Made (48 page)

Someone threw an arm over his shoulder. Corrado looked over, surprised, as his father beamed. His thick hand grasped his chin, pulling him toward him, and kissed his cheek. "What did I tell you, kid? It was only a matter of time."

Before Corrado could react to the display of affection, Vito let go and disappeared from the room. The men left, Vincent being the last remaining, lingering along the wall before slipping out the door.

He still appeared frazzled.

Corrado stared at the doorway, knowing how the boy must feel, when Antonio cleared his throat. The moment Corrado looked back at the Boss, he pointed toward the nearby chair… the one that had remained vacant all night. "Take your seat."

He hesitated. "My seat?"

Antonio nodded. "It's reserved for you."

Corrado blinked a few times, his gaze on the chair. So simple in theory, his seat, but the underlying meaning overwhelmed him. Even Vincent had been made to stand along the sidelines. The men at the table were all veterans, men who had lived the life for decades, struggling and proving themselves again and again.

Corrado had only just been invited into the fray. Yet… he had a seat.

"Sit," Antonio ordered again, his voice not as gentle as before. Impatient. Corrado slid into the chair as the Boss exited the room. He returned with a towel and two glasses, a bottle of scotch in the crook of his arm. He tossed the small towel to Corrado. "For your hand."

"I'm fine, sir."

"I only just got you initiated," he said. "If you bleed out on my floor and I lose you already, I'm going to be pissed."

Corrado grabbed the towel, wrapping it around his hand to stop the incessant bleeding. Antonio poured two glasses of scotch, sliding one down the table to Corrado before retaking his seat, sipping from his glass. The stony silence returned briefly as Corrado's mind drifted, the alcohol going down smooth as the burning intoxication diluted the throbbing in his hand.

"Saint Jude," Antonio said, eyeing the remnants of the card that had fallen from Corrado's hand. "You know why I chose that saint for you?"

"No."

"He's the patron saint of the impossible," he replied. "People invoke him when times get rough. When people lose hope, when it feels like a lost cause, they appeal to Saint Jude, and he comes through for them. He does the impossible. And that's why I chose him. Because you're my own real-life
Saint
Jude."

Stunned, Corrado set down his drink.

"Jude was at the last supper," Antonio continued. "He was given a seat, and at that table, he looked to Jesus, and he asked him why he wouldn't just manifest himself to the whole world after his resurrection. He
questioned
him. And well, I'm just gonna say, sometimes, some people get away with asking questions others would never have the guts to ask, because some questions deserve answers. So just this once, if you ask, I'll answer."

Corrado took in the Boss's severe expression in the candlelight as he parted his lips, the lone word escaping. "Why?"

He didn't elaborate.
Just…
why
?

Antonio seemed to know what he was asking, though. He nodded, unsurprised by the question, and picked up Corrado's pistol. "When the books opened, your name was the first one out of my mouth… the
only
one. Nominations have to be seconded before they proceed, and I knew your father would vouch for you. But before Vito even had the chance, Pascal spoke up."

Corrado's stomach sunk. "He objected."

"Oh, no. Not at all." Antonio laughed. "He seconded it. Rather enthusiastically, at that. And that was when I knew it… if I proceeded with the nomination, you were as good as dead."

Corrado's brow furrowed.
How
?

"You know what the gun is for in an initiation, Corrado?"

"No."

"Once you walk in this room, you either walk out a made man or you don't walk out at all," Antonio explained. "Pascal was eager to get you here. And I knew, as soon as he seconded your nomination, exactly why. You see, you would've stood up here, and when I asked if there were any objections, Pascal would've raised his hand."

"Because I owed him money," Corrado muttered.

"Oh, that would certainly be his excuse," Antonio said. "You owed him
a lot
of money. And it's a valid objection, one we wouldn't have been able to disregard. You wouldn't have walked out of here a made man."

"I would've been taken out."

"I would've had to kill you with your own gun," Antonio agreed, tinkering with the weapon. "Rules are rules, after all. So I dropped your nomination and put up my own son instead. Threw Pascal for a loop. He didn't second that one.

"Other than maybe you, Vincent's the only person I knew that hated Pascal. So the night he got married, I gave him a gift—revenge. I gave him the contract. Because as valid as Pascal's grievance was with you? Vincent's was even greater. Then, as soon as the contract went out, I nominated you again. And guess what Pascal did?"

"Seconded it."

"Exactly," Antonio replied. "He thought he was coming here tonight for your initiation… for your
death
. He never suspected the seat I was opening up for you would be his."

Corrado sat quietly, considering those words. "That still doesn't answer my question.
Why
?"

Antonio set the gun down to pour himself another glass of scotch. "I gave you your answer weeks ago, Corrado… not everyone is worth as much as you."

    
34

The Mafia worked like every other lucrative business. There were processes they went through, protocol that was followed, to ensure things ran smoothly. Everything was meticulously planned down to the smallest detail, very little left to chance.

They called it
organized crime
for a reason.

Everyone played a role. The more specialized you were, the more valuable, and the more you profited from your work. Corrado propelled straight to
Capo
, forming his own crew, overseeing hijacks instead of doing the brunt work, setting up his own betting games instead of cashing out his father's. The money flowed in, a steady stream of green piling up around him, but he never forgot where he came from.

He still killed for Antonio, never once turning down a contract from the Boss. Everyone was good at something. Some people painted. Others played music. Corrado just happened to be good at murder. He accepted that. Embraced it. That was who he was.

The Kevlar Killer.

The nickname graced the pages of the Chicago Times a few times as the years passed. Being
made
hadn't made life perfect. It hadn't even really made life better. It merely made every moment worthwhile for him. Chaos still surrounded him, bloodshed still fueled him, but he seized whatever shreds of peace he could get out of it all.

He lived for those moments—between the arrests, outside of the trials, away from the streets—when it was just Celia and him. He tried to be what she wanted, what she needed: a supportive husband, an involved family man. He found himself growing wiser as he approached his mid-twenties, slicker and more proficient at compartmentalizing. He would never be able to separate her from his lifestyle, but he managed to keep a part of himself untainted for her.

The 1983 black Ford LTD was parked in the driveway of the suburban two-story house on the west side of the city. The shamrock sticker affixed to the back corner had faded to the color of olives, no longer the vibrant emerald it had been glowing amid the gunfire, but there was no mistaking it.

This was the same car.

It had been nearly impossible to track down. The Ford LTD was one of the best selling vehicles in the early eighties, so there seemed to be one parked on every corner in Chicago. There were reports of it popping up around the city through the years, calls to the Boss with license plate numbers that turned out, every time, to be stolen. Their connections at the DMV were of little help, but finally—after four years—their contacts at the police department had come through for them.

An officer on patrol spotted the car, noticing the sticker in the corner. The word had gone out long ago that Antonio DeMarco was looking for that car. So instead of calling it in to the station, the officer called the DeMarco residence. Corrado had been there, having dinner, when the phone rang.

He jumped in his car, dragging Vincent along, and drove straight to the address.

The officer would be compensated handsomely for the tip.

"What do you think?" Vincent asked, slouching in the passenger seat as he gazed at the house, heavy bags beneath his eyes. The past few years hadn't been easy for Vincent as he struggled to accept his position in the organization. A bit of that rebellious boy still survived, resenting being a part of the life, struggling against conformity. He hadn't wanted to give up on his dreams, had been adamant that he could still have the life
he
wanted. Corrado thought he was naïve to entertain normalcy, but Vincent fought hard, enrolling in college after high school. During the day, he took classes; at night, he ran the streets. In a mere few weeks, he would graduate from the University of Chicago.

Pre-med.

The boy
still
wanted to be a doctor.

It amused Corrado, in a way, considering it was he who had paid for Vincent's schooling. Once they received the refund from the state of Illinois for his bail, Corrado had signed the check straight over to Vincent.

Corrado owed a debt, and it wasn't going unpaid.

Vincent used the money to buy the house they lived in, the rest paying for his college and being donated to a local rape crisis center where Maura now volunteered.

Admirable, Corrado had to admit.

"We aren't paid to
think
, Vincent," Corrado muttered, still surveying the car. "We're paid to act."

"Then why are we just sitting there?"

Good point
. The shamrock led him to believe the car belonged to the Irish, but it was parked dead center of Ukrainian Village. The bulk of the mob lived further north or south, along the city borders.

What would the Irish be doing
here
?

"Why's it parked in 
this
neighborhood?" Vincent asked, his train of thought going the same way.

"I don't know," Corrado said, reaching into his coat, ensuring he had his gun. "Let's go find out."

He got out, no hesitation in his footsteps as he strode right for the house. The sound of a closing car door alerted him to Vincent's trailing. Corrado stepped up to the front door, leaning close as he listened inside for noises.

Nothing.

Peeking around to the window, he glanced into the living room, seeing the glow of a television, the volume so low he couldn't hear it. A man sat alone on the couch.

Stepping back to the door, Corrado reached for the knob and turned. Unlocked. He pushed it open, motioning for Vincent to follow him as he walked inside. He tiptoed to the living room, taking a deep breath as he drew his weapon and aimed straight for the man.

Vincent flanked him, also pointing a gun. The man jumped up, frenzied, and tried to scamper away. There was nowhere to go, no other exit. Panicked, he leaped up on the couch, hands in the air as he pressed his back to the wall. "Don't shoot! I haven't done anything!"

"Is that your car outside?" Corrado asked.

"Yes."

"Then you did something."

Fear flashed in the man's eyes… a dull green, bloodshot, almost the same shade as his red hair. Definitely Irish.

"Please," he pleaded, frantically shaking his head, his hands trembling as he raised them higher in surrender.
"I swear, I didn't do
anything
.
You have to believe me!"

"I don't have to do anything," Corrado said. "That car was used in a shooting."

"I just bought it," he said. "Two weeks ago!"

"I don't believe you."

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping tightly to the locks. His expression brightened. "There's no tag on it. You can check. I haven't gotten one yet. I haven't had a chance to register it."

There hadn't been a tag on it. Corrado noticed that.

"Please," the man pleaded again. "Just… put down the gun."

Corrado stared at him as he fidgeted. This wasn't all fear. No, he was paranoid. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Check the house," he told Vincent. "Make sure it's clear."

"It is!" the man said. "You don't have to look."

Vincent ignored the guy's declaration and set off through the house, scanning rooms on the first floor before heading upstairs. Corrado kept his gun aimed at the twitching man, his nervousness growing even more as his gaze darted toward the staircase.

Waiting for something.

Preparing.

He wasn't alone.

As soon as that registered with Corrado, he heard a door being kicked in upstairs, followed by the sound of a high-pitched yelp.

Corrado snatched a hold of the guy and dragged him toward the steps. The guy pleaded the entire way, barely able to stay on his feet as Corrado lugged him to the second floor. Vincent stood in the hallway outside of a darkened room, his gun aimed at the floor, his eyes wide. Corrado threw the guy on his knees on the floor, aiming the revolver at the back of his head as he peered into the room.

Surprise ran through Corrado, making the gun dip briefly. A
young
girl huddled in the corner of the filthy room, crying as she clutched her swollen stomach. There was nothing in the room except for an old bed, the rusty metal frame barely holding together with a threadbare mattress on top of it.

"Jesus Christ," Vincent mumbled beside him.

Corrado shoved the gun against the man harder as he peered down at him. "I almost believed this was a misunderstanding."

"It is," he begged. "I swear!"

"You can't expect me to believe you now," Corrado replied. "You already lied to me once."

"She, well… it's not what you think."

The guy stammered, his body shaking.

"I want to know who you work for," Corrado said. "Are you one of O'Bannon's men?"

"Who?"

"Seamus O'Bannon," he said. "Are you in the Irish mob?"

"No, I swear!"

Corrado slammed the back of his head with the gun, knocking him flat against the floor. "I don't like men who swear needlessly."

Corrado squeezed the trigger, the gunshot explosive in the hallway as the single bullet tore through the back of the guy's head. Vincent jumped, startled, as the girl let out a frightened shriek.

"Warn me next time you're going to do that," Vincent spat, grasping his chest.

Slipping his gun away, Corrado cast his brother-in-law a disbelieving look. He had a lot of nerve even thinking those words after what he had done with Pascal Barone.

Corrado's attention turned into the bedroom at the cowering girl, tears flowing down her cheeks as she pulled her knees up, trying to shrink away. Slowly, Corrado approached her. They were in a predicament. Never leave a witness behind. But this was a girl… a young girl.
Fourteen, maybe fifteen.
They weren't supposed to harm children or the innocent.

He squatted down in front of her and grasped her chin, keeping a tight grip on it when she tried to pull away. Her half-open eyes were black… so very black… nothing but dilated pupil surrounded by broken blood vessels, the white tinted pink. She was strung out. While
pregnant
.

He could kill her just for that.

"Ivan," she whimpered. "Ivan Volkov."

He cocked his head to the side. The gun perched in his hand pointed at the floor between his knees. "Who's Ivan Volkov?"

"The man he worked for."

"Volkov."

"Yes."

"Ukrainian, right?"

"Russian."

"That fucking Russian immigrant tried to have me killed?"

Corrado stared across the dim office at the Boss, taking in his look of astonishment. "Seems that way."

Antonio ran his pointer finger around the rim of his glass as he chewed on a toothpick. Corrado had never heard of Volkov before the girl uttered his name, but the DeMarco family seemed to be well aware of the man's existence. Narcotics. Prostitution. Kidnapping.
Ruthless bastard makes a living hurting the innocent
.

Vincent had turned pale at the mention of him.

Before leaving the scene, Corrado had interrogated the girl, getting as much information as possible before she grew woozy. Whatever she had taken was hitting her system, and she was worthless within a matter of minutes. Volkov was in his mid-forties and had only been in the country a few years, but he had already made a name for himself in the streets.