Made

by J. M. Darhower

  He let out a dry laugh, looking back at the boy. "It's not mine."

  "Oh, my mistake. You had that look about you."

  "What look?"

  "That terrified look, like you wouldn't know what to do with one of those things if you had to take it home with you."

  "I wouldn't," he admitted. "It's my wife's nephew."

  "Your wife's nephew." She smiled. "Wouldn't that make him your nephew, too?"

  Corrado shrugged. Technically.

  "So then congratulations are in order," she said. "You've got a new family member."

  The nurse wandered off right before Celia reappeared. She skipped to his side, wrapping herself around his arm. "God, look at him! Isn't he beautiful?"

  Beautiful. Corrado stared at the boy. His head was misshapen from birth, dark hair covering it. His eyes were dark blue—the little bit of Biology class he remembered told him they'd likely change. His dry skin was more reddish than tan, broken out in rashes. The oversized clothes swam on him, his body scrunched up, his hands clenched into fists.

  It looked more alien than human.

  Pissed off alien, at that.

  Even through the thick glass he heard the boy's angry screams.

  "Whatever you say."

  Corrado strolled through the hospital halls a few days later. He hadn't been back since that first night, swamped with work as he tried to cover for Vincent out in the streets. He had scarcely even seen his wife, but he had a bit of free time and he knew where he would find her. He paused at the nurse's station down the hall from the nursery, casually knocking on the desk to garner the nurse's attention. "Can you tell me what room I can find the DeMarcos in?"

  The nurse on duty grinned at him. "Well, hello again, uncle."

  His brow furrowed before recognition dawned... the same woman from the nursery. "Hello."

  "They're in room 214, just up the hall and around the corner," she said, pointing in the direction. "Popular family you have there. I feel like I've given out those directions a dozen times today."

  Corrado nodded, unsurprised. A made man would be inundated with attention at a time like this… especially one related to the man who controlled them all.

  He strolled down the hall, following the nurse's directions. He stalled when he turned a corner, coming face-to-face with none other than the Boss. Antonio caught Corrado's eye. "Corrado."

  "Sir."

  Antonio grasped his shoulder. "Can you believe it? My boy has a boy."

  He didn't say it, not in so many words, but it gleamed in the man's prideful eyes: I'm a grandpa.

  "Have you seen the child?"

  "Yeah, he's in the room," Antonio said, straightening out his expression as he let go. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got another patient to visit... one of Manny's kids is here. Needs a bone-marrow transplant."

  "Send him my well-wishes."

  "I will."

  Antonio strode off as Corrado walked to the room. He stopped right outside, his footsteps faltering at the vision in front of him.

  The curtains were wide open, the blinds pulled up. Sunlight streamed through the vast window and encased Celia in a warm spotlight as she leisurely paced the floor. Her hair was messy, pulled back in a braid, not a stitch of makeup on her face. She was dressed down, jeans and an oversized shirt.

  A Chicago White Sox shirt.

  His shirt.

  She had never before been so beautiful.

  The blue bundle in her arms squirmed as she rocked the baby and talked sweetly to him, her eyes bright, smile absolutely radiant.

  Even without the sunshine, he knew she would still glow.

  The baby cooed, not crying, wide-awake and staring up at her, as if just as captivated by the woman before him as Corrado was.

  As he stood there, watching, taking in the sight of her, his chest tightened, something inside of him stirring. He inhaled sharply, too overwhelmed to remember how to breathe. And just for a moment, a fleeting moment, as her infectious joy swept through him, he allowed himself to imagine the what-could-have-been.

  Her stomach, swollen with a child... his child, tucked beneath that White Sox shirt, straining the fabric. His hand pressed against it, feeling the baby kick his scarred palm. Celia in labor, smiling through the pain, crying tears of joy the first time she held the baby. Their baby. A little girl, so much like Celia.

  Maybe she would be kindhearted like her mother.

  Maybe she wouldn't be a monster like him.

  He imagined Celia holding that baby in her arms, clutching the bundle tight to her chest, feeding her and singing to her. Long dark hair, tanned skin, and the warmest brown eyes... her mother's eyes. They stared, lovingly, trusting. Eyes he would do anything for.

  A lifetime flashed before him—recitals, dances, dates, and boyfriends. He'd kill anyone who hurt her, destroy anyone who crossed her, protect her for as long as he lived.

  And just as that thought passed through his mind, the vision shifted and the happiness drained away. Violence and mayhem, death and bloodshed—that was his life, not those other things. The brief peaceful moment faded away, shattered in a hail of gunfire, dissolving into a pool of red, dying right in front of his eyes.

  The never-would-be.

  It couldn't happen.

  He would do the world a great injustice by keeping Celia to himself, but he couldn't risk it. He couldn't infect an innocent kid with the ugliness that lived inside of him, with the anarchy that existed around him. Selfless or selfish? Honorable or a disgrace? He wasn't sure what that made him, besides a broken, tainted man.

  A man unworthy of the vision in front of him, but he greedily drank it in anyway.

  The baby whimpered, on the verge of crying. Celia tensed and headed for the bed. Laughing, Maura held her arms out, taking her child from Celia.

  Vincent slouched in the nearby chair, eyes fixed on his wife and son, as if nothing else mattered. Corrado supposed, to him, nothing did. That was his world, the meaning of his existence. They gave his life purpose.

  Corrado's gaze shifted back to his wife… his purpose… just as Celia noticed him there. She smiled, a smile this time reserved for nobody but him. "Hey, you!"

  "Hello."

  She strolled over, fixing his tie as she gazed up at him. "I'm surprised to see you here."

  "I had a few minutes, so I thought we'd grab some lunch."

  "Sounds great," she said, glancing down at herself with a grimace. "Just let me freshen up a bit."

  "You look fine," he said.

  She ignored that with a roll of the eyes as she headed for the restroom.

  Vincent stood up from his chair, brushing wrinkles from his clothes, as he approached Corrado. "Can I, uh… can we talk for a minute?"

  Corrado nodded, stepping out into the hallway, as Vincent followed him. "If you're concerned about work, everything's right on track. I've made sure your crew stayed on task and—"

  "No, no, it's not that." Vincent waved that off. "I just wanted to ask you a question… about my son."

  Vincent's eyes lit up as he said that word. Son.

  "What about him?"

  He stammered a bit before just spitting it out. "Will you be his godfather?"

  Corrado froze. Godfather. "Me?"

  "Yes. Maura and I… well…"

  "Have you brought this up to my wife?"

  "Not yet."

  "Don't."

  Vincent blanched.

  "Look, Vincent, I'm honored you'd ask, but I have to decline."

  "But—"

  "You might die someday, and when you do, you won't want me to be responsible for that boy."

  Vincent appeared genuinely stunned but shrugged it off. "Since you brought up business, I should make some calls," he muttered, walking away. "Thanks, anyway."

  Corrado watched his brother-in-law leave before turning back to the hospital room. Maura sat up in bed, rocking her whimpering baby. She brushed her fingertips along his cheek. "Don't cry, sole. It'll all be okay."


  Sole. Sun.

  Feeling as if he were imposing, that tightening returning to his chest, he walked away. He strolled down the halls, hoping Celia would find him whenever she was ready, and happened upon the nursery again. Standing in front of the glass, staring at the children was the last person Corrado expected to see. "Gia."

  She didn't move as he paused beside her. She stood poised, her gaze glued to the empty cradle affixed with the DeMarco name.

  Gia hadn't been accepting of her son's choices, hadn't approved of the relationship, and hadn't wanted anything to do with the marriage. Adding a child on top of it hadn't improved things.

  "He's in the room," Corrado said, motioning toward the empty cradle. "If you'd like to see him."

  "I saw him." Her voice was curt, bitterness spewing with the words. "He's tan and has dark hair."

  "He does," Corrado agreed. Her assessment of the baby was about his emotional as his had been.

  Gia broke her stance, looking at Corrado, her eyes piercing. "Maybe nobody will know."

  "Know what?"

  "That he came from an Irish cunt."

  Corrado couldn't refrain from grimacing. Staring at her, seeing no compassion in her eyes, sensing no love in her voice, she reminded him startlingly of his own mother.

  37

  Too bright fluorescent lights shined down on the grimy visitation room, illuminating the puke green colored tables filling every inch of the suffocating space. A rank odor hung in the air, reminding Corrado of the scent of blood coating the filthy floor of an abandoned mold-infested warehouse.

  That was a smell he had become acquainted with over time.

  He sat calmly in the flimsy chair, feeling it bow a little with each shift of his body weight. He wondered how much blood had been spilled in this room. Sure, guards stood on watch at all the exits, but the visitors and prisoners outnumbered them five to one. It would take little effort to coordinate an attack, the chair he sat in alone enough to knock an unsuspecting guard unconscious. He could take two, maybe three guards all on his own, and he was sure his father could knock a few out, even handcuffed and shackled. In a matter of minutes, they could be out the door, slipping away from the correctional institute and disappearing in broad daylight.

  He mulled it over, envisioning it, as he absently rubbed the tip of his trigger finger and thumb together. Bad habit… one he knew he needed to break.

  It was his only tell, giving away that something bothered him. His expression remained passive, but his fingers were frenzied.

  A buzzer sounded, a door nearby popping open. Before he even entered, Corrado sensed his father. Flanked by two guards, Vito strolled into the room, confidence in his steps. His eyes darted around before settling on Corrado.

  Wordlessly, he sauntered over, dragging out the chair across from him. His arms and legs were free of restraints. Even easier for an escape.

  Corrado glanced at the guards briefly before focusing on his father. He didn't move, didn't grab a chair or attack. He stayed put, pushing the dangerous thoughts from his mind.

  Vito relaxed back in the rickety seat, the chair creaking. They stared at each other. Neither said anything. Corrado had wondered what he'd see when he came. Distress? Anger? Fear? Would he smile, happy to see his son? Would he be dejected, broken down?

  But there was none of that. His father's calm demeanor remained.

  "I thought I taught you better than this, kid."

  Vito spoke first.

  "You taught me well."

  "Couldn't have, since you're here. You know better. You don't do this; you don't visit these places. They told me you were here, asking to see me, and I couldn't believe my ears. My kid, willingly walking into a prison? No fucking way he's that stupid. But here you are."

  Corrado wasn't surprised. As many times as he'd been arrested, as many times as he'd found himself in lockup, his father had never once gone to see him. "Here I am."

  The question was in Vito's eyes. Why? He didn't ask it, though, and Corrado didn't respond. He wasn't sure he had an answer anyway.

  Vito stretched his legs out under the table, his gaze never leaving Corrado's. "You shouldn't be here."

  "Neither should you."

  Vito's restrained expression turned into a full-blown grin. "Your lips to God's ears."

  "You have appeals," Corrado said. "Retrials."

  "Doesn't matter," Vito said. "They could try me a hundred times, and the verdict would be the same. No amount of appealing is gonna take the gun out of my hand."

  A tinge of guilt stirred inside of Corrado. He opened his mouth to verbalize it, but Vito cut him off.

  "Don't you dare fucking say it," Vito declared, a hard edge to his voice as he sat up straighter. "Don't you apologize like some little pussy boy. You don't ever apologize, even when you're wrong."

  Those words took him back a decade. Instinctively, the response slipped from Corrado's lips. "Yes, sir."

  Vito relaxed again, his gaze leaving his son as he glanced around the room. Corrado wondered what he was thinking… if maybe he were concocting the same escape plan. But after a moment Vito turned right back to him, no conspiratorially glint in his eyes.

  "This ain't the first time I had to do time, you know."

  Corrado's brow furrowed. As far as he knew, his father's record was clean. He'd been arrested, and suspected… but there weren't convictions. No prison sentences until now.

  "1969, I got drafted. Vietnam was happening, and they had that lottery… picked my fucking birthday first. September 14." Vito laughed humorlessly as Corrado stared at him with shock. Military? "Most of the guys didn't even turn in their draft cards. I thought they were idiots. What were the odds, you know? So I filled mine out when I turned eighteen, thinking it would keep me out of trouble. Guess I was the idiot there."

  "I was seven then." Corrado didn't recall much from his younger years, but his first clear memory was from seven years old.

  "Yeah, they did it right after Thanksgiving. I came home for Christmas that year, and I knew… I knew I was gonna be getting draft papers. I don't know if you remember that Christmas. It was—"

  "A nightmare."

  "You do remember."

  "It was impossible to forget."

  "Yeah, I guess so," Vito said. "After what happened that year, I knew I couldn't go. Not that I wanted to or anything to begin with, but I couldn't leave you kids in that nightmare to go fight someone else's war."

  He'd used Corrado's word—nightmare—intentionally, a peculiar look in his eyes as he spoke it. Corrado stared back at him, refraining from speaking the truth.

  Vito may not have gone to war, but he'd left them anyway.

  "Got my papers the next spring and burned them. Took the government about six months to catch up to me. Arrested me for draft evasion… took the jury ten minutes to convict. Sentenced me to five years in prison."

  "How?" Corrado's eyes narrowed. His father had never been gone for five years.

  "Appeals," he said. "Thought I'd get out of it since I had young kids, but they said that would only work if your mother was dead. It was tempting sometimes, you know. Killing Erika would've solved it all."

  It should've sickened Corrado to hear his father say that in such a serious voice, but he felt nothing.

  "Last appeal reduced my sentence. I had to do six months—that was it. Antonio came to the casino when he got the news. You were there, I don't know if you remember it. He told me to go do my time and hurry back, because he'd need me. There was a war brewing at home, he'd said. A war I would have to fight." Vito shook his head. "So I left while you kids slept, turned myself in."

  "I never knew," Corrado said.

  "Of course you didn't," he responded. "I was back home before anyone even knew to miss me."

  Corrado had missed him… missed him when he had woken up to his father disappearing again.

  "The point is, I've done time before," Vito continued, motioning around the room. "And compared to those six months, this i
s nothing."

  "You got more than six months this time," Corrado pointed out. "You got even more than five years."

  Vito shrugged him off. "It ain't about the length of time, kid. I did those six months as punishment for being a fucking coward. Every day I woke up in that cell, knowing I was there because I was too spineless to do my duty. But now? Now I can look myself in the mirror, because I did what was expected of me. And that's what matters. I don't regret what I did to get me here, kid. But dodging the draft? Even I'm disgusted with myself there."

  Corrado didn't know what to say. So many of his classmate's families had been disrupted, fathers and older brothers sent off to war, a lot of them never coming back. He hadn't shown much in the way of sympathy, since his family hadn't been affected. But it could've been him… it could've been his father.

  He couldn't imagine how different his life would've been.

  Corrado surveyed the visiting room, watching the other prisoners as they affectionately embraced their visitors. None of that warmth surrounded his table.

  "They're so relaxed about visits," Corrado said. "I came here expecting to have to look at you behind a sheet of glass."

  "I ain't done nothing to piss them off yet, so they still got me in general population."

  "Is that smart?" Corrado asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He imagined his father had plenty of enemies roaming around, people who would kill him for the honor that came along with taking down a high-ranking member of La Cosa Nostra… even an incarcerated one.

  "What are they going to do, kill me?" Vito asked coolly. "State of Illinois already took my life, kid."

  "Yes, but—"

  Vito sat up, moving toward Corrado so suddenly it caught the attention of the nearby guards. Automatically, Vito relaxed his posture so not to draw them to their table. "You afraid of death?"

  His answer was instant. "No."

  "Not at all?"

  "No."

  Vito shook his head. "When your mother got pregnant, I was ecstatic. I was gonna have my son. Vito Junior. I knew it in my soul. She had a hard labor. Real hard. I sat beside her bed, holding her hand, telling her how beautiful she was. And she was beautiful—no doubt about that. Two days later the doctors made her push… and push she did. Pushed, and pushed, and pushed.