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“It’s deeper than that,” Corrado said. “We’ve clashed since before Prohibition, when John Torrio was building our empire. He was diplomatic, believed just because we were criminals didn’t mean we had to be savages. Bugs Moran, the underboss of the Irish Mob at the time, tried to kill Torrio. He was severely injured in an assassination attempt, which forced him to hand over control to Al Capone. Capone continued what Torrio started, but he wasn’t above equal justice.”
“An eye for an eye,” Carmine muttered.
“Exactly,” Corrado said. “Moran tried to kill Capone a few times but failed. He wasn’t a very good hit man. A peace conference was called, where Capone said he believed Chicago was big enough for all of us. Said it was like a pie, where every gang should have their fair slice.”
“Makes sense,” Carmine said, even though he had no clue where the conversation was going.
“Makes sense to me, too,” he said. “For a while, after that meeting, the bloodshed ceased, but it didn’t last. You know what happened next, right?”
Carmine stared at him. “Uh, sorta. I was never good at history. I failed it in high school . . . both times.”
Corrado laughed dryly. “This is the history that matters . . . our history. Moran started killing Capone’s friends. Capone’s patience wore thin until he finally decided enough was enough. He sent some men dressed as police into Moran’s warehouse, lined six of his associates against the wall, and slaughtered them.”
“Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
“The bloodshed stopped after that. And it’s only because we’ve respected those boundaries, because we’ve shared the pie, that we’ve had peace.” Corrado paused. “All of this ends now, Carmine. If I ever hear of you touching drugs again, if it doesn’t kill you, I will. I won’t allow you to become a heroin addict.”
“I didn’t know it was heroin,” he said. “It was supposed to be Molly, you know, MDMA.”
Corrado turned from the window. “This is Molly? I thought you had a girlfriend by that name.”
“You thought I was seeing someone?” he asked. “That’s crazy.”
“No, crazy is infecting your system with illicit intoxicants for a thrill instead of indulging in something safer, like a woman.”
Carmine shook his head. “There’s only one woman for me.”
Corrado ignored that, turning to stare out the window once more. “This is the same room, you know. It’s been remodeled, but it’s where they kept you when you were shot. I felt déjà vu this morning, seeing you lying in that bed. The only difference is your father isn’t here now. I can only imagine how he’d feel, seeing you treat your life so carelessly . . . a life Maura died to protect.”
The beeping from the monitor was momentarily erratic at the mention of Carmine’s parents. Shame seeped under his skin as his uncle continued his lecture.
“I need to be able to trust you, and so far, you’ve given me every reason not to. You can’t continue to disrespect me, to disrespect the organization your grandfather helped build. It’s bad enough your father . . .” Corrado trailed off, his posture going rigid. He stood frozen, a cold stone statue, and his voice matched it when he spoke again. “Don’t tarnish the DeMarco legacy any further.”
Carmine’s voice was hardly a whisper. “Yes, sir.”
Corrado strolled over to the hospital bed. “Where’d you get them, anyway?”
“Get what?”
“The drugs, Carmine. Where’d you get them?”
Carmine shook his head. “I, uh . . .”
“Tell me,” Corrado demanded. “I want to know who’s been supplying you.”
“But I—”
“Tell me!”
A shuddering breath escaped Carmine’s lips, with it the lone name. “Remy.”
Corrado’s eyebrows rose with question. “Tarullo?”
“Yes.”
Before he could elaborate, Corrado’s strong hand shot out and wrapped around his throat. The cardiac monitor went wild, frenzied beeping filling the room as Carmine struggled to take a breath, his lungs burning, begging for oxygen.
“Rule number one,” Corrado whispered, leaning close so he hovered over a thrashing Carmine, his mouth near his ear. “You never rat out your friends.”
