocks to Tarullo's Pizzeria, only a few minutes time. He felt constantly on the verge of throwing up, the burn in the back of his throat, the heaviness in his lungs like air wasn't enough to keep him breathing, but he swallowed it back and pushed forward.

  He hit his breaks, tires squealing as he swung his car crookedly into a parking spot in front of the pizzeria. In the distance, down the block, a few police cars were parked along the street, blocking a nearby alley, yellow caution tape tied up around the area.

  Corrado forced himself to look away from it as he headed for the pizzeria. The lights were all on, the open sign flickering in the window, but the door wouldn't budge when he shoved against it. Locked.

  "Tarullo!" he called out, banging on the door so hard he cracked a pane of glass. "Open up!"

  John Tarullo appeared, racing toward the door, his face ghastly pale as he opened up for Corrado.

  "Where is he?" Corrado asked, stepping inside, his eyes scanning the place. Pizza covered some of the tables, money tossed around. He had cleared the place out abruptly.

  "In the back," he said. "In the kitchen."

  "Is he dead?'

  John flinched at the blunt question. "Not yet."

  Not yet. Corrado could work with that. It meant it wasn't too late.

  Bursting through the kitchen doors, his footsteps stalled for a fraction of a second at the boy lying on the floor, surrounded by towels. His white shirt was torn, the side of it soaked with blood. The color was gone from Carmine's naturally tanned skin, giving him an ashy hue, his lips tinted blue. Not good.

  Corrado knelt b
eside the boy and grasped his wrist, relieved to feel a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. His heart was still beating. He checked him over, seeing the lesion on his side. Someone had shot him, a superficial wound, but he had been bleeding out for a while. Short, rapid breaths passed through his lips, his eyes closed. Unconscious.

  "Did you talk to him at all?" Corrado asked.

  "No, he was like this when I found him."

  "Where?" Corrado asked. "Where did you find him?"

  "Behind my Dumpster. I took the trash out and saw his foot sticking out. I yelled at him, told him to get out from back there, but he didn't move. And then I saw the blood."

  The man sounded shell-shocked.

  "I didn't know what to do," John said as Corrado ran a hand over Carmine's head, feeling his clammy skin. It was cool to the touch. "Maybe I should've called 911, but I know who he is… I know who you all are. I know what you are."

  Corrado shot the guy a look that silenced him. "You did the right thing."

  "I hope so."

  Corrado pulled the limp boy into his arms, clutching him to his chest as he stood. "He's my nephew. I'll take care of him."

  "Come with me."

  Corrado followed the police officer down the long, dim hallway, the lights above him flickering and buzzing as he passed. It was stone cold silent except for the sound of their shoes against the hard floor. Each footstep, each thump, each flicker, drove Corrado closer to the edge.

  The officer's proximity unnerved him. In their world, you weren't supposed to be anywhere near a man in uniform, unless involuntarily in handcuffs in the back of his car, and even then you were flirting with danger. This went against his nature.

  He didn't want to be there. In fact, it was the last place in the world he wanted to be. But Vincent was in no condition to do it. He was too distraught and not in his right mind, glued to Carmine's side in the ICU. And Celia, well… Corrado would never want his wife to go through something like this.

  There was nobody else.

  Only him.

  The officer led him into a small room with a large streaked window that gave a view of an adjoining room. It felt like a science lab, clinical and sanitized, with scales and chemicals and trays and tables, but it was much more than that. A room few experienced alive, but one most would be subjected to at death.