New Dog, Old Tricks
BISHOP
They call me “the Crow.” I never liked that f*****g nickname.
It was a tradition at first. To call the man guarding the boss’s back and taking perch on his shoulder “the Crow” to let others know that he would be there.
Ever-present. Ever-watching. Waiting to strike. The guardian of the crops. The protector of all that the big boss had sown. What a crock of s**t. The name was supposed to end with John Gafanelli.
But of course, it didn’t.
Don, wanting to be so much like his father, picked it right back up. And it was easy. My features were dark, my hair—raven. When enemies looked at me, they saw a shadow. When Don Gafanelli looked at me, he saw “the Crow.” And so the Crow is what I had to become.
I was twenty-three years old.
Orphaned, left alone in the wor
