Mafia Boss

Chapter four

His driver, Bruno, a man with a neck thicker than his head, took him not to one of his clubs or restaurants, but to a quiet, non-descript Italian café in Queens. It was a place from another time, checked tablecloths and the smell of real espresso. The owner, an old man named Enzo, nodded once as Vittorio took his usual corner booth. No menus were brought. A few minutes later, a plate of scarola and a glass of red wine appeared.

This was where he came to remember, or to forget. Today, it was to remember.

He was nineteen again, standing in a cold warehouse in Brooklyn, a lead pipe slick in his hands. His father, Silvio, a man of few words and brutal lessons, pointed to a man tied to a chair. “This one talked to the wrong people, Vittorio. He has a wife. Two little girls. He’s begging for his life.” Silvio’s eyes were black stones. “Mercy is a debt. You show it, you are owed. You are also seen as weak. Strength is a language everyone understands. Speak it.”

The pipe had felt impossibly heavy. The man’s sobs were a raw, animal sound. Vittorio had swung. Not to kill, not that first time. To break. The sound of shin bone snapping was like a gunshot in the damp space. He’d vomited afterwards, behind a stack of crates. His father had placed a hand on his shoulder, the closest he’d ever come to praise. “The sickness passes. The respect remains.”