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  One thing was for sure, though. After that first time, after what he had seen, Corrado never forgot to knock on a door again.

  They were sitting in the office one afternoon when there was some commotion out in the hallway. Vito's eyes darted to the door as his hand flew into his coat, gripping his pistol. He started to react when the door shoved open, a man Corrado didn't recognize appearing.

  He looked as old as Vito, with darkly tanned skin and jet-black hair slicked back on his head. He was sturdy with a mustache and wore a dark suit. Something about him drove Corrado to attention, an air of superiority surrounding the man. He held his head high, no hesitation, nothing but confidence as he stepped inside the office without awaiting an invitation.

  He wasn't like the other men who visited. He showed no fear.

  Corrado expected his father to get angry, seeing as how the man hadn't knocked, but Vito seemed taken aback instead. His hand released his weapon as he stood, shoving his chair back. "Mr. DeMarco, uh, sir."

  Corrado blinked a few times at the uncertainty in his father's voice. He'd never heard him stammer before.

  "Moretti," the man said, his voice flat, all business.

  "I didn't know you were coming."

  Mr. DeMarco said nothing. He stared at Vito before shifting his gaze toward Corrado, a bit of unfriendliness in his expression. "What is it, take your kid to work day? Did I miss the memo? I would've brought mine."

  "No, I just figured..." Vito trailed off, switching his attention to Corrado mid-thought instead. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some loose change. "Take a walk, kid. Grab yourself one of the coolers. I'll come get you later."

  Wordlessly, Corrado grabbed the money and headed out.

  "Sorry, Boss," he heard his father say when he stepped into the hallway.

  "It's fine," the man said. "He just shouldn't be here for this."

  Corrado had no idea what 'this' was and had no intention of sticking around to find out. That guy made his dad more like pesky Robin than powerful Batman. He strolled through the casino, heading toward a small restaurant in the lobby. A closed sign hung at the entrance, but a bartender lurked behind the bar.

  Contemplating, Corrado slipped inside and approached the bar. The bartender glanced at him with surprise when he climbed up on a stool. "You Moretti's son?"

  Corrado nodded.

  "Figured," he replied. "What can I get for you?"

  "Do you have Cactus Cooler?"

  The man frowned. "Sure don't. I have Coke, though."

  "That's okay."

  Corrado spilled out his handful of change on the bar, but the bartender ignored the money, pouring a Coke. "It's on me."

  Sipping his soda, Corrado glanced around the darkened place as the bartender prepared for opening. Minutes of silence passed before footsteps approached behind him. Vito's shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped as he climbed onto the stool beside him, waving for the bartender and ordering scotch.

  He downed his drink in one large gulp.

  "That work?" Vito asked, motioning toward a radio behind the bar. The bartender nodded, pouring Vito another drink. "Turn it on. The Sox are playing in California today."

  Corrado lit up at those words. The White Sox? The bartender fiddled with the radio for a bit to get a station to come in that broadcasted the game. The reception was fuzzy, but it came in clear enough for them to listen.

  They spent the afternoon with the White Sox as they demolished the Angels, beating them thirteen to nothing. Vito grew deeper into a depression the longer they sat there, despite the staggering win.

  "Come on," Vito said, standing when the game came to an end. "Let's go home."

  Corrado followed him, noticing Mr. DeMarco at a blackjack table in the casino with a group of men. "Who is that guy, Dad?"

  Vito cast him a wary glance. "That's my boss."

  "You have a boss?"

  "Yeah, we all got someone we answer to."

  Corrado watched Mr. DeMarco, admiring how everyone seemed to hover around him yet keep a certain distance, as if both attracted to the man and terrified of him. "Who does he answer to?"

  "I don't know, kid. God, maybe?"

  Corrado sat right in front of the television, a bowl of dry Fruit Loops on the floor in front of him, his eyes fixated on the grainy, flickering screen as the late night news came on.

  "Alleged New York Mob Boss Joseph Colombo was shot tonight at the second annual rally of the Italian-American Civil Rights League. Witnesses say..."

  "Yo, yo, yo, turn that up!" Vito shouted as he sprinted into the room, throwing himself down on the couch so roughly it shifted a few inches. He relaxed back, one arm over his wife's shoulder as his free hand brusquely waved for Corrado to obey him.

  Corrado reached for the dial on the television and turned the volume up a few notches.

  "...Colombo was heading to the podium to give a scheduled speech when he was shot three times. A second unidentified assailant in the crowd then shot the suspect dead before escaping."

  "I'll be a son of a bitch," Vito said. "Can you believe it?"

  "What, Daddy?" Katrina asked, lying on her stomach on the floor near Corrado. Colombo. He'd heard that name before.

  "Just history in the making, baby girl," he declared. "The start of something big."

  Erika groaned, not as amused by the news. "Time for bed."

  They whined in harmony. Bedtime wasn't for two hours.

  "Let them stay up," Vito said. "That Dick Cavett's about to come on."

  "I thought you didn't like him anymore," Erika said.

  "Eh, maybe he ain't so bad."

  Corrado and his sister stayed up well past midnight, watching Carol Burnett on The Dick Cavett Show. It was the first night in a week they'd all hung together as a family, the last night Corrado remembered ever spending like that. There was no fighting, no belittling, no anger or hatred. His father seemed happy, something that hadn't happened since Mr. DeMarco arrived in Las Vegas.

  The calm before a storm only Vito knew was coming.

  The weekend passed uneventfully. Monday morning Corrado woke up and dressed, heading downstairs for breakfast. His mother had started cooking every morning, and although it was never very good, at least they had something to eat. That was more than he could say months ago.

  He hit the foyer when his mother stepped out from the kitchen, clutching a bottle of wine. He glanced between her and it with surprise.

  "Better hurry," she slurred. Drunk. "You're gonna miss the bus."

  "What?"

  "Don't 'what' me. If you miss school, your ass is in trouble."

  Corrado stared at her, wide-eyed. "But Dad—"

  "What about him?"

  "I want to go with him."

  "Too late," Erika said. "He already left."

  Corrado wanted to believe he just went to work early, that he'd headed to the casino while he was still asleep, but deep down inside he knew the truth. The stench of alcohol on his mother alone was enough to tell him what he needed to know.

  Vito hadn't stayed.

  5

  Corrado’s stomach flipped and flopped as the dingy yellow school bus churned down the road, every bump sending him an inch off the cracked brown bench. He sat in the front by himself, diagonal from the bus driver, while his sister raised ruckus in the back with her friends. Katrina’s voice shrieked above all others as she hollered and laughed, the constant center of attention.

  The bus slowed, the air brakes screeching as they neared their long driveway. The two-story white house could be seen on the hill, appearing minuscule at that distance. Corrado glanced out the window as the bus came to a halt, eyeing the black Lincoln parked beside the porch, gleaming under the bright afternoon sunshine.

  Corrado’s muscles grew taut. He hadn't seen it in ages.

  “Holy shit!” Katrina yelled from the back. Corrado didn’t have to look at her to know she’d seen it, too. He stood when the doors creaked open, barely making it out of the seat wh
en his sister ran past, knocking into him.

  “That’s no kinda language for a young lady to use,” the bus driver scolded her as she bolted for the door. Corrado followed, pausing at the edge of the driveway as the bus pulled away. Katrina ran a few feet before skidding to a stop.

  “Do you see it?” she asked. “Dad’s home!”

  “But why is he home?”

  She dramatically rolled her eyes. “Because it’s our birthday, duh! I bet they’re throwing a party for us! Eleven is a big deal, you know.”

  Katrina ran ahead while Corrado strolled down the driveway. As he neared the house, he heard screaming inside, the familiar tale tell signs that his mother was enraged. Corrado sat down on the porch, dropping his tattered book bag on the step beside him.

  Going inside was pointless. There would be no cake, no ice cream, no balloons, no presents. There would be nothing different from any other time.

  He sat there for a while before the fighting stopped. He heard his mother stomping upstairs seconds before the front door thrust open, his father stepping out.

  “That goddamn woman,” Vito muttered, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Stalking forward, he sat down on the step beside Corrado, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and flipped it open, striking it about a dozen times before shakily igniting the flame. He lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag before shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

  Neither spoke. Corrado had no idea what to say to the man. It had been five, maybe six months since he’d seen his face. Vito used to make it home once or twice a month, but now once or twice a year felt like a downright miracle.

  “Your sister said it’s your birthday.” Vito flicked ashes into the yard, blowing smoke his way. “Happy birthday.”

  Corrado only offered a slight nod.

  “Sorry I forgot,” he continued. “I was, you know, tied up for a long time, and then things in Chicago got out of hand. I haven’t had time to think about much of anything that doesn’t have to do with work. Guess that’s what happens when you choose the life. Well, hell, scratch that—the life chooses you. And I’ll tell you, kid… it’s got me by the balls.”

  The life... Corrado had no idea what that meant.

  Vito smoked his cigarette, throwing it down once the flame reached the filter. He stood, tramping it out, and started toward the car. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I need you to pack some bags.”

  Something sparked in Corrado then. Hope. “Am I going with you?”

  Vito laughed wryly. “No. I’m sending you and your sister away for a bit. It’s not safe right now. You know, work stuff. You’ll be better off somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  He shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”

  Corrado watched his father drive away, the engine roaring as the Lincoln disappeared down the road. Afterward, Corrado headed inside, stepping over everything that had been strewn around during the fighting, and went straight up to his bedroom. He meticulously folded some clothes and layered them in his book bag, finished packing in a matter of minutes.

  The next morning, the Lincoln returned, parking in the same spot as the day before. Corrado sat on the porch once again, his book bag beside him. Vito climbed out of the car and strolled toward him. “If you weren’t wearing different clothes, I might wonder if you sat out here all night. Is that all you’re taking? One bag?”

  He nodded.

  “You might be gone for a while,” Vito said. “You don’t wanna take anything else? Your ball and glove, maybe? You always liked baseball.”

  Corrado just stared at his father. He hadn’t played in years, not since his mother had splintered his special edition Louisville Slugger cracking the skull of a woman he’d considered family.

  Realizing he wasn’t going to get a response, Vito turned his focus to the house. “Katrina! Come on, girl! It's a long drive!"

  The front door opened a moment later as Erika ushered her daughter outside. They hauled half a dozen bags out onto the porch, dropping them at their feet. Katrina wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, clinging to her, but Erika didn’t seem to notice. Her piercing gaze, bitter and frigid, focused squarely on Vito.

  “Hell of a father you are,” she barked. “You deserve a medal. What kind of man does this to his kids?”

  “It's just a precaution. They’ll be fine where they’re going.”

  Erika laughed bitterly. “So I stay here and I’m the one in danger?”

  “I asked you to go,” Vito said. “I told you to, but you refused.”

  “You’re damn right I refused,” she spat. “I won’t be driven out of my house—my home—because my husband’s a spineless coward who can’t keep his family safe! You’re not a real man, Vito. You’re half of one. You’re a pest, a cockroach, and I’d like nothing more than to step on you, squish you beneath my foot, and be rid of you forever.”

  “Don’t start on me, Erika,” Vito warned. “I’m not going to fight with you in front of the kids.”

  “Go ahead and use them as an excuse,” Erika said. “Jamook.”

  Vito started to bite back but restrained himself, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. He took a deep breath, closing his fiery eyes. When he reopened them, his face was a mask of calm. “Get in the car, kids.”

  Corrado obliged right away, climbing into the backseat. Katrina begrudgingly did the same, squeezing in beside her brother in the back. Vito threw their bags in the trunk and asked Erika to reconsider when she turned her back to him.

  Vito refused to fly.

  "If I was meant to be up in the air, God would've given me wings," Vito explained when they got on the road, his hands lovingly stroking the steering wheel. "This baby gets me wherever I need to be."

  It was a two-day trip from Las Vegas to the east coast, to a small, secluded town called Durante, in the foothill of the mountains in North Carolina. Darkness shrouded the car when they arrived at the old plantation home tucked deep in the woods. Corrado sleepily climbed out, grabbing his book bag from the trunk as his father juggled all of Katrina’s bags.

  They headed for the house as the front door opened, a woman appearing on the large porch. She was dressed impeccably in a blue dress and a pair of heels, a string of pearls around her neck. Her dark hair was proper, pulled back and curled. She dressed like she was going to a formal event, not living in the middle of nowhere.

  “Gia.” Vito greeted her, kissing both of her cheeks. “I’m forever indebted to you for this.”

  “Nonsense, we’re friends,” she said. “Besides, I’m sure they'll be a pleasure to have around.”

  “They’ll be on their best behavior. Isn’t that right, kids? You'll mind Mrs. DeMarco?"

  DeMarco. Corrado recognized that name.

  “Yes,” Katrina said promptly. “I promise.”

  All eyes turned to Corrado. He nodded. Of course he would.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. DeMarco said, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. “My kids will be happy to have someone to play with. Come on in."

  They followed Mrs. DeMarco into the foyer of the house. Corrado glanced around, taking in the interior. It was clean and cozy, fully furnished and well lived-in—nothing like their home back in Nevada, full of expensive, broken shells of things.

  "It's a shame about Frederica and Luigi," Vito said. "I'm still reeling from the news. As soon as they told me, I knew I couldn't delay it anymore. I needed to move them. It could've been my family, you know?"

  "Such a pity," Mrs. DeMarco said. "Who would attack a whole family? And that baby! God willing, Antonio will find who did it and make them pay."

  "I'm sure he will," Vito said. "As soon as it calms down again, I'll come back for the kids."

  "Just be careful out there." Mrs. DeMarco smiled warmly at him before turning to the kids. "We have two empty rooms... one on the third floor with the children and one on the second with me. Do we need to flip a coi
n or can you work it out yourselves?"

  "I call third floor!" Katrina said.

  Mrs. DeMarco peered at Corrado, eyebrows raised. He merely shrugged. He didn't care. A bed was a bed. He was there because his father said they had to be there. It wasn't sleep-away camp. He hadn't come to make friends.

  "So it's settled." She motioned toward the stairs. "The doors are open. Make yourselves at home."

  "This is so stupid," Katrina complained, wading in a small creek that ran behind the house. "I wish we were at home with Mom."

  Their first morning in rural North Carolina had dawned an hour earlier. Katrina snuck out the back door as the sun rose, and Corrado followed her, partially curious, the other half of him compelled to keep an eye on his sister.

  The murky water came mid-calf, drenching Katrina's feet. Corrado cringed at the sopping, squishing sound it made whenever she took a step. "Your new shoes are getting wet."

  She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for stating the obvious, Sherlock. And that's all you have to say? Seriously?”

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I don't know. Say something… anything!"

  "Something," he muttered. "Anything."

  She shot him a foul look. "Smart ass. You aren't even sorry, are you? It's your fault we're here in the first place, you know."

  "How is it my fault?" How could he be to blame?

  "Because you suck," she said, matter-of-fact, as if that answer made even a bit of sense. "And because Mom doesn't like you."

  "She doesn't like anyone."

  "She likes me," Katrina said defensively.

  Corrado didn't bother responding. If blaming him would make her feel even the slightest bit better, so be it. She could blame him all she wanted. He'd accept it, because that's what brothers did. But at the end of the day, it wouldn't change the truth.

  They were there because no one else wanted them.

  The sound of twigs snapping and leaves rustling drew Corrado’s attention away from his sister. He glanced around, expecting to see squirrels run through the thick brush, but instead a girl stepped out from behind a tree. He watched her inquisitively. Katrina didn’t look, either not hearing or not caring, as the girl approached.