Luciano
In front of me is a man I have met once. We were children then.
I was only eleven, and he was eight.
"Where is your father?"
The man in front of me offers a shot of whiskey. He pours it front of me, pours himself one.
"You've done your homework."
He just smiles. He sure does smile a lot. It's irritating. I'm contemplating using his teeth as target practice.
"Well, that's you do. My Father handed the reigns to me a few days ago. According to my knowledge, he threatened you?"
I drink the shot of whiskey. It's a sign of goodwill and peace when in the Mafia.
"Tried to. I don't respond well to threats. Attempts or not."
He smiles—again!—and shakes his head. His red curls flip all over the place, and he just looks a kid in daddy's chair, playing boss.
"No one does, Mr. Vitale.
