Made (61 page)

He nodded. "Vincent's making sure Celia gets home safely."

"Good."

Corrado let himself relax. Most of the families had cleared out, the wives and children gone, leaving the place full of made men. They chatted nonchalantly, occasionally slipping into talk about business. Antonio remained silent through most of it, popping TUMS like candy and listening.

After a while, Corrado excused himself from the table to check on his employees. He surveyed what was left of the crowd before sitting down at the bar and telling one of the bartenders to get him some water.

"Water?"

Corrado turned his head as the stool slid out beside him and Antonio took a seat.

"Yes," Corrado confirmed. "Water."

"You can't trust a man who drinks water at a bar," Antonio said. "He's there for the wrong reasons."

The bartender returned with the drink, hesitating in front of them. "Anything for you, sir?"

"Eh, I guess I'll have a water with my son-in-law."

The bartender moved away, getting a drink for Antonio, before hurrying to help someone else. Antonio picked up his glass and took a sip. "Is it because of your mother that you don't drink?"

Corrado tensed. "I drink."

"
You been
married to my daughter how many years now?"

"Over a dozen."

It was hard to believe.

"In a dozen years, I've seen you drink maybe a dozen times."

Corrado picked up his water. "I don't want to be anything like her."

"You're not," Antonio said. "I'm a good judge of character. I wouldn't have let my daughter marry someone like that."

"Why'd you let her marry me?"

"Because I trust you."

"Even after finding out I drink water at a bar?"

"For some people, the rules are meant to be bent," Antonio said seriously, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a knife… a familiar knife, the one that had been used at Corrado's initiation.

His palm itched at the sight of it.

"Here," Antonio said, setting it on the bar and pushing it toward Corrado. "Take it."

Corrado stared at it. "Why?"

"Come on now." Antonio shot him a pointed look. "Don't ask that damn question."

Silencing, Corrado picked up the knife, running his thumb along the elaborate engraving on the handle, wondering how many men had sworn allegiance to the man beside him before bleeding on this blade.

"You know, you'd make a good boss someday, Corrado," Antonio continued. "If you could get past the Salamander, anyway."

That apprehension was back on Antonio's face, but this time he wasn't as quick to conceal it.

"Is everything alright?" Corrado asked, concerned.

"Yeah, just this damn indigestion," Antonio grunted, shoving the stool back to stand up. "I think I need to go home and sleep it off. I'm not feeling so hot. You got plans tomorrow?"

"No."

"Come to my house in the morning," he said. "I got something I want to talk to you about. Something I might need you to do for me."

"What?"

"Not tonight," he said, squeezing Corrado's shoulder. "Tonight's special. Enjoy it."

Antonio walked away, grimacing as he rubbed his chest.

"I'm worried about you, sir."

"Don't worry about me," he replied, casting Corrado a genuine smile. "It's everyone else you should worry about, son."

Antonio strode toward the exit, his footsteps wavering as he reached the edge of the dance floor. His knees wobbled and he hunched over before his legs gave out on him. Corrado watched as the world fell in slow motion, the sound of Frank Sinatra's "My Way" ricocheting through his ears, drowning out everything else, and distorting his senses.

Horror filled him, bitter cold like ice, as the Boss dropped hard, face first to the wooden floor.

Boom
.

Corrado was on his feet, rushing toward him, as others in the club took notice. Frantic murmuring filled the air, shouts for help, someone yelling for
them
to call 911. The world sped up again as Corrado dove at Antonio, grabbing him and pulling him onto his back.

The Boss laid there, his skin tingeing an icy tone of pale blue, foam forming on the corner of his mouth. Blood coated his face around his busted nose, but it wasn't flowing.

Corrado had witnessed enough death to know the man's heart wasn't beating anymore.

    
43

Antonio Dominic DeMarco

Antonio Dominic DeMarco, 50, of Felton Drive, Chicago, departed this life on Friday, May 6, 1994. Funeral will be held Wednesday, May 11, at Saint Mary's Catholic Church, with burial to follow in Hillside Cemetery.

Two sentences. That was it.

Despite the simplicity of the obituary, Corrado knew how hard Celia had worked to perfect it, stressing over every last syllable, trying to capture her father's legacy in a few short words. She had written out his entire life story in a notebook before balling up the paper and tossing it in the fireplace, going with
this
instead.

Antonio would have approved. He preferred things to the point.

Because it didn't matter what she wrote, what was printed in the obituaries about the honorable man they all revered. The world would believe what graced the front page instead.

Gluttony Kills Notorious Mob Boss

Gluttony
. They found a way to make a massive coronary into a striking headline. They painted a picture of a wild, reckless man, hell-bent on destroying the world and everyone in it...
himself
included.

Corrado threw the paper in the fireplace that morning and lit it on fire. Celia didn't stop him. She had already torn out the simple obituary for her scrapbook.

It captured him better than the thousand-word front-page exposé.

The article had been laced with quotes from an anonymous source, detailing parts of the Boss's life in ugly detail... things people couldn't have known unless they were close to him. Someone was spilling their guts to reporters again, defiling Antonio's legacy with outrageous claims.

True
outrageous claims.
Even worse.

There was a rat amongst them.

The article spoke about a man who had his best friend murdered, a man who ordered hits at Rita's as casually as he ordered spaghetti.

Someone had been there, someone who had witnessed the secret meetings and knew about the murders. That bothered Corrado. Who would do that to a man like Antonio?

Corrado had never known the Boss's middle name.
Dominic
. He rolled the word around in his head as they stood beneath the dreary sky in the cemetery that Wednesday afternoon, his arm around his grieving wife as she leaned into him, letting him support her. It had been the most elaborate funeral the city had seen in years. Dozens of black cars, covered in flower wreaths, the church overflowing as people crammed in along the street. He was sure tomorrow's newspaper would cover it, sharing exciting details of all the famed guests as if they'd gathered for some celebration.

For the first time, Corrado considered burning a newspaper
before
reading it.

Nothing would be written about their sorrow, about the pain of loss. Corrado lost a friend; he lost a
mentor
. He lost a man who called him "son" with genuine intentions. Losing a boss meant little in comparison.

Maybe that went against
La Cosa Nostra
rules, something meaning more than the organization. But like Antonio had said: for the right people, rules
were meant to be bent
.

Died at the age of fifty of 'natural causes', just a few days shy of his birthday. Antonio always knew he wouldn't see fifty-one.

His old arch-nemesis God got him good.

Corrado sat on a bench in the back yard of the DeMarco mansion, absently spinning the wedding ring on his finger. Kids tore through the yard, playing chase, as some boys tossed a football back and forth. They were loud and rambunctious, as little kids often were. Usually inclined to avoid them, Corrado found them much more tolerable than what awaited him inside.

As much as Corrado respected the Boss, loved the Boss, would mourn the boss, the display of emotions made him uncomfortable. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of bodies, his chest wound tight in knots. He wanted to comfort his wife, wanted to take away her pain, but he was powerless.

At least outside he could think... he could
breathe
.

So he sat there, giving Celia space, fiddling with his ring, wondering if today was the day she would regret marrying a man like him.

He wouldn't blame her if she did.

His gaze distractedly scanned the yard, spotting Dominic and Carmine in the huddle of boys. They seemed at ease, like today was just another day, one like yesterday, just like tomorrow. Death seemed to have little effect on them.

When Corrado had been their age, the reality of death had devastated him. Was it because they hadn't been there? Could they possibly understand what they hadn't seen?

A subtle rustling from behind alerted Corrado to someone's approach. He didn't move, didn't even look, as Maura sat on the opposite end of the bench. A few feet separated the two of them, but it was closer than she had ever voluntarily come to him before.

She folded her hands in her lap as she crossed her legs, her eyes on her kids across the yard. Corrado suspected what she wanted as soon as she sat down, but he remained silent, hoping she would change her mind

Don't ask me that
.

Whatever you do, don't come to me
.

She cleared her throat, seeming to startle herself with the sound, and said the words he dreaded: "You have to help her."

Haven.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice calm. “It’s not my place to intervene.”

“Somebody needs to,” she whispered, "before it's too late."

"She belongs to them. It may not be right, but that's how it is. There's nothing that can be done about it."

"But there
has
to be."

It was quiet for a moment before Corrado let go of his wedding ring and relaxed back on the bench. “She may not appear to be in the best of situations, but she’s quite well taken care of, given the circumstances. She spends her days playing and she has her mother there.”

“I know,” she said. “But she deserves so much more.”

“I won’t argue that she seems to be a nice child, but that doesn’t change the facts. She's a slave. She's
their
slave."

Maura closed her eyes. “She's me."

"She has it a lot better than you did."

"For how long?" Maura asked. "How long until she realizes the truth? How long until she gives up hope?"

"When did you?"

"I don't remember ever having any until I met Vincent."

"I admire you, Maura," Corrado said. "But you can’t save them all.”

“It’s just her. Just one.”

“What’s so special about
her
?” he asked, genuinely curious. Why that girl?

“Have you ever spoken to her?”

Answering a question with a question.

"Once," he replied.

"And you don't see it? She has an innocence that takes my breath away, so pure and
..
.
sweet
.”

“She’s a child,” he responded. “All children are sweet.”

“Was your sister?”

She had a point.

“It’s more than her age—it’s her soul. She needs someone to give her a chance.”

“That someone's not me,” he said, not budging. “I’ll check on her when I visit Blackburn, but beyond that, it’s not my place.”

“I understand,” she said quietly.

He could tell she didn't.

Corrado stood when someone called his name. He walked away, hesitating after a few steps. “You should watch who you talk to. Asking questions isn't smart, Maura. I would hate to see you hurt. It's not worth it.”

He walked away, heading toward the house, as Maura mumbled, “it's worth it to me."

Vincent was standing in the doorway of the backdoor, his eyes following Corrado as he approached. "She
ask
what I think she did?"

Corrado paused, eyeing him curiously. "Depends on what you think she asked."

"Haven."

It surprised him how casually they all spoke of that child. "You knew she was going to ask me?"

He shrugged slightly, as if not sure of the answer himself. "I knew she wanted to help her. After we saw her, well… I asked—"

"You did not," Corrado said, cutting him off. "Tell me you didn't ask Frankie to give her to you."

"Not give," Vincent said. "Sell… but he turned me down."

Of course he did. Monica was attached to the child, even if Frankie wanted nothing to do with her.

"I can't help you, Vincent."

"I'm not asking you to," he replied. "I told her to drop it."

"You better hope she does."

"She will," he said. "You're the last person she would ever go to for help, and she went to you. It's over."

Shaking his head, Corrado walked away, encountering Manny in the hallway. He stood alone, his head down, his expression heavy. He had been close to the Boss, driving him to jobs, protecting him. Besides Corrado, he was probably most aware of what Antonio did off the record.

A frown tugged Corrado's lips when he considered that. "Amando."

Manny looked up quickly. "Corrado."

"How's your kid?" Bone marrow transplant, Corrado recalled. The kid had gotten one not long after Carmine had been born. The
Chicago
Times
sponsored a community drive to find a suitable donor. Took up part of the front page that day.

"Better."

"Good." Corrado paused, contemplating, before forcing out the next part. "You must be really grateful for the people at the newspaper."

Close to dusk, as the mourners cleared out, Corrado made his way through the house, strolling down the long downstairs hallway, his hands in his pockets, his black silk tie hanging loose. He strode by the Boss's office, pausing outside the closed door. Locked, he knew. The Boss always kept it locked, the key kept on his person at all times.

Would anyone ever go in there again?

He didn't have many fond memories of the room, as being called in there usually meant something critical, but he had learned many lessons sitting in the stiff leather chair in front of the man's desk. He had learned about life and family, honor and loyalty, morals he would carry with him until his last breath. Antonio's faith in him had made him incredibly wealthy at thirty-two, but the money would never amass to the love the man had passed onto him. It wasn't sentimental, or soft… it was tough love, love that sometimes hurt.

But love nonetheless.

He never said it, not once, but Antonio hadn't had to. He showed him instead by giving him the most precious thing the man had.

"Corrado?"

Corrado turned at the sound of his wife's shaky voice, surprised to find unshed tears burning his eyes. He blinked them back, opening his arms to her.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I should be asking
you
that."

"You're allowed to feel," she said, pulling back from his embrace. "You
are
human, after all."

He smiled softly at her. "That's supposed to be our little secret."