Made (4 page)

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the sound of the cracks, the pain of ripping flesh, the flashes of memory. His mother didn't stop until her arm grew tired, the blows weaker as Corrado’s body grew numb, his mind detaching. He forced himself to go somewhere else, to think of something else, to not focus on the brutal sting.

Not a word was spoken as Erika walked out, dragging the belt behind her, leaving him on the floor, his face coated with tears.

He raised his head after a bit, his eyes drawn to the doorway. Katrina stood out in the hallway, watching him, that familiar look of wonder in her eyes he’d seen before.

"You," he ground out, his voice scratchy. She’d
told
. "How could you?"

She shrugged. "The more she hates you, the more she likes me."

Corrado stayed in bed that night and most of the next afternoon, huddled under his Batman comforter, not wanting to see the sunshine, not wanting to face the day. He heard movement around the house, cheerful voices downstairs, even his sister’s laughter across the hall, but no one bothered him. No one called for him. No one came to check on him at all.

Evening approached when he heard heavy footsteps down the hallway. He lay still, holding his breath as they neared his room. They stopped right outside, long, torturous seconds passing before the knob jiggled. Corrado closed his eyes, imagining his mother’s anger that he blocked it with his desk.

She had caught him off guard twice. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Someone shoved against the door, trying to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “You in there, kid?"

Corrado’s eyes opened at the sound of his father’s voice. Throwing the blankets off, he climbed out of the bed, hobbling as he made his way across the room. He shifted his desk back in place and cracked open the door, peeking his head out to meet his father's gaze.

"Hey," Vito said. "Why'd you have the door blocked? What if there's a fire? How you gonna get out if..."

Vito trailed off. His expression changed, his posture stiffening as the calmness drained from his eyes. With no warning, he slammed his hand against the partially opened door, forcing it open the rest of the way. Corrado winced as his father roughly grasped his chin. "What happened to your face?"

"What?"

"You got these red marks. You get in a fight at school?"

Corrado shook his head.

"Well?" Vito prompted. "What happened then?"

His voice was quiet as he tried to respond, stammering.

"Was it your mother?" Vito raised his eyebrows. "She beat you?"

Corrado didn't respond, but Vito knew.

Letting go, Vito studied Corrado, surveying his severely marked skin. He motioned for Corrado to spin around and let out a low whistle at the welts, the deep gashes and streaks of dried blood covering his bare back.

"Where's your mother, anyway? Her car ain't here."

Corrado shrugged. He hadn't even known she'd left.

"She didn't tell you where she was going?"

"No."

"She must've taken Kat with her," he said. "Your gym shoes were the only ones downstairs."

"Oh."

Vito stared at him, clicking his tongue. Corrado's face heated like a furnace, tears prickling his eyes from shame.

"Come on," Vito said, his voice a forced calmness that betrayed his fiery eyes. "I brought a pizza home. Let's go eat."

Corrado followed his father downstairs to the kitchen, where a large pizza box lay on the counter. The greasy scent filled the air when Vito opened it.
Sausage and mushrooms—Corrado's favorite kind.

Vito grabbed a plate and handed it to him. "Dig in."

Corrado took one slice, but his father grabbed two more and slapped them on his plate. He took a seat on one of the stools at the bar, eating as Vito opened the fridge. More covered the shelves now—things to drink. Corrado's brow furrowed, confused, considering the refrigerator still wasn't working.

"Habit, you know," Vito explained as he pulled out a glass bottle of coke and popped the top off, as if he'd sensed Corrado's confusion. "Can't keep them cool, but that's where they go, so that's where they went."

He laughed, but there was no humor to it as he slid the drink to Corrado. The soda was still sort of chilled, the outside of the bottle sweating from condensation.

Vito grabbed a can of Budweiser from the fridge and opened it, taking a swig. He grimaced in disgust, shaking his head, but it didn't dissuade him from taking a second drink. He set it down then and grabbed a slice of pizza, leaning against the counter as he gnawed on it.

"The Sox look good this year," Vito said casually. "They got that
Tony
Muser
guy now. Good move, if you ask me..."

Small talk filled the kitchen, setting Corrado at ease as his father ran down the White Sox roster, talking up the team. "They're gonna pull ahead this season. We're going to the World Series, kid. I can feel it."

Corrado smiled at that.

He finished his fifth slice of pizza when the front door opened, and Katrina ran inside. She hesitated in the foyer, dropping a shopping bag on the floor. "Daddy?"

"In here," Vito yelled from the kitchen, taking a sip from his second warm beer.

Katrina burst in, heading straight for their father, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Vito patted her back, his eyes on the doorway as Erika stepped into view. "Erika."

"Vito," she said. "What brings you home?"

"Oh, I think you know."

Erika's eyes narrowed suspiciously, darting straight to Corrado. His shoulders slumped, body trying to fold into itself as he wished he could disappear.

Vito pulled Katrina away from him, motioning toward the rest of the pizza. "Why don't you grab a slice and head on upstairs so your mother and I can talk?"

Katrina glanced at the pizza and wrinkled her nose. "I don't like sausage."

"Pick it off."

"Gross, and mushrooms!"

"Pick them off, too."

"But—"

"You heard me, Kat. You can't always have it your way."

Katrina stared at their father for a second, frowning as he cut off her whining. She grabbed a piece of pizza and stormed out, her feet stomping on the stairs. Corrado slid off of his stool, his head down as he scampered toward the doorway.

"Hey, kid."

Corrado looked at his father.

"You look like you grew another foot."

Smiling, he turned back around and slipped from the room.

He barely had enough time to make it to his bedroom before fighting ignited downstairs. It was different this time, as Vito's usual passive voice rose above the chaos, enraged and terrifying.

"You think it's okay to beat my son? You think it's okay to hit him like a man? How about I beat you that way, huh? How about I hit you like a fucking man!"

Corrado huddled under his blanket again, trying not to listen to them, but it was impossible to block out all of the shouting.

"You can't pay the bills, you can't feed my kids, but you can go shopping? You can spend my money on this bullshit—your expensive shoes, your fucking vintage wine—but you can't keep the goddamn electric going?"

Corrado's door creaked opened, the loose floorboard groaning again. He didn't look, knowing it could only be his sister. She stood there beside his bed, and Corrado sensed her gaze on where he laid, dead center of the bed, but he didn't move, didn't scoot over to give her room.

He had nothing to say to her after what she'd done to him.

Katrina went away eventually, going back to her room alone.

"I do everything for you…
everything
! You never had to work a day in your life because of me! All I ask is you keep my kids fed, and you don't even have to do that! I give you someone to do it for you! And you can't keep them around for more than a couple days without losing control!"

The fighting went on and on, non-stop for
hours,
increasingly incoherent as they yelled about things Corrado didn't understand. The house was pitch black when it slowed to a trickle, finally growing silent, not a peep downstairs from either parent. After awhile his bedroom door opened again, heavy footsteps treading through the room. Someone sat down on the end of the bed and snatched the comforter off Corrado's head.

"Come on, kid." Vito's voice was scratchy from the relentless shouting. "Don't do that. We Moretti men don't hide. We don't cower from anyone."

Corrado sat up carefully, eyeing his father in the darkened room. From the soft glow of the moon, he noticed scratches on Vito's skin from his mother's fingernails.

"Your mother said you stole from her, that you lied about it. That true?"

He hesitated before slowly nodding.

"I told her she ain't give you no choice," Vito continued, not surprised by his answer. He knew he had. "You throw a man into a war and he's gonna kill, you know?
Gotta
do what we gotta do, any means necessary to make it out alive. And besides, people should never be punished for protecting family, no matter what."

Vito ran his hands down his face before standing back up. "You can't go to school looking like that. They'll think you live in a bad home, and we can't have them thinking that. We can't have them thinking they can take you away from me. So you'll have to take a few days off, you know, until it heals up a bit.
Capice
?"

"I understand."

"Good." Vito started for the door, pausing to look back at him. "I'm proud of you, kid."

Proud?

Corrado stared at his father as he walked out. It was the first time he'd ever said that to him.

    
3

Early the next morning, Corrado awoke to cool air blowing in his room, rattling the metal vent. A warm glow swaddled the bed from his lamp, casting light upon his weary face.

He was so groggy it took a minute for it to click.

Electricity.

Climbing out of bed, he slowly made his way down the stairs, hearing the radio playing from the living room. Frank Sinatra. The place was in order, all signs of last night's fighting gone. The smell of breakfast wafted through the house, bacon sizzling as the toaster popped up.

Corrado stepped into the kitchen, finding his sister sitting on a stool at the bar, dressed for school with her pink bag already on her back. She sipped a glass of orange juice, the plate in front of her practically licked clean.

Erika stood in front of the stove scrambling eggs, her hair a messy bun on top of her head. She dumped some eggs onto an empty plate as her eyes caught Corrado's.

"Just in time," she said, setting the plate on the bar. "Come eat your breakfast."

He hesitated. "Me?"

"Of course," she said. "Who else?"

Corrado slid onto the empty stool, picking up a fork and stabbing at the eggs. He tentatively took a small bite. They were rubbery and bland, but he choked them down, grateful to have some at all.

The lights were back on. They had food to eat.

His father
had
handled everything.

Katrina finished her glass of juice as Vito strolled into the kitchen, dressed flawlessly in a dark suit, wearing his fedora, humming along to the tune on the radio. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll drop you off at school."

"Do I have to go?" Katrina asked.

"Yes," Erika and Vito answered at the same time.

"It's not fair!" she said. "Corrado gets to stay home!"

Vito shot her a disbelieving look. "You really wanna go there? Because I'm sure your brother would've been happy to trade places with you the other night, but you don't hear him whining about it, do you?"

"But—"

"Enough," Vito said. "Get in the car. You and I need to have a talk about ratting out people."

Sighing theatrically, Katrina jumped down from her stool and stomped out. Vito pulled out his keys and kissed his wife briefly before heading for the door.

Corrado sat still, staring down at his plate and poking at his remaining eggs as he listened to his father's Lincoln pull down the driveway. His mother stood right in front of him.

"You should go outside," she said. "It's a beautiful day."

She didn't wait for him to respond before walking out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.

Corrado took his mother's advice. He sat on the porch, still clad in his pajamas, when his sister got home later that day. The school bus dropped her off at the end of the long dirt driveway, and he watched as she made the trek toward him.

She hesitated as she reached the porch, kicking around in the dirt with her Mary Janes, before sitting down beside him. She frowned, her chin resting in the palms of her hands.

"You think he's coming back?" she asked.

Corrado stared down at the remnants of tire tracks. "Maybe."

They sat together for a while, watching, waiting, for something that didn't come. Katrina eventually gave up. "Well, I don't care if he does."

She was lying, but he didn't call her out on it.

Corrado continued to sit there by himself after she went inside, not getting up until sunset. He went inside and went right up to his room, going straight to bed.

Nobody called him down for dinner.

He's probably back in Chicago
.
Left without saying goodbye again.

He drifted off to sleep, waking early in the morning to a rustling in the doorway. Vito stood there, observing him.

Corrado sat up swiftly as he gaped at his father. "Dad?"

"You thought I left, did you?"

Vito's voice sounded earnest. Corrado couldn't lie. "Yes."

"I ain't going nowhere if I can help it," Vito said. "Don't worry, kid."

Could it be true? Would his father stay?

"Get up," Vito said. "You're coming with me today."

Once, the year before, Corrado's teacher at the private academy they attended asked the class a simple question:

What do your parents do for a living?

His classmate's answers were predictable—teachers, lawyers, doctors, even a few casino workers. It was close to Vegas, after all.

"My mother stays home,"
Corrado
said when it was his turn.

"Your father?" the teacher asked. "Where does he work?"

"Chicago," he replied.

"And what does he do there?"

Corrado stared blankly at the teacher.

He had no answer for that.

When he got home from school that day, he'd asked his mother. Her amused laughter filled the house, so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. "You want to know how your father makes his money?"

"Yes."

"He does it very carefully."

"He's careful for a living," he'd later told his teacher. "That's what my mom says, anyway."

She'd looked at him with pity, like she thought he didn't understand. And he didn't. Not really.

Katrina had the same assignment. She told the teacher their father was a spy, going undercover on missions that took him away for months at a time. The lady laughed it off, but Corrado wondered if maybe Katrina actually believed it.

After all, Vito was a secretive man. He never talked business whenever the kids were around. He could've done anything, been anyone, and they'd have never known.

He could've been James Bond.

So Corrado was shocked that morning when he stepped out onto the front porch and asked his father where they were going.

"Work," Vito said.

Work
.

Corrado climbed into the passenger seat of the Lincoln. His father started the car and shoved an eight-track tape into the player. Frank Sinatra's voice vibrated the speakers, loud and grainy, as Corrado rolled his window down.

Warm wind blew in Corrado's face, ruffling his dark hair as his father drove toward the highway, singing along to the music. Corrado relaxed back in his seat, a smile ghosting across his lips.

Despite living in the area his entire short life, Corrado had never been to the heart of Las Vegas before. Eyes peeled to the scenery, he watched in awe as they crept past casinos along the strip—past Sahara, Riviera, and Stardust, past Frontier, Sands, and Caesar's Palace—before stopping when they reached The Fabulous Flamingo. The lights on the tall fluorescent pink sign twinkled as Vito pulled into the parking lot, swinging to a stop right at the front door.

Vito cut the engine and climbed out of the car. Vito kept his door open, tossing the keys to a man standing along the sidewalk. "Don't scratch the paint."

"Yes, sir."

Corrado followed his father, eyes wide with fascination as a man nodded at Vito before opening the door for him. "Mr. Moretti."

Vito said nothing as he strode inside. The man at the door eyed Corrado curiously, brow furrowing, but he uttered not a word as Corrado followed his father inside the casino.

Stepping through those doors for the first time was like entering another dimension. The world Corrado grew up in, dull and bordering on downright
dreary,
ceased to exist as lights and sounds flooded his senses. Vibrant tables and multi-colored slot machines filled the massive room, offset by the pale pink walls and subtle yellow lighting. The clatter of spinning roulette wheels and cranking slot machine arms mixed with the chatter of dozens of people, standing around in groups, clutching buckets of casino chips. Shuttering lights flashed as bells and whistles went off, machines spewing coins so rapidly it startled Corrado.

They headed through the chaos, straight to a large office down a hallway in the back of the casino. Vito opened the door without knocking, startling an older man sitting behind a desk.

He jumped to attention, pushing the chair back. "Mr. Moretti, I thought you'd left town."

"You thought wrong." Vito took off his hat and set it atop a coat rack beside the door. He strolled over, plopping down in the chair the man had vacated, barely giving him a chance to move out of the way. Vito motioned toward another chair off to the side. "Have a seat, kid."

Tentatively, Corrado sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes darting between his father and the other man.

"Uh, I'll give you some privacy," the man said.

"Yeah, you do that," Vito called, a dimpled smirk lighting up his face. "And bring me a drink, will you?
Scotch, straight up.
Top shelf. Don't bullshit me."

"Of course, sir."

"And something for my kid. A pop or whatnot." Vito's eyes darted to Corrado. "What's your favorite?"

"Cactus Cooler."

Vito stared at him blankly for a moment before turning to the man. "You heard the kid. Cactus Cooler."

"Uh, yes, sir. Right away."

The man walked out, muttering under his breath. The sounds from the casino muffled to a droning whisper once the door latched behind him. Vito kicked his feet up on the desk as he leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped together at the back of his head. "We'll see how long it takes him to dig up one of those coolers."

"Are you his boss?" Corrado asked hesitantly.

"Depends on what you mean by that."

"Well…" What did he mean? "Do you run this place?"

"I run this
town
, kid."

"How?"

"Carefully."

Carefully.

Corrado stared at him, remembering his mother saying that word. Vito noticed his son's baffled expression and sat up, his feet again dropping back down to the floor. He leaned forward, his expression serious. "You learn about the Boston Tea Party in school yet?"

"No."

"The people didn't want their tea taxed by the British, so they dumped all the tea out in protest. Screw you and your tea, they said. The British lost control of their empire. And well, I don't plan to lose control of mine anytime soon, so I make sure I'm careful." A light laugh escaped Vito's lips as he relaxed again. "You know, when I collect my taxes."

Corrado remained confused, but he didn't ask his father anything more. Vito hated being questioned.

The man returned with their drinks—a glass of scotch and a cold can of Cactus Cooler, the price tag from a local shop still affixed to it—followed shortly thereafter with another visitor. This man, tall and lanky, wearing a casual gray suit, clutched a manila envelope. He handed it to Vito, who opened it and pulled out a thick stack of cash. Corrado stared at it, audibly gasping and choking on his drink when he noticed the amount of money in his father's hand.

Vito painstakingly counted it by hand, bill by bill, dollar by dollar, as the man stood in front of the desk. There had to be thousands of dollars. It took ten minutes of strained silence, the only noise in the room the sounds from the casino filtering around the cracks in the door, before Vito was satisfied. He returned most of the cash to the envelope, save for a few stray bills, and opened a drawer in the desk, tossing it in. He handed the leftover money back to the visitor.