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  Without even realizing it, Corrado found himself smiling, unable to drag his eyes away from her. The two passed the ball back and forth, Celia tossing it to Vincent underhanded, while Vincent launched it back erratically.

  "Pathetic."

  The low hiss came from across the room. Corrado's eyes shifted slightly, catching sight of Katrina's reflection in the grimy window.

  "You're not good enough for them," Katrina said, stepping closer. "They'd never even look at you if they weren't stuck in this place, too."

  Corrado's smile melted away.

  "Nobody likes you," she continued. "You're nothing to them."

  Looking away from his sister, his focus shifted back to Celia as she picked up the ball. She brushed her hair over her shoulder after tossing the ball to Vincent, her eyes drifting to the window. They connected with Corrado's, and she smiled warmly, waving the glove at him. Something tightened in Corrado's chest. Distracted, Vincent abandoned the game and wandered through the yard.

  Wordlessly, Corrado stepped out the back door, shutting it behind him. Celia heard the click and glanced his way as he picked up the baseball, clutching it in his hand. He gazed at the dirty ball, seeing the messy signature in blue ink. Autographed.

  "Ernie Banks," Celia said. "Best Chicago Cub to ever play the game. That was his five hundredth home run."

  "You didn't catch it."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because you're not very good."

  Celia laughed at his bluntness. "Do you play?"

  "No," he said, looking from the ball to her. "Not anymore."

  "Why?"

  "Doesn't matter."

  Celia raised the glove. "Throw it."

  He shook his head.

  "Come on," she insisted, punching the glove with her free hand. "Scared of being beaten by a girl?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then throw it."

  Corrado tossed the ball underhanded, straight to her. Celia caught it without even looking.

  "That was weak," she said.

  "Better than you."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Get a glove and I'll prove you wrong."

  "I don't need one." He'd seen her feeble throwing.

  "But—"

  "Just throw it back."

  "Fine."

  Before Corrado could even prepare, Celia hurled the ball right at him. It soared to his right, and Corrado reached out to catch it. The ball struck his hand, viciously stinging his palm as pain rippled up his arm. Hissing, he let go, shaking the pain away as the ball hit the grass with a thud.

  His hand felt like it had burst into flames, his fingers stinging.

  Celia threw the glove down and ran over to him, grabbing his arm. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "Of course not," he ground out, flexing his fingers.

  She poked and prodded at his hand. "Didn't break anything, I don't think."

  "It's fine." He pulled away from her. "Don't worry about it."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Really, I am."

  "Don't apologize." He could only blame himself. "I didn't expect you to throw so hard."

  "Why? Because I'm a girl?"

  "No, because you threw terribly with Vincent."

  "He's my little brother. Of course I'd take it easy on him. But you, well..."

  Nothing to them. "I get it."

  Reaching over, Corrado grabbed the ball from the ground and tossed it to her. She caught it in her bare hand, sighing as her fingers wrapped tightly around it. "You took it easy on me."

  "Yes."

  "Because I'm a girl?"

  "No."

  Because maybe you're not nothing to me.

  Independence Day.

  The clear night, warm and breezy, carried sounds through the closed windows of the DeMarco household. Mrs. DeMarco sat in a chair in the living room, having turned it to face the vast window. She gazed outside, searching for something, seeing nothing.

  Nothing but blackness, as far as Corrado could tell.

  The bangs and cracks in the distance were loud as fireworks went off in the town of Durante, the trees blocking their view of the vibrant colors. But each noise, no matter how expected, made Mrs. DeMarco wince.

  Only a dim lamp lit up the space around her. The kids gathered in the room with nothing to do. There was no television in the house. The radio was off. It was too dark to read.

  "Can I go to bed now?" Vincent whined.

  "No." Mrs. DeMarco's tone was clipped. It was the fifth time Vincent had asked that question, and each time the answer remained the same. No.

  Corrado sat quietly, mostly watching Celia, as the girl peered at her mother. Katrina slouched in a chair, kicking her legs as she peeled the nail polish from her fingernails. Vincent, exhausted, curled up on the couch, giving up, and closed his eyes.

  The explosions continued to go off in the distance for another hour. By the time the noise trickled to a stop, complete silence permeating the house, Vincent was fast asleep, and Katrina had somehow slipped away. Mrs. DeMarco didn't turn away from the window, her eyes still fixed on the darkness, but she waved her hand dismissively. "Go to bed."

  Celia roused her brother from his deep sleep, dragging him off the couch and setting him toward the stairs. Corrado followed, his footsteps slowing when he reached the second floor, seeing Celia lingering at the bottom of the second staircase. She turned to him. "Do you think our dads are okay?"

  "Yes," he said. Why wouldn't they be?

  Celia frowned. "Daddy didn't call today."

  "Maybe he was busy."

  "It's a holiday," she said.

  "It's only the Fourth of July," Corrado said.

  "It doesn't matter. He's never missed any holiday before."

  Corrado couldn't imagine… Vito barely made it home for Christmas. "He probably just forgot."

  She shook her head. "Daddy says DeMarcos never forget anything."

  "Don't be so worried," Corrado said.

  "But the Russo family—"

  "I don't even know who they are."

  Surprise passed across Celia's face. She seemed to be about to say something when Vincent yelled for her from the third floor. Turning, she sprinted up the stairs, leaving Corrado in the hallway alone.

  He headed into his bedroom and changed into his pajamas before climbing into bed. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, when he heard his knob turn and the door open. Groaning, he closed his eyes as footsteps approached his bed. Not Katrina. Not tonight.

  "Are you asleep already?"

  Celia's voice, startlingly close, jolted him upright. He stared at her as she stood beside his bed, clutching a big book to her chest. "Celia?"

  "Duh." Without needing any encouragement, she plopped down beside him and set the book between them. "How can you not know the Russos? They're related to Sal."

  He shrugged, awkwardly inching away from her. "I don't even know Sal."

  Celia opened the book and shifted through it. A scrapbook, Corrado noticed, as she flipped through page after page of photos and newspaper clippings. Reaching the last filled page, less than a quarter of the way through the book, she spun it to face him.

  Corrado squinted, trying to read in the darkness, as he glanced down at the newspaper article. The edges were frayed, part of the article ripped like she had torn it out in a hurry. The bold headline was vibrant enough for Corrado to make out the words:

  Local Prominent Family Missing, Feared Dead

  Celia clicked on a small lamp, giving him light to continue reading.

  On the surface, Luigi and Francesca Russo seemed to be a picture-perfect couple—he, a wealthy businessman out of Chicago; her, a stay at home mom—but the family harbored secrets of another life that are only recently coming to light.

  Authorities were called to the Russo residence early Sunday morning after a priest reported the couple didn't show up for church. When police arrived, they found the back door had been broken down, the inside rifled through. Upon entering the hous
e, police discovered a gruesome scene: blood splattered walls and shell casings on the floor, but there was no sign of either Francesca or Luigi, or their one-year-old daughter.

  Friends insist there's no reason anyone would want to harm them, but further investigation revealed long-standing ties to organized crime.

  Corrado stopped reading and glanced at Celia. He had questions, ones he desperately wanted to ask, but he couldn't get the words out. He didn't need to—not really. The answers were written all over her sullen face.

  Turning back to the book, Corrado flipped back through the other pages, reading the bold headlines.

  Shoot-out at Infamous Crime Hangout

  Seven Arrested on Racketeering Charges

  Murder Plot Uncovered

  String of Slayings Have Underworld on Guard

  Reputed Mob Boss Arrested

  Mob's Waterfront Extortion Exposed

  Court Papers Detail Chicago Mob Hits

  The more he saw, the more absorbed he became. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he scanned articles, noticing familiar names—Colombo, DeMarco, Antonelli—and spotted faces of men he'd encountered in passing without even realizing it. Men from his father's casino… men who had delivered stacks of cash, men who had bought Corrado drinks and patted his head like they were friends.

  And there it was, as he turned the page again, the one thing he waited for through it all. A small part of him hoped not to see it, hoped he wouldn't find anything, but there, in print, was the name.

  Vito Moretti.

  The photo accompanying the article had faded with time, but Corrado made out his father, his face partially concealed from the camera with the collar of his coat, his gray fedora on his head. The headline above it shone bold—Not Guilty—but what drew Corrado's attention was the small, italicized caption below the picture.

  Alleged Mafia Capo walks free.

  Mafia.

  He stared at that word until a small hand grasped his.

  "Do you think it's all true?" she asked.

  "Maybe."

  "Do you really think they're okay?"

  "Yes."

  Her expression softened with relief as she took the book from him, flipping the pages back to the very beginning. The first article was torn, the paper yellowing, so old the words were barely visible anymore. She held it up, showing it to Corrado as he squinted, struggling to make out what it said.

  Car Bomb Kills Reputed Crime Boss

  The photo was vaguely recognizable as a car, smothered in flames and smoke. Corrado couldn't read much of the article, but the name DeMarco caught his eye.

  "It was my Nonno," Celia explained, closing the scrapbook as she set it down on the bed. Her grandfather. "The newspapers said the Irish killed him. Killed my Nonna, too. She was in the car with him. I just remember Daddy being upset and saying he was going to make sure the Irish paid for it. The newspapers after that said he took over Nonno's job… that my dad became the boss."

  "My dad calls him that," Corrado said. "Boss."

  Celia nodded. "I think it's true."

  "Did you ask him?"

  "No."

  Corrado was surprised. Celia, always full of questions, didn't ask her father something she wanted to know?

  She seemed to sense his confusion as she lay across his bed sideways, bunching up the comforter to use it as a pillow. Corrado hesitated but lay down facing her, doing the same.

  "He says I shouldn't be so nosy," she mumbled. "My questions bother him, too."

  Corrado didn't know what to say about that. He stared at her in the dim lighting, watching as her eyelids drifted closed, her breathing steady as she drifted off to sleep. He didn't move, didn't close his eyes.

  Sleep evaded him all night long.

  Three days later, as they sat around the dinner table, picking at pork roast and potatoes, the shrill sound of ringing shattered the silence of the house. At once, the children tensed as Mrs. DeMarco shoved her chair back and ran for the phone. She snatched it off the wall in the hallway, just within eyeshot, and brought it to her ear. "Hello?"

  Her next breath was a long exhale of relief. "Antonio. Thank God."

  Celia dropped her fork and jumped up to face her mother.

  "Yes, I know." A smile touched Mrs. DeMarco's lips. "I never doubted it."

  She listened intently before letting out a light laugh. "Yes, she's right here. Hold on."

  Mrs. DeMarco held out the phone to Celia, who sprinted over to snatch a hold of it. "Daddy?"

  Celia's eyes sparkled. "Yes, of course I'm being good…. yes… I miss you, too."

  Her excitement grew at something before she launched into a story. It took a few minutes for her to run out of steam, her words slowing to a trickle. "I promise. Love you, too. Bye, Daddy."

  Celia held the phone out toward her brother. "Vincent?"

  Slowly, he pushed his chair back and walked over to grab the phone. "Hello?"

  A long, exaggerated pause of silence passed as Vincent stared at the ground.

  "Uh-huh," he mumbled finally. "Yes, sir."

  Vincent handed the phone back to his mother and retook his seat. Mrs. DeMarco turned the corner, out of their view, and whispered into the phone, trying to find a bit of privacy. Corrado picked at his food until Mrs. DeMarco returned, taking her seat. Her eyes scanned them before ultimately settling on Corrado. "Vito's fine," she said, glancing from him to Katrina. "Just busy with work stuff."

  Work stuff.

  Mafia.

  A heat wave struck the mountains of North Carolina, the temperature creeping into the high nineties every afternoon, as summer droned on. The sticky, humid air coated Corrado's skin like sweat as he spent his days outside. He ran around, clad in only a pair of pants, barefoot and bare chested, sunshine blasting him as it streamed through the trees, bronzing his skin.

  Celia stood in the backyard one afternoon as the first of August dawned, wearing a ruffled red bathing suit. Vincent ran around her as she clutched a hose, trying to squirt him. Their laughter rang out, jubilant, childish, both kids soaked from head to toe as their feet sunk into the muddy earth. Corrado lurked a few feet away, his dark curls damp from the wayward spray.

  Vincent shrieked, running away from his sister, heading straight for the woods. Celia sprayed him as far as the hose would go before bending it, stopping the flow of water, and swinging around to face Corrado. She pointed it at him like a gun, drops of excess water dripping into the puddle around her feet.

  "Surrender," she demanded, eyes sparkling, a mischievous twist of the lips. "Or else."

  He stared at her.

  "Last chance," she warned him.

  He still said nothing.

  No more than a heartbeat passed before she loosened her grip on the hose, letting the water fly. Corrado backed up a few steps, but it wasn't enough. The spray slammed into him, soaking his chest, as icy water blasted him in the face. Laughing, he lunged at her. Panic flared in Celia's eyes as she squealed, dropping the hose and throwing up her hands defensively. "I surrender."

  Corrado was undeterred. Celia backed up, yelping as she slipped in the mud, nearly falling, but she caught herself as she ran. Corrado stared at her retreating form for a fraction of a second before making the decision to go after her.

  He took off into a sprint, chasing her through the yard. Celia glanced behind her, squealing as she dodged and weaved, trying to evade him. She ducked into the woods, grasping the trunk of a small tree to swing around it. Corrado jumped in front of her, stopping her, his looming figure backing her against the tree.

  She panted, trying to catch her breath, still dripping water. Her flushed cheeks twitched as she fought to contain her smile. "I said I surrender!"

  "I didn't ask you to."

  She tried to duck around him, but he moved with her, blocking her yet again. Her eyes flared wildly, darting past him with excitement as she sought out a way to escape. Left. Right. Left. Right. Corrado anticipated her every move, keeping her pinned in
place, not letting her slip past.

  Until finally, once, she came right at him. She stepped forward, her head tilted as she stared him in the eyes. He looked down at her, curious, and barely had time to react before she sprung up on her tiptoes and forced her lips against his.

  Every inch of Corrado, warm and sweaty, froze over like a block of ice. It was over as quickly as it started, Celia ducking past him with a giggle, running through the woods back to the house.

  He watched her, wavering this time before following. He caught up to her when she reached the back door, his hand catching hers when she flung it open.

  "You cheated," he said.

  She cast him an amused look as she headed into the house. A response had come from her lips, but Corrado didn't hear it. All he heard, all that existed when he stepped inside, was the familiar deep voice, smooth and calm. Corrado's eyes darted around for the source, his heart racing when he spotted the man in the hallway.

  His father.

  Vito turned their way, trying to navigate around Katrina, who clung to his waist. He smoothed her hair lovingly as he grinned, regarding his son. "Good news. You get to go home, kid."

  Good news. Contrary to those words, the smile faded from Corrado's face. Home. Las Vegas. Back to his mother. Away from the DeMarcos.

  Vito's expression shifted to confusion. "Nothing to say?"

  Corrado looked away. "I'll go pack."

  "Yeah, you do that," Vito said, prying Katrina away from him. "You, too, sweetheart. Sooner you're packed, sooner you're out of here."

  He didn't have to tell her twice. Katrina bolted upstairs, taking them two at a time. Corrado slipped past Celia and followed his sister, stopping on the second floor. He packed what little he had brought, done in less than five minutes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he clutched his backpack between his legs and stared at the floor.

  A soft knock on the door caught his attention. He glanced up as it opened, seeing Celia slip inside, her braid let loose into damp waves. She had changed her clothes, wearing shorts and that dreaded Chicago Cubs shirt—the same thing she had worn the day they arrived.