Made

by J. M. Darhower

  "Celia, is that you?" Antonio called out. Footsteps started their direction immediately, and she stiffened.

  "Go change," Corrado whispered, motioning toward the stairs. She bolted up them as he went toward the den to distract her father.

  It was then, as he helped her deceive his Boss in order to prove her wrong, that he realized he actually was proving her right. He did exactly what she wanted him to do. She had pulled his strings and played him like a puppet.

  She was calculating. Manipulative. Cunning.

  She'd managed to get one over on him.

  How did she do that?

  She had him wrapped around her finger and he knew it right then. He knew what the ache in his chest meant. He knew why he acted so irrational. He knew why, despite everything, he couldn't be mad.

  He was falling for her. Hard.

  Antonio faltered in the foyer when his eyes fell upon Corrado. "What are you doing here?"

  "I wanted to speak with you."

  "So you let yourself into my house? Uninvited?"

  Corrado stared at him. "Sorry, sir. I just—"

  "Of course he didn't," Celia hollered, bounding down the steps in a pair of jeans and a blue blouse. "I let him in when I got home."

  Antonio narrowed his eyes as he glanced between the two of them, suspicion clear in his expression. Corrado remained still, speaking not a word, not wanting to make it any worse. Antonio knew they were up to something. You couldn't rule an organization full of liars, murderers, and thieves, and not be able to spot deception.

  Celia casually kissed her father's cheek before disappearing into the den. Antonio stared at Corrado a moment longer before clearing his throat. "My office."

  Corrado's stomach sunk. No. The office was reserved strictly for business, for when Antonio slipped into boss mode. Everything about the man changed in there, from the tone of his voice to how he addressed him. Corrado didn't exist in there. In the office, he was nothing more than the youngest Moretti. "I thought we could speak in the den."

  "My office," he reiterated, heading for it.

  Corrado followed hesitantly, carefully shutting the door and taking a seat across from Antonio. The Boss opened his humidor and pulled out a cigar, clipping the end of it and lighting it before addressing him. "No."

  "No?"

  "I know what you're going to ask, and the answer's no."

  Corrado had no idea what to say.

  "It's nothing personal, Moretti, but I can't give you my blessing. She's my daughter, my baby girl, I know her. And you? Well..."

  Corrado closed his eyes. He was scum, a lowlife, who made a living by deceiving and destroying. Of course he wouldn't want a man like that dating his only daughter.

  "I understand, sir," he replied, as much as it pained him to say it.

  "Good," Antonio said, standing and heading for the door again. "I'm glad we're on the same page. You couldn't keep your eyes to yourself, but I have faith you at least have better control of your hands."

  Wordlessly, Corrado followed him out of the office. Celia lurked in the doorway of the den, watching the two of them.

  Corrado nodded politely at her as he passed. "Miss DeMarco."

  Celia's expression fell. "Corrado?"

  He didn't stick around or try to explain. Instead, he headed straight for the door and slipped outside into the sunshine, his earlier anxiety now nothing but regret.

  Regret for not being good enough for the one thing he foolishly let himself want.

  12

  Creak.

  The low groan on the first floor roused Corrado from sleep. His eyes snapped open, suddenly alert, as the relentless noise seemed to echo through the house. A window. He often slept with them open a crack to let the air circulate, but someone shoved one open the whole way.

  His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he reached onto his bedside stand and grabbed his gun. He habitually checked it, ensuring it was still loaded, and jumped out of bed. There was no time to waste getting dressed; he crept down the hallway in his plaid boxers, his bare feet lightly touching the floor, making not a sound.

  The second he made it downstairs, a breeze struck him from the living room. A few steps later he appeared in the doorway, pointing his gun at the form halfway through the window. He flipped off the safety as his finger lightly touched the trigger. Two seconds. Two seconds were all it would take to blow them away.

  A pair of wide brown eyes instantly met Corrado's. "Whoa, there, big guy."

  Just as fast as he'd aimed, prepared to kill whoever was breaking into his house, he lowered the gun. "Dammit, Celia!"

  "Nice to see you, too." She swung both legs inside but remained perched on the windowsill. "You weren't really going to shoot me, were you?"

  "Yes," he said, no hesitation. "I was."

  "Well, I'm lucky you didn't."

  "Lucky?" Corrado stared at her with disbelief. "I would've shot you, Celia. Two more seconds and I would've killed you. And then your father… your father would've killed me."

  "Yeah, he probably would've."

  "There's no probably about it. He would've mutilated me. You… you wouldn't have felt a thing. But me…" He shuddered just thinking about it. "What are you doing here? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "I wanted to talk to you."

  Corrado gaped at her. "You broke into my house to talk?"

  "Well, I would've called, but I don't have your number." Celia stood and strolled around the darkened living room, glancing at his belongings. "Besides, something tells me you're not the talking-on-the-phone type."

  He wasn't, but it didn't negate the fact that she'd broken into his house in the middle of the night. It was reckless. Dangerous. "It couldn't wait until tomorrow? A lady shouldn't be out alone at this hour, especially you. You should always have an escort after dark."

  He'd been stone cold serious, but his declaration made Celia burst into laughter. "Really, Corrado? Do you hear yourself? It's 1982. Women don't need escorts."

  "But you're not just a woman," Corrado pointed out. "You're a DeMarco, and they most certainly do need escorts."

  "Whatever." She rolled her eyes as she picked up a book from the shelf above the fireplace. Nonchalantly, she flipped through it, likely not even able to read the cover in the dark. Corrado watched her, still glued to the spot, the gun still in his hand. A continual breeze blew in the wide-open window, sending a chill down Corrado's spine. He suddenly felt indecent wearing nothing but his boxers.

  He hadn't planned on entertaining company.

  Without saying another word, he slipped back upstairs and threw on the first clothes he found—a pair of black slacks and a plain white t-shirt. He hesitated before slipping the gun in his waistband and headed back downstairs. A blaring light from the kitchen alerted Corrado that Celia had switched rooms. He stumbled into the doorway, shielding his eyes as he tried to adjust to the brightness, and found her scouring through his scarce cabinets.

  "Do you cook?" she asked, shifting things around.

  "Not usually."

  "I could cook for you," she declared, moving on to the refrigerator. It had more than the cabinet but was still quite bare. "Of course, we'd have to go shopping first, since there's nothing here to make."

  "I've already eaten," Corrado said.

  "I didn't mean now," she replied. "I just meant sometime."

  Corrado let out a deep sigh. "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Why?"

  "I don't think we should spend time together."

  "Why?" she asked again.

  "Your father—"

  "I told you… I don't need his blessing."

  "But I do," Corrado said. "And I'm not getting it."

  "Why?"

  There was that word again… that stupid, relentless word. Hearing it grated on his nerves. He'd been taught never to question things, so why did she find it so easy to? Why couldn't she just accept things like the rest of them did?

  "You should go home." Corrado tu
rned away without answering her question. "I'll escort you."

  "No."

  He ignored her, heading into the foyer. He slipped his shoes on his feet and grabbed his keys before heading back to the kitchen doorway. "Come on."

  "No."

  "It's late," he said. "Let's go."

  "No."

  Frustrated, Corrado closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head before blowing out a deep breath. When he reopened his eyes, Celia had crossed her arms over her chest defiantly.

  He gave her one more chance. "It's time to leave."

  "No."

  Saying nothing, he stalked right toward Celia, eliciting a small retreat from her. Before she escaped him, he grabbed her. It took some effort, but he managed to pick her up and start for the door. She fought against him, yelling for him to put her down, but he ignored. He weaseled the front door open and hauled her outside, setting her back on her feet on the front step. The moment she was free she tried to dart around him, but he managed to slam the door closed behind him to block her.

  Flustered, Celia blew some wayward hair from her face that had been knocked loose from her braid. "Ridiculous."

  "It is ridiculous," he agreed, locking up before stepping off the porch. "Come on."

  He offered Celia his arm, but she ignored it and stormed past him. "I don't get it, Corrado. A few hours ago you were all about spending more time with me, now suddenly you're blowing me off."

  "Your father—"

  "Oh, screw my father."

  Corrado abruptly stopped talking, taken aback, a small, devoted part of him enraged by her words. How dare someone speak ill of the Boss? "You don't mean that."

  "I do," she insisted. "I hate him."

  "You don't."

  She glared at him. "Why are you putting so much weight on what he says? Didn't you hear me earlier about bending rules? Live a little. Have some fun. Do what you want."

  Tempting, for sure, but it wasn't that simple. "I can't."

  "You didn't have a problem earlier."

  "There's a big difference between helping you with your wardrobe and blatantly disobeying an order."

  "Well, I order you to take me out on a date then," she said, stopping on the sidewalk a few houses down.

  "Nice try," he replied, "but it doesn't work that way."

  "Why?"

  He groaned at the question. "You know why."

  She seemed to, considering she rolled her eyes and walked again. "It's not fair."

  Life rarely is. Especially mine.

  "I thought Daddy liked you," she continued. "He never has a bad word to say, so why wouldn't he want us to date?"

  It was a loaded question that Corrado didn't want to get into. "It doesn't matter."

  "It does," she insisted, stopping for the second time. They'd barely made it half a block. "I like you, Corrado. I really like you. I've been waiting for you to notice me forever, and when you finally do, this happens. What gives?"

  Corrado stared at her as her words ran through him, a single question popping into his mind: Why? Why did she like him? How could she? Whatever would she see in someone like him? He kept his mouth closed, though, refusing to verbalize it. He wouldn't start questioning things now.

  Instead of offering her words, he offered his arm again. This time, she took it.

  The two walked silently the remaining few blocks to the DeMarco residence. Corrado took her straight to the front door and stood there, committing to stay until she was safely inside. Celia clutched the knob but hesitated, glancing back at him. "I'm not giving up."

  He wasn't surprised. If he knew anything about Celia, it was the fact that she was tenacious.

  "You asked me out on a date, and you're going to take me, whether you like it or not."

  Despite himself, Corrado smiled at her words. Oh, he'd like it, all right… but he knew without a doubt Antonio DeMarco wouldn't.

  Bright and early the next morning, before the sun had even had a chance to take its rightful place in the sky, Corrado stepped out his front door to be greeted by a familiar pair of warm brown eyes. Celia stood by the curb, leaning against the passenger door of his car.

  He stared at her. "You're not supposed to be here."

  "I told you I wasn't giving up."

  A lengthy pause passed before Corrado grabbed the newspaper from the porch. He beat it against his hand, contemplating, before speaking again. "Go home, Miss DeMarco."

  Without awaiting her response, he slipped back inside and shut the door.

  Corrado stayed diligent the next few days. Antonio didn't call him for any special work, so he busied himself with petty jobs around the city with the crew. He purposely avoided everywhere he knew Celia would be, trying to push her from his thoughts and move on from his disappointment. The sting of rejection ran deep, though… not from her, but from her father. He kept musing over her question, wallowing in the truth that no matter what he did, he'd never be good enough for her.

  Maybe his mother had been right about him.

  A week passed. Corrado sat in his living room, a dim lamp beside him faintly illuminating the pages of The Count of Monte Cristo. He neared the end of the book when the telephone on the stand beside the couch rang. He tensed, the sound running through him and striking at his insides like a claw hammer.

  He set his book down on the couch and picked up the phone. "Moretti speaking."

  He anticipated hearing the Boss's voice, but instead a light feminine laughter met his ears. "Always so formal."

  Corrado grew even tenser. "Celia?"

  "The one and only."

  "I thought you didn't have my number."

  "I didn't, but I picked the lock in my father's office and swiped it from his Rolodex."

  "You picked the lock?"

  "Yep."

  "You shouldn't know how to do that."

  "Why, because I'm a girl?" She scoffed. "Did you forget who my father is? Breaking and entering is in my blood."

  "Don't I know it," he muttered. "Do you need something?"

  "Need? Not really. Want? Absolutely."

  "What do you want?"

  "You." She answered with self-assurance. "And I know I can't have you, not like that... but why can't we at least still be friends?"

  "I'm not friendship material," he said, "any more than I'm boyfriend material. I think your father had a valid point."

  "You're just saying that because he signs your paycheck."

  "He doesn't pay me because I agree with him. He pays me because I have the balls to stand up to him."

  "Then stand up to him."

  "I can't," he said, "not like this."

  "Why?"

  Why… why… why…

  "You're trying to kill me, Celia." He ran his hand down his face. "Literally."

  "I know how to keep a secret," she said. "That's in my blood, too. And I know without a doubt that you know how, too. He wouldn't even have to know."

  "You're worth more than that," Corrado said. "You deserve to be somebody's everything, not somebody's secret."

  "I deserve to make my own choices."

  "You do," he agreed, "but I can't."

  "You can," she argued, "and you will. Because I know you, Corrado. You opened that door, and you're going to walk through it. It's only a matter of time."

  Before he could conjure up some sort of response, the line went dead. Corrado set the phone down as he shook his head. He'd certainly met his match with her.

  13

  Corrado slid into a seat at the small table, the legs of the chair scratching against the checkered linoleum of the pizzeria. His right hand clutched the day's newspaper. He opened it, skimming through the crinkled pages, scanning the headlines for anything worthwhile. Evening had since fallen, most of the breaking news common knowledge by now, but it was the first chance he'd gotten to unwind.

  Although, unwind was misleading for a guy like him. He was always working, always watching, always waiting. His mind remained two steps ahead, calculating h
is next move. He had to.

  "Can I get you something?"

  John's quiet voice shook as he addressed him. Corrado peered overtop the newspaper, attempting eye contact, but John refused. His gaze remained downcast.

  "Small deep dish, sausage and mushroom," he said. "Light on the sauce."

  "The usual, then."

  The usual. Those words unnerved Corrado. He needed to stop being so predictable and made a mental note to order something different next time. Turning back to the newspaper, he continued scanning articles, blocking out most of his surroundings. John returned with a glass of ice water, sliding it onto the table before scurrying away.

  Corrado flipped the page, reaching the sports section, and stopped on an article about the White Sox. He read through it, immersing himself in the latest news about the team, when the chair across from him moved. "Hello, friend."

  Corrado withdrew his gaze from the text at the interruption. He dropped the newspaper, coming face-to-face with Celia as she invited herself to sit at his table. She was dressed casually, jeans and a red cardigan, her hair pulled back.

  "Miss DeMarco. Have you been following me?"

  "Nope," she said, motioning toward a table across the restaurant. "I was grabbing dinner with some friends from school and saw you sitting here, so I thought I'd say hello."

  He glanced in the direction she'd pointed, confirming it was a group of teenage girls. "Well, hello then."

  His gaze went back to the article.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Reading."

  "Reading what?"

  "An article."

  "About what?"

  He sighed exasperatedly, reading the same sentence for the fourth time. "The White Sox."

  "Oh!" Her voice bordered on a high-pitched squeal. "Do you think they have a chance of bouncing back this season? Because let's face it—they've been terrible."

  Corrado dropped the newspaper again, his brow furrowed as he stared at her. A sparkle of excitement shined from her as she rattled on and on about recent games and trades they'd made—things even Corrado had been too busy to keep up with.