The Boss of All Bosses, Part I

In the heart of Italy's criminal underworld, Calogero Inantinelli, a legendary Mafia boss with over a hundred murders under his belt, reigned supreme.

The Boss of All Bosses, Part I

A Novel by: Johnson Maganaxx

⚠️ CONFIDENTIAL — NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION

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Words Of Inspiration

Listen to me...

No matter what anyone in ‘the life’ of real organized crime says,

just remember this.

There’s ‘two kinds of people’ in this world, when you boil it all down.

You got your ‘talkers’ and you got ‘your doers’.

You see, most people are just ‘talkers’.

All they have inside them is…‘TALK’.

But when all is said and done, it’s ‘the doers' who change this world.

And when they do that, they change… ‘US’.

And that’s why ‘WE’ will never, ever forget ‘them’!!!

So, ‘which one’ are you?

Do you just ‘TALK’ about it, or do you ‘stand up’ and do something about it?

Because, believe you me, all of the rest of it is…

COFFEE HOUSE BULLSHIT!

Now… let’s begin.

My name is Vito Yannone, the honorable boss of the Yannone crime family.

For now, forget about what I look like. As a young boy, as soon as I knew how to control my inner thoughts and use my hands, I killed anything, and I mean anything, that got in my way. And, though this story is not about me, I want to define myself by my upfront, murderous psychopathic ways. Forget about all the rumors you’ve heard. From here on, there are no more secrets. Welcome to the sick, dark side of this murderous life.

Maybe this will shed light on the fact that before I was ten years old, I killed between forty to sixty people, making me the youngest serial killer in history. Some may think that I killed them to enhance my abnormal, sick twisted, psychological gratification. No, I did it for no other reason than to selfishly see them dying right in front of my very own eyes. I got a fulfilling, releasing joy out of watching life as it slipped right out of my little bloody fingers. It was like the ultimate high for me.

Especially satisfying was the surreal knowledge that no one had the faintest idea that I was a natural-born killer. Now that I think about it, I was demonically possessed. I did not care about what my parents, any other kids, or their parents had to say or think about me. I only knew that when I was growing up in Palermo, Sicily, I knew exactly what I was doing. In fact, without a doubt, no one was going to stop me from doing what I did best, which was killing actual living things.

I may have acted as if I did not know what was going on around me, but I always knew what was really going on. Eager to kill, was what put me and ultimately kept me in a murderous spell. And, because of the fearless unbreakable bond that I had with myself, I choked many animals to death, as well as the ones that I meticulously sliced up with surgical precision, using my favorite 16 piece set of razor-sharp X-Acto knives.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, an X-Acto Knife is a razor-sharp blade mounted on a pen-like aluminum body. It is typically used for crafting and hobbies, such as model making. To me, using the X-Acto Knives for crafting and hobbies, like model making, was a waste of time and a waste of my valuable collection of knives. Instead, I utilized the X-Acto knives along with a multitude of other surgical instruments to further my knowledgeable experience of slicing anything or anyone up with surgical precision.

And to keep up the torture for prolonged periods of time, I tried to keep whatever or whomever alive for as long as possible. Though in horrible pain, they were all still alive, until I put them under the knife and slowly removed all their insides. Cats, dogs, people—nothing was safe around me. I truly enjoyed observing everything I killed as it would take its last breath. And, I did it for no other reason than to see life in agonizing pain, as it headed through its unimaginable path of lifelessness.

As I grew older, my appetite for violence only intensified. No longer content with preying on innocent animals, I turned my sights towards the true beasts of this world: humanity itself. With a ruthless determination and a keen ability to orchestrate my own schemes, I embarked on a spree of murder that knew no bounds. And, with each life I snuffed out, I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction, reveling in the chaos and destruction I wrought upon the world. I lost track of the bodies, my kill count climbing ever higher as I delved deeper into the dark recesses of my own depravity.

But, my ascent to power was swift and merciless. Alongside my crime family, I seized control of an entire borough in New York, leaving a trail of many more bodies, blood and devastation in our wake. Yet, even as I basked in the spoils of my conquest, I remained ever cognizant of the fact that I was not the true ultimate authority.

For in the world of organized crime, there is always a boss. And though I may have wielded considerable influence, I knew that my reign was ultimately subject to the whims of those who pulled the strings from the shadows. So, basically, I really had no choice. For I also had to fall into line. And, by the time my crime family and I took over a complete New York borough, from there on, I always had a boss.

Now, my boss, Calogero Inantinelli, was a man of legend in the world of organized crime. His story is one that must be told, no matter the obstacles that may stand in my way. As I reflect on my own life, I realize that the time has come to share the truth, even if it means confronting uncomfortable truths about my past. And though I am an old man now, the desire to reveal the reality of ‘the life’ in organized crime burns within me. It is a story that needs to be heard, a tale that encapsulates the nostalgia of my youth and the harsh realities of the criminal underworld.

Yet, I must confess that while I am motivated to share this story, there are moments when I question my own intentions. Writing about ‘the life’ is not something I necessarily want to do, but rather something I feel compelled to do in order to shed light on the truth. My sincerest hope is that by sharing Calogero’s story, I can convey the reality of organized crime and its impact on those involved. It is a story that needs to be told, a narrative that reveals the complexities of power, loyalty, and survival in a world where danger lurks around every corner.

So, with a sense of trepidation and determination, I embark on this journey to uncover the truth. Are you ready to join me? Then let us begin, and may the revelations that follow serve as a testament to the enduring legacy of ‘the life’ in organized crime.

Now, Calogero Inantinelli’s story began on the island of Sicily.

Except for those closest to him, no one knew precisely which town he hailed from. To those unfamiliar with Calogero, it seemed as if he emerged out of thin air, exerting control over everything in his path. Calogero was a man who never lingered on the past or dwelled on any negative experiences he may have encountered, and this made him utterly fearless. Moreover, his remarkable talent for conquering seemingly insurmountable obstacles, which would deter an ordinary man, combined with his piercing and intense gaze that could halt a herd of hungry lions, set him apart from the rest.

For countless years, Calogero wandered the streets of Sicily with the air of an iconic feudal lord. Strangely enough, even though Calogero ventured alone, no soul dared to catch his attention or maintain prolonged eye contact. It was as if his enigmatic presence cast a formidable shadow that instilled an unexplainable blend of intimidation and fear in those around him. And, this invisible, potent aura baffled all comprehension.

Calogero’s penetrating gaze, paired with the unwavering force of his deadly will, possessed the power to not only keep every soul throughout Sicily at bay but also compelled them to avert their faces entirely. The intensity of his stare alone was enough to ward off any who dared to challenge him, leaving an indelible mark on the psyche of all who encountered him.

Just as when two magnets with like poles are brought close to each other, and they invariably repel each other, so it was with Calogero. There existed an unseen, invisible force that compelled everyone to retreat in his presence. Little did Calogero know that his formidable aura acted as the ultimate deterrent, effectively repelling anyone who dared to approach him.

And, like an intangible shield, this force emanating from him acted as a potent repellent, exerting its influence on all who encountered him. It was a power that transcended explanation, as if the very essence of his being commanded an involuntary withdrawal from those in his vicinity.

Calogero, towering above others with his above-average height, possessed a pair of dark brown eyes that were hooded and mysterious. Despite his medium complexion, there was a touch of endearment to his dimples whenever anger flickered across his face. Adorned in meticulously tailored suits worth $5,500, he flaunted a six-carat pinky ring and a diamond-studded Rolex watch.

And when it came to extravagant dining, Calogero spared no expense, indulging in the most opulent restaurants Sicily had to offer. Ever prepared, he carried a hefty stack of $10,000 in cash, ensuring he never found himself in need. Skilled barbers from all corners of Sicily would line up each week, each vying for the honor of tending to his full dark-grey hair, refusing any payment as a mark of respect.

His sheer massive size earned him the description of “an ox of a man, with a thick neck and huge biceps” from many of his business associates. It was the weighty seriousness etched onto Calogero’s face, coupled with his lethal instincts, that carved a path to unimaginable wealth.

Now, for many years, Calogero went to bed with many women, most of them prostitutes, but he never had any kids with any of them.

He always said, “When they come after you, they always come after what you love the most.”

And, because Calogero never intended to have any kids of his own, deep down inside, he always felt as if he had broken one of his own cardinal rules.

At the age of 46, Calogero had a beautiful healthy baby boy named Santo by a well-known local prostitute in the town of Catania, Sicily.

Named after the town she was born in, her name was Catania Angelika Marino.

Calogero was sure that most men before him sought Catania out just because of that beautiful, powerful alluring scent of a woman she always left behind. But, because she slept with many, many wise guys since her mid-teens, Catania had a loose vagina. She was tall, light-skinned, and willowy. Catania had a great figure and she never weighed more than 120 pounds. She had long waist-length black hair and soothing green eyes. Wonderfully made up and stunningly beautiful, along with being half Calogero’s age, was what truly netted his overwhelmed heart.

As time went by, Calogero tried to only vibe on Catania’s innocence, but the thought of knowing clearly who she truly was, and will always be, overpowered his thoughts and every single other thought that came after. But, at all costs, keeping his son in mind, Calogero was resolute and unafraid to go to any lengths in order to remain with Catania, change her lifestyle, and earn her complete trust.

Therefore, as unsettling as it may sound, Calogero took it upon himself to eliminate anyone he suspected of harboring feelings or interest in Catania, including her well-intentioned father. Following Calogero’s remorseless killing spree, he promptly leased an extravagant two-bedroom apartment in the town of Catania. Calogero handed Catania the keys to the apartment, granting her the benefit of the doubt and, most importantly, offering her a chance.

So, every single day and night, without fail, Calogero took great care to nourish his son Santo and ensure his cleanliness. And, when the time came for Santo to rest, Calogero gently carried him to his bedroom, making sure not to disturb his slumber. Calogero always embraced Santo tightly, planting affectionate kisses upon his forehead before bidding him “Goodnight.” Before leaving the room, Calogero took extra care to ensure that Santo was snug and cozy, covering him with warmth and comfort.

Now, almost every night, despite being in the same bedroom as Catania, Calogero couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. Catania, being a woman of few words and rarely showing her emotions, made him feel as if he were entirely alone in the room. It was precisely that overwhelming sense of solitude that left Calogero perpetually questioning whether he was making the right decisions by granting Catania the benefit of the doubt.

But, no matter what, each night, as Catania settled into her favorite chair, Calogero stood by her side, as was his routine. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, feeling a tinge of shame about her life, gently removing her makeup. Despite Catania’s persistent distant and reserved demeanor, rarely uttering a single word, Calogero never confronted the potential issues that lay ahead. Although he had the inclination to address them, there was something about Catania that made him believe he could postpone the matter. Yet, night after night, the cycle continued, with Calogero remaining silent on the matter.

Gradually, Catania’s silence became infectious, evident in the air between them. Catania had a distinct, unorthodox method of communicating with Calogero, without uttering a single word. With precise regularity, she picked up her treasured antique sterling silver hairbrush, conveying a sense of significance as she handed it over to him. Filled with pure love, Calogero gently brushed her hair, cherishing the moment.

Initially, Calogero earnestly sought a way to sustain their relationship. However, as time passed, the accumulated resentment within him began to overshadow his mixed emotions. He desired Catania to embody the roles of both a mother and a homemaker, yet he observed her allowing numerous men to treat her body with disrespect. With his son Santo in mind, Calogero not only tolerated his unnatural feelings of straight-hatred but felt compelled to encourage them. In his mind, it became a choice between succumbing to these emotions or, eventually, resorting to the extreme act of taking her life.

One night, the town of Catania was engulfed in one of the most relentless and everlasting thunderstorms. Calogero, exhausted from a lengthy business meeting, finally found solace as he wearily pushed open the front door of his apartment and quietly hurried inside. As the front door closed, two consecutive booming claps of thunder reverberated through the air.

For a moment, it seemed as though the torrential downpour outside would never cease. Another resounding thunderclap brought Calogero to the realization that he was drenched from head to toe, soaked by the relentless rain. A small puddle of water had formed beneath his feet.

Calogero decided to discard his wet clothes, take a refreshing shower, and change into something dry. Afterwards, he planned to tuck his son into bed, grab a bite to eat, and then retire to the bedroom to share some quality time with Catania before they settled down for the night.

Calogero carefully stepped away from the water puddle, taking a few quick strides forward when he suddenly heard frantic screams emanating from the bathroom. As he hastened his pace, the distinct sounds of splashing water mingled with the continued cries for help. A wave of deep concern surged through his body, causing his heart to race uncontrollably. With great effort, Calogero managed to free his feet, which felt as if they were rooted to the floor, and slowly advanced towards the source of the commotion.

Coming to a halt just outside the bathroom door, a heavy silence enveloped the surroundings. Filled with an overwhelming sense of curiosity, he cautiously cracked open the door, revealing the scene that lay before him. In an instant, Calogero comprehended the true nature of the unfolding events. The sight that met his eyes was beyond his comprehension or belief. The visual anguish inflicted upon him was simply unbearable.

While Catania was on her knees, with an evil sly smirk of satisfaction on her face, she had both her hands pressed around Santo’s neck. In all fairness, as she kept that sly smirk on her face, Catania was serious in what she intended to do. The fact that she was fully ready and capable of murdering her own son was what ultimately had her and kept her under a powerful murderous spell.

In disbelief, Calogero opened his eyes wider, perhaps to see more clearly what was going on. He saw how the water rose rapidly as it had flowed over the sides of the bathtub and poured all over the floor.

Catania, in a ferocious, murderous spell, tightened her fingers around Santo’s throat, as she slowly cut off his air supply.

“Sorry kid”, she said, as she held him down under the water.

With that similar distant blank look on her face, Catania, without needing any reason, was confident that she had all the time she would ever need to succeed in ending her son’s life. In desperate need to get air into his tiny lungs, Santo tried several times to resist and rise above the water. For a second, she was surprised, but more in shock, at how a small boy like Santo could show signs of slight enormous strength.

He screamed silently, as he gasped for breath. And, despite all the pain, Santo immediately began to thrash and buck under her with all the strength he could muster. He dug his fingernails deep into her wrists, trying to dislodge her. With the remaining strength that Santo had, he tried to pry her fingers away, but he was slowly but surely losing consciousness.

Under the water, Santo struggled to stay alive, against her firm powerful grip. Catania was stronger so she forced him to stay under, until the water was dead calm. No matter how hard Santo struggled under the water, he just could not move at all. His heart, once quickly beating, has now slowed in tempo.

For a few fleeting seconds, the horrific scene before Calogero left his rapid reflexes frozen in place. The overwhelming disbelief rendered him visually stunned, struggling to comprehend his next course of action. Suddenly, Calogero’s cheeks flushed red, and his eyebrows furrowed with intensity. The pain he experienced grew increasingly unbearable. It became evident that the woman he had chosen to love was consumed by madness.

Despite the circumstances, Catania maintained a disturbing smile on her face.

In a pivotal moment, Calogero managed to break free from his daze. Finally, his instinctual urge for violence surged forward with alarming speed. Calogero did not think about it twice. As fast as possible, he slipped a pair of earplugs into his ears, and reached for the firearm he had in his waistband. He pulled it out, took aim, and shot Catania in the head until he ran out of bullets.

Calogero let his firearm slip from his grasp, landing with a thud on the floor, and quickly pulled his son out of the bathtub. He knew that Santo was not breathing, so he wasted no time. It was bad. For no response came out of his tiny frame. Calogero pushed Catania’s body away so that he could position Santo on his back and begin CPR. With a swift motion, he rolled up his sleeves, ready for action.

Calogero carefully tilted the boy’s head back, finding the right balance. With Santo still unresponsive, he covered the small mouth and nose with his own mouth, delivering two gentle breaths. Observing the rise and fall of Santo’s chest, hope flickered within Calogero’s heart. Less than a minute into the CPR, a miracle unfolded before Calogero’s eyes. Santo came back to life, drawing a sharp intake of breath.

In that moment, Calogero himself felt a surge of life coursing through his veins as Santo coughed up water, releasing it onto his face. Holding his son tightly in his arms, Calogero found solace in the silence that enveloped them. As he tenderly wiped away the water from Santo’s face, his trembling hand betrayed his emotions, tears streaming down his cheeks. Seconds later, Calogero continued to hold his son tightly, witnessing the tremors coursing through Santo’s body, a testament to the overwhelming impact of the near-tragedy they had just escaped.

Now, regarding Catania, it can be said that she found joy in pursuing her own desires, free from the influence or attempts to control her. She saw herself as a woman who sought financial independence, ensuring that no one held complete power over her. However, there was no way that Catania was ever going to stop doing what she did best, even if it killed her. And, in the end… it did.

The most peculiar aspect of Calogero, in my eyes, was his inclination towards women who were entangled in a web of addiction and readily available. It perplexed me that despite his vast power, wealth, and the opportunity to engage with stable, strong women who matched his stature, he gravitated towards those trapped in the clutches of drug dependency. In Calogero’s mind, these encounters lacked the challenge that would challenge his sense of masculinity.

Calogero’s love for his son was unparalleled, surpassing any other affection in his life. He saw his son as a pure and innocent reflection of himself, with a similar complexion and eye color. At times, Calogero couldn’t help but wonder if his own lifestyle contributed to his son’s internal struggles. While it may have been a figment of his imagination, he was no longer willing to take any risks when it came to his son’s well-being.

The following day, Calogero took his son to a town called Naples in Sicily, where he would live with Calogero’s younger brother, Andimo, and Andimo’s loving wife, Antonina.

Though not identical twins, Andimo shared a remarkable resemblance to Calogero. However, Andimo was slightly shorter and had a gentler gaze in his eyes, lacking the same intimidation. While Andimo may not have projected the same imposing presence as his brother, he certainly had his moments of authority.

Andimo held deep admiration and respect for his brother, recognizing Calogero as an immensely busy and influential individual. In fact, Andimo revered Calogero more than anyone else in the world. Andimo nurtured his own aspirations of becoming a powerful man someday, driven by an unwavering determination to prove himself at any expense.

And, there was no need for jealousy towards his older brother’s prosperous life, as Andimo found immense happiness in his own life alongside his wife, Antonina. Antonina was tall, light-skinned, and over the years, she had grown prettier and more voluptuous. And, she had shoulder-length curly brown hair.

It was a question of what made her prettier, her warm innocent-looking brown eyes or her angelic looks. Although she and Andimo had been a happily married couple for less than three years, they had been together since they became loyal friends in their mid-teens. All in all, she was a loyal husband’s dream.

Now, because of the horrendous experience that Santo recently went through, Calogero was never the same. No matter what, he was vexed all the time. The only thing that brought Calogero inner peace was the thought that he was in the right place at the right time to save his son from imminent death. Calogero knew that if he had been a minute late, his son would have surely died.

Eventually, Calogero reached a breaking point, tormented by real unbearable pain. Tears became his nightly lullaby as negative thoughts clung to his common sense, just as Catania’s hands had gripped his son’s neck. In the depths of his troubled slumber, Calogero awoke drenched in sweat from horrific nightmares. He saw himself, not his son, being consumed by the suffocating embrace of drowning, with no one to offer salvation.

Try as he might, Calogero couldn’t find a single path to forget the haunting ordeal his son had endured. Then, a spark of criminal brilliance struck him like a bolt of lightning. So, driven by a fervent desire to secure his son’s future, Calogero resolved to unleash his anger upon the criminal underworld, no matter the cost. This decision meant severing all ties with his own flesh and blood, solely for his son’s safety. And, from that moment forward, Calogero buried the existence of his son as a guarded secret, even from himself.

Meanwhile, Andimo and his wife Antonina found themselves in a challenging situation. Each day, they shouldered the weighty responsibilities of caring for Santo as if he were their own. They took turns ferrying him to and from school, ensuring his cleanliness, engaging him in playful activities, and reading to him. Additionally, they made sure he received his three essential meals each day.

Desperation gnawed at Andimo and Antonina as they awaited Calogero’s return to claim his now 5-year-old son. However, Calogero remained elusive, leaving behind only a letter, some money, and his unspoken hopes. Antonina stumbled upon the letter one day, discovering it atop the bathroom sink, accompanied by a substantial sum of money.

Laying beside Andimo on the bed, Antonina passed him the letter along with the money, her voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

“It’s from your brother,” she murmured, refraining from uttering Calogero’s name.

“He left this letter and all this money on top of the bathroom sink.”

Andimo examined the money in his hand before placing it on the bedside table and carefully unfolding the letter. It contained Calogero’s wishes regarding Santo’s well-being, emphasizing the importance of caring for the young boy until his return. And, the letter spoke about Santo and how, if anything were to happen to Calogero, Santo would be the man.

“Tell me, what do you think my brother meant when he said that Santo will be the man?”

Andimo knew exactly what his brother meant, but he wanted to hear Antonina’s thoughts. Antonina thought it was obvious.

“It’s clear that your brother believes Santo will grow up to be a man.”

The unsigned letter bore the poignant message:

Please, take very good care of Santo until I come back. Santo is just a little boy. He needs a lot of real, true love. Love him so much. One day, when I am gone, he will be the man. See you soon.

Calogero lied when he said “soon.” His promise of a swift return rang hollow, signaled only by the cryptic sign-off “XX.” Despite the uncertainty surrounding Calogero's absence, Andimo and Antonina found solace in the belief that Santo was safest in their care. And, according to Calogero’s heart, Santo would be much safer with them.

So, before entrusting his son to the guardianship of his brother and sister-in-law, Calogero ensured Santo’s safety by marking him with a tattoo on his right hand. This distinctive symbol served as a beacon of hope, offering reassurance that should Santo ever become lost, someone would recognize the mark and aid in his return.

When Andimo and his wife first noticed the initials “S.I.” inked onto Santo’s right hand, nestled between his index finger and thumb, they dismissed it as nothing more than a child’s playful doodle. Assuming Santo had drawn it himself with one of his colorful markers, they thought little of it.

“Santo,” Antonina gently admonished, “go wash all of that stuff off your hand, dear.”

Santo, a bright and well-behaved boy, complied without complaint. With his mind already drifting to the comic book awaiting him in his bedroom, he dutifully lathered his hands with soap at the bathroom sink. Despite his efforts to scrub away the mysterious marking, it stubbornly refused to fade, leaving Santo to realize that the tattoo was there to stay.

So, once Santo was tucked into bed and drifting off to sleep, Antonina broke the silence with a troubled question.

“What is that on Santo’s hand?” she mused aloud, her brow furrowing in concern.

“It won’t come off. Why would someone do that to him?”

Andimo contemplated her words for a moment before offering a tentative explanation.

“Perhaps those initials on his hand are meant to represent his name?” he suggested, searching for a plausible answer.

Antonina met his gaze, considering the possibility.

“Maybe,” she conceded, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty.

“You might be right.”

Now, when it came to ‘THE MAN,’ Calogero wielded immense power that stretched across the globe. From Sicily to America, influential figures sought his counsel and guidance, recognizing him as a paramount authority in the criminal underworld. Through his frequent visits to America, Calogero forged strong alliances with the most powerful and influential bosses.

And by offering financial support and strategic advice, he solidified his position as a respected leader. Soon after, over sixty bosses, including the five reigning bosses of New York, paid homage to Calogero, acknowledging his unparalleled influence and granting him the deference he deserved.

In Sicily and Italy, Calogero was revered as the ultimate authority. It was widely understood that any visitor must seek an audience with Calogero before departing, or face dire consequences. Those who engaged in business with Calogero were obligated to pay tribute, ensuring his continued dominance in the underworld. Even those who pursued independent ventures had to contribute to his coffers, or suffer the repercussions.

Calogero’s demands were clear: 40% of each boss’s monthly earnings were to be secretly allocated to him, solidifying his status as the ultimate arbiter of ultimate profit. With a legion, slash army of loyal soldiers at his command, Calogero’s influence extended far and wide, ensuring compliance with his directives.

Such was Calogero’s aura of power that he had no need for bodyguards. His sheer dominance over the underworld rendered him untouchable, instilling fear and respect in equal measure. And wherever Calogero ventured, he walked alone, his imposing presence exuding an air of invincibility. Armed only with his massive bare hands, he confronted adversaries without hesitation, delivering punishing blows to those who dared to challenge him.

To his enemies, Calogero issued a defiant proclamation: “Should you choose to challenge us, we will not retreat. But why resort to violence when we can all prosper together? And remember this,” he would declare, his voice echoing with authority, “life truly begins… when fear no longer exists.”

Eventually, Calogero’s influence extended far beyond the borders of, Sicily, Italy, and America, reaching into the very fabric of the global underworld. And backed by a network of other ambitious, powerful bosses spanning continents, he wielded unparalleled authority over vast territories and lucrative enterprises.

So, by this point, together with a coalition of 164 other formidable bosses, Calogero orchestrated a swift and decisive expansion of their dominion, seizing control of industries such as alcohol, prostitution, and gambling. This aggressive expansion inevitably gave rise to a cadre of highly skilled assassins, tasked with eliminating any who dared to challenge their authority or impede their pursuit of wealth.

What truly distinguished Calogero from his peers was his willingness to transcend traditional boundaries and forge alliances with non-Italian counterparts. While the Italian underworld adhered strictly to the code of dealing only with their own, Calogero recognized the value of collaboration with ambitious individuals of diverse backgrounds.

By cultivating relationships based on mutual respect and loyalty, Calogero solidified his position as a formidable force in the criminal underworld. His mantra, “Money knows no color,” became a testament to his pragmatism and his unwavering commitment to the pursuit of wealth and power, regardless of the origins of those with whom he conducted business. In the tumultuous realm of organized crime, distinctions of nationality held little sway.

Calogero’s authority transcended borders, earning him the undisputed title of the true boss of all bosses among criminal syndicates worldwide. This esteemed status was not merely a product of fear or intimidation; it was a testament to Calogero’s unparalleled influence and prowess in the underworld. Few dared to question or challenge this invisible mantle of power, recognizing the futility of such endeavors in the face of Calogero’s dominance.

As an observer of this clandestine world, I, Vito Yannone, bore witness to the complexities and contradictions that defined our existence. There were those who sought to emulate the lifestyle of a Goodfella without truly understanding its dangerous essence, adorning themselves with counterfeit symbols of status in a desperate bid for validation.

Yet, behind the façade of glamour and ostentation lay a darker truth—a world fueled by ambition, greed, and unrelenting, murderous brutality. Our ascent to power was marked by countless acts of violence and ruthlessness, as we clawed our way to the summit of the criminal hierarchy.

Now, in New York City, the epicenter of organized crime, five dominant families—the Valenza, Sidona, Catanzaro, Colando, and Manorelli clans—bowed to Calogero's authority, cementing his position as the ultimate arbiter of underworld affairs. Through strategic alliances and calculated maneuvers, we vanquished all who dared to oppose us, asserting our reign over mafia organizations far and wide.

In the concrete jungle of New York City, we reigned supreme, dictating the rules of the game with an iron fist. And those who dared to oppose us soon found themselves facing the grim reaper’s embrace. Every corner of the city bore the mark of our influence, and dissenters learned quickly that resistance was futile.

Under Calogero’s command, we imposed a “CALOGERO” tax on every facet of daily life, from the clothes on one’s back to the food on their plate. Our reach extended to all corners of society, from construction sites to gas stations, waste management to the illicit trades of prostitution and narcotics. Like puppet masters pulling the strings, we manipulated the money-making industry, turning it into a rigged game where only we emerged victorious.

Calogero’s empire knew no bounds, and those unfortunate enough to fall within its grasp understood the consequences of defiance. Fear was our currency, and it motivated even the most reluctant souls to pay their dues.

Together, Calogero and the Americanized mafia discovered a goldmine in the construction industry, seizing control with ruthless efficiency. It was a testament to our collective power and influence, a demonstration of our ability to bend entire industries to our will.

In the early days before Calogero’s reign, the Americanized mafia operated with brutal efficiency, seizing properties from their rightful owners with ruthless abandon. Those who dared to resist found themselves facing a grim fate, disappearing without a trace overnight, as if swallowed by the shadows.

Their influence extended even to the glitzy streets of Las Vegas, where casino owners found themselves at the mercy of Calogero and his cohorts. Refusing to comply with their demands meant inviting disaster, as any establishment that dared to defy them would swiftly find itself shuttered, its owner either missing or meeting a violent end.

And for those who played by the rules, however, the seas remained eerily dead calm. With the steady influx of cash and a strict adherence to the established order, Calogero’s empire thrived, its power unchallenged and its dominion unassailable.

In our world of crime, ruthlessness and self-sufficiency were essential virtues, honed through years of bloodshed and betrayal. We were battle-tested, natural-born killers, hardened by the crucible of battle, navigating a landscape where the slightest misstep could lead to an untimely demise.

Yet, despite the warnings and the unspoken rules, there were always those foolish enough to test our resolve. Whether it was a misguided attempt to seduce a don’s wife or a blatant disregard for financial obligations, the consequences were always swift and merciless.

In the American underworld, every made member knew the rules, from respecting the sanctity of family to obeying the summons of their superiors without question. Yet, for many, their journey into “the life” was short-lived, their bodies discovered in ignominious fashion, a grim testament to the unforgiving nature of our world. It was a stark reminder that in our line of work, loyalty was paramount, and betrayal was met with the ultimate punishment.

Now, in every major crime family, each member is purposely groomed and threatened by his superiors so that they will never break the rules set by their boss. How about that other lazy guy that thought he was so slick? He had to send cash up the ladder, yet he never did. He even walked around as if he was the actual boss of the family himself. Asked several times to come in for a simple sit-down with his superiors, yet he never showed up. He never even did the job his superiors told him to do. Instead, he took the money that they gave to him to put out on the streets and he spent it on himself, and then he hid from them.

Surely, amongst his loyal friends, he failed the test of loyalty. So, he locked himself inside of his apartment with his wife, son, and daughter as if that was going to shield him from what horrible things could possibly happen to him, for trying to take a little bit off the top for himself.

He thought he knew it all, except that his days were numbered. Those he betrayed eventually were going to be waiting at the exit door one day for him to come out alone. When he thought back, he realized how loyal they were to him and what a huge mistake he had made in betraying his own kind. He just sat there in his apartment wondering when and where they would blow his head off.

“Shit!” he thought to himself.

“If I go outside, I know I will never see my family again. What about all those lies I will never live to regret. Hold up. Should I stay, or should I leave my family behind to save my own life? I imagine them banging on my apartment door, talking about how they also do not want to be in ‘the life’ anymore, but they now had no choice. The one thing on their mind was to find me and to kill me.”

It all happened in slow motion. While he thought about his perfect escape in his wicked daydream, four men he knew very well walked right up to him. They opened fire the minute they saw him coming out of his apartment building by himself. He lived his life cheating on his lazy wife, as well as the crime family he belonged to. And in the end, he did not try to run because he knew he would not get far. He left all he had to his wife and kids, while the crime family he belonged to muscled their way into owning all his businesses.

One of the killers in the hit team was his very own cousin. Ask his cousin what he thought about before he killed his own flesh and blood, and I bet he would either try to kill you or tell you, “I killed my cousin because the boss of our family ordered me to do it. In our life, when it is your time to go, the one that will most likely kill you will be the one you knew all your life.”

Therefore, if anyone still thinks that the mafia does not exist, then they are just plain crazy blind. Wake up! There are more than two players at bat. You have the Americanized mafia crime families in America, you have several other bosses in Italy, and Calogero was in Sicily. As history records in America, it really used to be that the mafia bosses decided a person was qualified to be a made member if he was Italian. His mother and father had to ‘be Italian’, that way they could trace his roots all the way back to Italy.

And the actual secret that no one has figured out till this day is that once the mafia bosses decide a person is qualified to be a made member because he is Italian, if he ever breaks the rules and needs to pay with his own life, and he decides to run and vanish into thin air, all the mafia bosses have to do is go back to Italy and mass slaughter all of his friends, family members, and all of their friends, basically until there is no trace of his roots going all the way back to Italy. And now you know the truth…

You see, all the person had to do was pull a hit for the crime family that made him. Once made, he never did anything like that for anyone else except for the family that made him. Sure, many men rose up the ladder, while many others did not. Those who rose up like a phoenix and stayed on the down low moved up very fast. From wannabe townspeople to an associate, into a connected person, to a made person in a crime family—the possibilities were endless.

Now, if you are a made man, you can work your way up to being a captain of the same family. Getting to be the consigliere, the underboss, or the boss were roles that were unimaginable to obtain. Now, for the rest of them, seen in the nightclubs, with the girls ordering the best booze, showing off their jewelry, and throwing around lots of cash, that extravagant lifestyle was precisely why it never lasted for them.

And with the loss of lots of cash, they start to selfishly create and invent many ways to try to replenish their well. Fueled by nothing but greed, they are willing to go forward, ensuring their well is completely filled, without even caring what they have to do to get it done. So many of them, disillusioned with mass amounts of greed, thought that there might be a way of getting away with stealing from their bosses while still being a part of the family. But, eventually, the lion always gets its prey.

Now, in America, though you do not see the crime family bosses hanging out on the streets, you knew for sure that they had an invisible hold on people, places, and very expensive things. No way will a real crime family allow another family to be earning a single dime around their territory. And through the years, the bosses totally changed up the rules a bit. Today you bring a family boss several million dollars on his investment and rest assured in no time you will become a made member of his family. These days both of your parents do not even have to be Italian. Only one parent is enough for them.

In this life having lots of money meant power. And this was precisely what Calogero had a lot of. Not only that, but he had the power to make other bosses pay him on time, and only pay him tribute. He even had the power to have a seat in every commission sit-down. Power to get information across to all the other major bosses that had other leaders locked down, without him even being there.

Calogero had the power to make the major bosses respect and fear his power. He also had the power of stealth and anonymity. After all, one could not say anything if they did not see anything. Calogero knew how to keep his unchallenged power by the way he honestly passed his wealth around to others. Absolutely no one paid a single dime for anything when Calogero was around. No matter what part of the world he traveled to, he always picked up everyone’s tab.

Calogero would see a homeless person on the streets, and he would hand him a few hundred-dollar bills just to see the expression on the man’s face. Calogero’s rise to the top, because he pulled his own hits, made him lack the inner interest in money. Amongst many other things, it was what made Calogero hold the top position no matter where he traveled. He did not know why people put money first instead of their health. To him, if he did not spend his money as soon as possible, Calogero just was not happy.

Though Calogero seemed to have it all, he still believed he could have more if he would just get up out of bed every day and play the game one more time. Years ago, Calogero made a promise to himself. He was never going to stop the game of power and destruction. At times, Calogero wondered why he was still alive. He took everything in his path, and he gave nothing away, except money. But, years and years of constantly paying for everyone’s tabs caught up to Calogero in a unique way.

One night, after having dinner with his most trusted childhood friend named Massimo Novoletta inside one of Italy’s exclusive restaurants, Novoletta presented Calogero with what he had unknowingly waited for, that old partnership with the government combined with a twist of the unholy trinity.

Novoletta was born in Palermo, Sicily. He was an average-looking man with mysterious brown eyes that told a tale of their own. He had gray hair and a prominent nose. Every time Calogero talked to him, he felt as if Novoletta was hiding something. This time around, Novoletta stopped controlling everything and just let go. For the first time, Calogero thought that Novoletta’s life might be in danger. After many years, Calogero had become an expert at reading between the lines.

While Calogero became a successful boss, Novoletta, on the other hand, became a successful priest. From behind the walls of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, Rome, Novoletta only mingled with other high-powerful elite men.

Novoletta walked with a slight limp on his right foot and had a 1½-cut scar on top of his left eye. He always wore real gold eyeglasses. Dangling from Novoletta’s neck was a St. Lazareth the size of a twelve-inch doll. The St. Lazareth was made of pure solid platinum and dangled from a platinum extra-long thick chain.

With the same chain Novoletta always wore around his neck, there were several rumors going around that he had choked several men to death with it. Not only was Novoletta a priest, but secretly, he was a well-known respected, highly paid professional assassin.

Novoletta was responsible for taking part in most of the gruesome hits in mafia history, even when others refused to get involved. Novoletta was a few years older and more experienced than Calogero. This was why Calogero agreed to have a one-on-one sit-down with him. After dinner, the waiter brought wine and bread to their table. Novoletta picked up the plate with only two slices of bread on it and offered it to Calogero.

“Come,” he said, “let’s be holy, Don Inantinelli.”

Calogero broke off a small piece of one of the slices of bread. He put it in his mouth, swallowed it, and then he took a sip of his red wine with blissful enjoyment.

“Novoletta, really, how long has it been since we’ve last seen each other?”

“It’s been a while. However, you know, we run into each other several times a year. Don’t we?”

“Sure, we do.”

By this point, Calogero wondered what favor Novoletta was going to ask of him. The more time passed, the more Novoletta hesitated to ask. However, as the wine flowed, the inhibitions loosened.

On another night, in the same restaurant where Calogero had last met Novoletta, an offer was made that he just couldn’t refuse.

“You really need to be with us,” said Novoletta.

“Doing more than just lighting our church candles. After many years, I have come to realize that I have the power to control people.”

He straightened his long thick chain out.

“I have the capability to murder anyone I desire, for nearly anyone with the money to pay my very high prices. I know you understand me, being a hunter-gatherer yourself.”

“Sure, I understand. I understand you very well. In my world, killing is an essential tool.”

Calogero kept silent for a few seconds, waiting for Novoletta to pop the question. It all happened faster than Calogero thought it would have, so he listened carefully to his childhood friend.

“You see, I was put in charge of pulling hits for the most important elite men in the Vatican, men with real holy power.”

Novoletta closed his teary eyes and then opened them again.

“And because of whom they thought I was, I also paid my way into having the holy power. I finally found what I was always looking for. I was not very honest, though. The truth is… the truth is… I was never a real assassin. I never was. I cannot even stand the sight of blood. My limp is not even real,” he sighed.

“You see… I trusted my youngest brother Massamo to pull every single one of my hits for me. No one ever knew. It was perfect. For every single job I was given, I always gave my brother half of the money.”

“Is that right? Your brother was the one that pulled all of those hits for you?”

“Yes, my brother was indeed the one. I now admit it.”

Novoletta raised his eyebrows. He had concern in his eyes.

“He was the craziest one out of the both of us, yet this time he got himself killed going out on one of the jobs.”

A tear slid down Novoletta’s face.

“The man that was supposed to get killed murdered my only brother. Now, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“What about the man that murdered your brother? What about him?”

“He is still out there. I know exactly where he is at, right now.”

“So, why don’t you go and get him?”

“Like I said, killing was never my thing. I am sorry. I was just putting on an act and everybody around me fell for it. The minute I accepted my first job, I put myself at a point of no return. Believe me, just the thought of me going out there and killing anyone… made me sick to my stomach. I could not handle the pressure. Surely, it was a life not meant for me.”

Novoletta shook his head, with a displeased look on his face.

“On the other hand, my brother Massamo killed just for the sport of it. Killing people was his addiction. It was like giving free cocaine to an addict. My brother did not just go out and kill people; he hunted them down, as a hunter would hunt down an animal. Killing was like a hobby to him. It was the only game in life that he enjoyed playing.”

Novoletta held his proud tears back.

“He enjoyed killing people. That was what he did best. But… but… now he’s dead.”

“Now, if you don’t kill the man that killed your brother, then you will have to pay with your own life? Is that what you’re trying to tell me here?”

“Yes. That is quite correct. However, it is much, much deeper than that. You see, if I do not kill this man, those that sent me to do the job will know that I have failed. I thought about it for as long as I could.”

Novoletta finished his wine.

“I really don’t know what to do," he cleaned his hands up with his own hands.

“This might be the last time we even see each other. Man, I miss my brother… so, so much.”

Tears ran down Novoletta’s cheeks. The waiter walked by, saw the situation, kept his eyes to himself, and walked away.

“Without my brother, I might as well be dead too. Without my brother, I just cannot see my own future. Now you see why I come to you, for your special help.”

“From here on, you worry no more, my friend. Trust me. I will help you. I know I can help you fix your problem, but fixing your problem will not bring your brother back, and you know… I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Yes. I know that. Besides, all the money for all the hits I supposedly had pulled was all put back into the Vatican, so I do not have any money to pay you. It all went to pay for me and my brother’s own holy power.”

Novoletta wiped his tears with his hand and closed his eyes.

“I am sorry you have to see me like this. Everlasting immunity was what my brother and I were really paying for. For me and everybody we vouched for.”

Novoletta sounded proud.

“We were given a life far away from any kind of prosecution.”

Novoletta opened his eyes and a tear slid down his cheek. He smiled.

“The money bought me and my brother’s holy power.”

“You know I hate to ask, but what happens when the men in the Vatican find out that the man who killed your brother is still alive?”

“What?”

Novoletta’s eyes widened up.

“Have you not been listening?”

Novoletta violently wiped off the crumbs off the table and looked at Calogero in the eyes.

“You know better than that. If they find out, he is still alive, they will kill me, and all those my brother and I both have vouched for too. Oh, I am so glad you know what’s going on.”

Novoletta knew that Calogero was the only one in the world that could help him out. Though he had no money, as a sign of pure respect, Novoletta knew he had to offer Calogero something worth his help. A real offer he just could not refuse.

“My friend, I know you can use all your money, influence and power to help me get out of this problem. Please, if you do this for me, I will vouch for you. Don’t forget, as long as I am alive, I have the power to give you the holy power.”

Novoletta poured himself another glass of wine and before he put the glass down on top of the table, he took a sip.

“The price will be high, but the benefits will be much higher. The price will be one billion dollars just to get through the door. I know you can get that type of money. My brother and I did it.”

“The Vatican is already massively wealthy. It is the largest property owner on Earth to which they own real estate all over the world worth trillions upon trillions of dollars.”

Calogero took a sip of his wine and smiled at Novoletta.

“Why would they need my billion? Is my loyalty not good enough for them?”

“They don’t care about your loyalty. All they care about is money. Everything is fucking money with them. They just want to wet their beaks.”

He pointed his finger at Calogero.

“If you have any kind of profitable business, they want in on it or else they won’t play, and they will just walk away. They will stay far back away from you. You don’t think they don’t know who the fuck you are?”

Novoletta took a sip of his wine.

“There has to be some kind of reason why they don’t fuck with you? You understand. After this deal, you and everyone you vouch for will be totally unstoppable.”

“I understand.”

“Like I said, if the Pope says you’re good, then all your past and the past of all those you vouch for will be completely washed away.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough. It will be all you will ever need… for life.”

“And what are the rules?”

“The rules are simple. You or anyone you vouch for can never kill anyone with the same holy power as you, or else.”

“That is simple, or else what?”

“Or else, you, your friends, your family, and all those you have vouched for will surely die.”

“My man, you know, like you, and the Pope, I have a lot of crazy friends. They can snatch anyone of them up, a minute after I give the order, and have them eliminated.”

“Yea, that’s cute, but break the rules and you, those you vouched for, your family, and all your crazy friends that like to eliminate people on your command, will surely die.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. They will all die right after you, one after the other like a domino effect. And after they are done with all of you, they will come after me.”

“Wow… say less. I'm sorry about your brother. Don’t worry… I got your back… one hundred percent.”

Calogero asked Novoletta for the location of his brother’s killer. They both shook hands, hugged, and the deal was sealed.

Now, the need for Novoletta to want to make an alliance with Calogero was such a clear indication of Calogero’s power. Soon, because of Novoletta, Calogero became a member of the most powerful but secret and very well-known P2 Freemason Lodge. The same lodge where Novoletta had been a member for over thirteen years.

As Calogero and Novoletta got older, they became the best of friends. It seemed as if nothing in the world could possibly change that. At the time of Calogero’s Vatican deal, his personal fortune, estimated at $4.6 billion dollars, made him the wealthiest crime boss in the world. His own family held together by a much-disciplined structure was not in Sicily but in the town of Nola, 46 miles northeast from Naples.

In time, Calogero’s family became the most powerful crime family of all time. His family was a powerful killing force. It was different not only in power but also in loyal strength. Their secret: they wasted no time. Calogero’s personal crime family, which had no name and was totally anonymous, was into planting bombs and watching all their victims and their loved ones completely blow up into pieces. And then, they would go after all their friends and family. Now, those were some unique organized hits.

Sure, one by one, the police knew Calogero was in on the madness, but it always seemed as if they minded their own business when it came to apprehending him and his crime family. Calogero’s family was responsible for over two thousand murders all throughout Italy alone. He was indeed one of the top organized crime bosses in the world. And after Calogero made the deal with Massimo Novoletta and the Vatican, he became more than untouchable. He became invincible. Calogero’s entire crime family and everyone he vouched for was also invincible.

What was truly shocking was that when Calogero was around, nobody said much. Everyone seemed to be quiet. While everybody frequently talked about the other five New York bosses, there was a secret silence over Calogero and his crime family. Maybe nobody knew, but the truth was that Calogero’s family had more money, power, and sicker, loyal, and dedicated members than the entire five New York crime families put together.

It was obvious that Calogero designed his family to overpower the rest, but they lived by their strict rules of loyalty and total obedience to their family boss. Known for smacking up all kinds of people and even going head up against the police in public in broad daylight, his family was a force unlike any other. The most difficult thing to do in many towns and areas of Sicily and Italy had to be arresting anyone in Calogero’s family. When the police went looking for them, some police officers, if not all of them, wound up missing overnight.

One night, several of Calogero’s soldiers saw a police car in their neighborhood. It was a bloodbath as his men ran up to the car and killed the officers inside. It was done so fast that the officers inside the car had no time to respond. It came to the point that it was not enough to send only one police car because people would purposely block all its exit routes. Ultimately, flipping the patrol cars over with the police officers still inside.

And if you asked a hundred people in Sicily and in Italy what they would do following a local theft, 99% of them would say they would not go to the police. Instead, they would contact Calogero, the don himself, in the hope of getting their stuff back. Now, this was in the outside world.

In Italy’s prisons, an inmate’s relationship with any one of Calogero's crime family members came with a very steep price. Without the permission of Calogero’s men, not a single inmate could eat, drink, smoke, gamble, or sleep. A few of Calogero’s men kept an inmate awake for about a week straight until the inmate took his own life. Now he sleeps forever. Every inmate had to give Calogero’s men like 10-20% of all their money, or their family and friends would be harassed in the outside world. Many were even threatened with death.

Those who refused to accept those terms ran the definite risk of death. Even the prison guards paid Calogero’s men just to work there and restore order within the prison walls. However, Calogero’s men would leave other ganged-up prisoners alone because they felt fear and indifference towards those prisoners in individual powerful groups. Who really knew why? Yet that was how they operated on an everyday basis: to maintain constant control over anyone they wanted to take control of.

Now, throughout Sicily and Italy, Calogero became involved in many profitable schemes. He earned huge amounts of money not only from theft and gambling but also from stolen goods that arrived from the port and passed through the city’s gates. He would often take in amounts ranging from 30-40% of the value of the goods themselves.

And once Calogero’s family started to take control of the rackets, attacks began on police patrols and numerous police barracks. These attacks were carried out by prison inmates who belonged to Calogero’s family. Upon their release from jail, they sought revenge for their imprisonment. With no other options, the police officers took off their uniforms and melted into the crowd. It was evident that they were scared to death.

Almost every single man across the world who tried to open shop in the underworld would send a powerful representative to meet with Calogero. Many bosses, with locked-down territories of their own, felt they were part of an elite secret crime family once they humbly offered a piece of their business to Calogero in exchange for his blessings. However, despite Calogero’s immense wealth, he didn’t rise in the world without problems.

So while Calogero was away conducting business, other contenders tried to encroach on his unchallenged turf. In an attempt to make peace, Calogero reached out to these displeased men. However, most of them didn’t even know who Calogero was or what he looked like. They considered Calogero a myth, a tale heard in a smoky bar.

These ambitious competitors refused to compromise or make peace with Calogero’s family. They surely didn’t believe in one family controlling all the other bosses in the underworld. As Calogero traveled the world, strengthening ties with bosses from different countries, these top competitors attempted to take over. And since they didn’t want to join Calogero’s crime family or pay tribute to him, Calogero ordered them to suffer torturous deaths.

The dead calm local underworld scene, devoid of violence, erupted into the first world mob war. However, the war meant nothing to Calogero. He possessed the holy power bestowed upon him by the most powerful individuals in the Vatican. With the elite backing him, Calogero was untouchable. His problems now became the Vatican’s problems.

And to end all of Calogero’s worries, the Vatican provided him with a list containing names, addresses, and pictures of all the men worldwide who needed to be eliminated to cease the war. With the assistance of Novoletta and skilled assassins from within the Vatican, Calogero eradicated every single one of his enemies.

Throughout the mob war, Calogero made between $30 and $40 million, generating at least $10-$15 million in profits. As you can see, the mob war didn’t disrupt Calogero’s cash flow; instead, it overflowed. Ultimately, due to his massive cash flow, it was challenging to separate Calogero from the layers of corrupt protection he had amassed over the years. His alliances with corrupt judges and politicians further cemented his control. To maintain complete control, Calogero prioritized eliminating anyone who stood in his way.

Calogero and his entire family didn’t shy away from getting their hands dirty. They personally carried out numerous hits themselves. They swiftly traveled from country to country, executing all the individuals on their hit list, including their family members and friends. Their objective was to ensure that no one remained who could potentially challenge their dominance.

Calogero’s ability to effortlessly navigate the world of New York crime families and other notorious underworld bosses was a testament to his feared reputation and the respect he had ruthlessly earned since taking over. Additionally, Calogero had all the drug cartels on his side, securing a significant portion of their earnings also.

And thanks to his close alliances with corrupt federal agents, Calogero enjoyed an almost untouchable status in the eyes of federal narcotics agents. These connections allowed him to maintain airtight operations with utmost control. Allowing Calogero to hold control over all drug channels and trafficking, generating him billions of dollars annually.

As the ultimate boss, Calogero relied on his subordinates to manage day-to-day operations worldwide while he focused on expanding his network of loyal business partners. And to ensure loyalty, Calogero made a chilling decision: those who jeopardized his interests would simply vanish. Instead of resorting to gunfire, a bath of acid became the weapon of choice.

And though many men in the underworld occasionally met up with Calogero face to face, their regular procedure for contacting him was through his underboss, Domenico Bontate.

Domenico, who secretly was the front man and owned most of the nightclubs in New York, Chicago, and L.A., served as the primary point of contact. In his late forties, Domenico was in great shape, standing tall with brown eyes and dark brown hair. And he spoke with an Italian accent.

So, by this time, Calogero was fully convinced that profitable change would only come through intimidation, force, and even murder. He lived his life as if he had several more lives waiting for him. Calogero didn’t give shit. He aligned himself with drug trafficking, viewing it as a strategic move to control every drug dealer, hit man, arsonist, and even the CIA.

His connections within Masonic lodges and high-ranking friends made him even more powerful. Despite having genuine friendships in various government agencies, he remained focused on his own path, leaving a trail of murder behind him. No one dared to cross him due to his feared reputation and the respect he commanded. And throughout his criminal endeavors, important hits requiring consultation were brought before Calogero for his input. This was both a show of respect and a business opportunity, reinforcing his belief that respect must be given in order to receive it.

Over the years, the FBI and local authorities brought numerous witnesses before the grand jury to testify about organized crime activities. Yet, not a single indictment ever named Calogero. He garnered respect from his mob counterparts, often flying to different cities with envelopes stuffed of money for the widows of fallen mob figures. However, just when Calogero seemed invincible, a significant event shattered that image. And soon, his life would never be the same again. Just as Calogero thought he was out of harm’s way for good, his own blood pulled him right back in.

Now, back in Naples, Sicily, Calogero’s brother Andimo was angry at Calogero’s son Santo. After school, Santo had allowed another boy to bully him. At the age of eight, Santo needed to learn the importance of standing up for himself, even against someone larger. Andimo entered Santo’s bedroom. He approached Santo, gripping his thick brown leather belt.

“Look at your face,” said Andimo, touching Santo’s bruises with his finger.

“From here, it looks like you’re the one who got beaten up. Don’t forget where you come from, boy. Don’t give up. Winning doesn’t really matter, but you must fight back. Do you understand me, Santo?”

“I didn't…”

“What you didn’t do is fight back. Now… take off your shirt. Maybe this will remind you of what you should do next time.”

Santo removed his shirt.

“I’m going to hit you ten times,” Andimo declared, “just so you can learn a valuable lesson, my son. If you move… I’ll have to start over. Trust me. This is going to hurt me… more than it’s going to hurt you.”

Andimo struck him with the belt repeatedly until he grew tired. Santo endured the beating, his face showing confusion. When Andimo handed him the belt, Santo felt nervous but maintained eye contact as he took the belt and dropped it to the floor.

“Pick up the belt,” Andimo demanded.

“Pick it up, son!”

Santo obeyed, bending down to retrieve the belt while Andimo slowly took off his own shirt.

“Son, taking it is one thing, but giving it… is another. Let me show you something,” Andimo said.

“Now… I want you to take that belt and whip my back as hard as you possibly can, just like I did to you, son.”

This was Andimo’s way of showing him a valuable lesson.

“Think of me as a relentless, mean bully… coming at you. So… do not stop until you get tired of whipping me real good. Now, don’t hold back, son!”

Without any delay, Santo turned the belt over to the belt buckle side. He swung the belt and whipped his uncle hard. Andimo took the whipping for several long agonizing seconds. Andimo went down in pain when Santo whipped him hard across the face with the belt buckle. When Santo saw that Andimo was bleeding, he stopped swinging the belt.

Santo looked down at his uncle. He extended his hand and tried to help Andimo up, but his uncle was excessively heavy, so they both fell to the floor. Blood flowed down from Andimo’s left nostril. Andimo wiped the blood off his nose and slowly put the blood on Santo’s cheek.

“I think you’re ready, my boy. I think you’re really ready.”

“Maybe, I can help you, uncle Dimo.”

Andimo smiled. Deep down inside Andimo knew he was the one that was responsible for teaching Santo how to defend himself. And when he realized how Santo was getting the hang of it, it made him the proudest uncle in all of Naples.

“Don’t help me,” said Andimo.

“You should help yourself to this world. It is better. One day you should go where you want to belong. Besides, when you grow up, Santo, I promise, you will live an opulent life.”

Andimo only wanted the best for his younger counterpart.

“You should be in a much better place, exploring it all.”

“Amerika,” asked Santo, as he pointed at a big map of America on his wall, “uncle Dimo?”

“Yes,” Andimo looked up at the map.

“America. Yes. You picked a good choice. Don’t worry… one day your father will come to get you.”

Andimo just told him that, but he knew very well that Calogero might never see Santo again. And for all Andimo knew, Calogero was dead.

“I want to be the first one to let your father know how much smarter and braver you have gotten since he brought you to our home. Do not worry. You will be fine, my son.”

Still lying on the floor, they both looked at each other… with respect.

At night, in the bedroom, Andimo kissed his wife.

“Good night, Antonina” he said.

“I love you.”

“Good night, Dimo. I love you too.”

So, a bit after 10:00 P.M., Andimo walked out of the house. He hoped he was not too late to meet up with his friends. Well, at least that was what he thought they were.

Now, in the basement of a church named Santa Barbara, Andimo met up with Charlie Riina, Joseph Anthony Maganaxx, Sal Maisto, and finally, me… Vito Yannone. We each were in our thirties. Anyone could tell Andimo was the youngest one out of the group. Ambitious thugs, we wandered around the streets of Naples, without a single care in the world.

Charlie and Sal were the newest members of the group. They were twin brothers with different last names. They looked exactly alike, and they even wore the exact same clothes, right down to their beaten-down boots. At six-foot-one, they both had light brown eyes, fair complexion, and they both kept their long black hair in a ponytail. Also known to be vicious killers themselves, they were always in possession of loaded firearms, ready to put in some real work.

Next up, you may think he was the quiet one out of the entire group, but Joseph Anthony Maganaxx had a reputation for chopping bodies up. They say Joseph was the best in all of Naples. At five-foot-ten, Joseph had brown eyes, reddish thinning hair, and a fair complexion. Joseph was the biggest known narcotics trafficker in town, yet, for some reason, he was always broke.

I, Vito Yannone, was the craziest one out of the whole group. As a boy, I started taking kittens apart with my bare hands and grew up to want to kill other much bigger things. I did not think I had a problem. I just thought killing bad people was not a bad thing to do. By killing bad people, I felt very good inside. At five-foot-seven, I have brown eyes, brown hair, with a deep cut right above my right eye. I started out as a bootlegger, and then I graduated to a chemist slash heroin pusher. We did have a lot of money, but most of it, if not all, went to feed and support our families.

Together, we had a perfect plan to take over. We had the heart to try to be our own mob family in the town of Naples. And we were going to do it without us ever being bosses ourselves or going to the town’s boss, Frank Zaza, for his final blessing and approval to open up shop in his town. Of course, we knew it was a dangerous move, but obviously… we did not care!

We were going to do it, one way or another. And there was nothing or no one that was going to stop us from doing it. At least, that was what we thought was going to happen. Because, once the word got out to Frank Zaza that the five of us were trying to make some power moves in his own town, Frank thought it was a takeover! Frank got ready to go to war with Calogero.

The thing about Frank was he knew Calogero could severely crush him, in a blink of an eye. Besides, he was in business with Calogero, and business came first. Therefore, Frank decided to step back and wait for the perfect moment. And, no matter what, he was ready! So, we each sat around a glass circular table. A cheap bottle of liquor was on top of it.

“Guys,” said Andimo, “my brothers, I know you let me into this brotherhood, but my family and I, we are starving. We have not eaten anything solid in days. I'm running out of money, and I just don’t know what to do.”

Sal stared at Andimo up and down.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked.

“Hey, you’re not the only one up in here that is starving and running out of money. We all are…”

Joseph interrupted, “Man, haven’t you guys been listening to what I’ve been saying about this big score we’ve got coming up?”

“Andimo,” asked Charlie, “are you joking?”

Andimo said to Joseph, “Don’t look at me. I’m listening. I have my eyes and ears opened. I advise you to do the same, my friend.”

Joseph opened his small writing pad. He put an X next to Andimo’s name.

“I’ll take that,” he said, “as one vote for Andimo.”

Joseph raised his right hand up.

“Now with me,” he put an X next to his own name, “that’s two votes.”

Charlie grabbed the bottle of liquor off the table and stole a few long, greedy gulps.

“You know,” he said, “I’m in there. You know… I’m down.”

Sal raised his left hand up, and then I raised mine.

“Count me in,” said Sal.

“With me, Charlie and Vito, that should be five votes, right?”

Joseph pointed at Sal, at me, and at Andimo.

“Okay,” he said.

He put an X next to Sal’s name, Charlie’s name, and my name.

“So that’s three votes, four votes, Andimo and I, which makes five votes.”

“Hey,” asked Andimo, “who said I’m in there?”

“You wouldn’t have come tonight,” I said, “if you weren’t in it to get something out of it. What…you don’t think we can all do this by ourselves?”

I looked at each of them.

“We will. With or without you, Andimo… we’re going to pull this shit off.”

“Andimo,” said Joseph, “one day we will make it. Think about it. Your brother, Don Calogero, is long gone.”

He banged the heel of his hand on his head.

“Frank Zaza is the new power in this town.”

“Who the fuck is Frank Zaza?” asked Andimo.

Sal pointed his index finger down a few times.

“Don Zaza,” said Sal, “and all of his hundreds of dedicated, loyal, battle-tested soldiers control this town of Naples. Don’t you know that shit?”

“And sooner or later,” Joseph interrupted, “like it or not, we’re all going to work under Don Zaza and all his many crazy, loyal soldiers. Besides, you have that look on your face, Andino.”

Joseph told Andimo the truth about how he really felt about him.

“Andimo, you’re not even into crime. We are all about to pull off the hit of a lifetime. And if you ask me, I don’t think you’re ready for this type of life.”

Joseph warned him.

“You or any of us here may not come back from this. I think you should go home. Maybe this life is not for you.”

Joseph rolled his eyes at Andimo.

“I can see it in your eyes. You have way too much love in your heart, way, way too much, for this life, my brother.”

Joseph pointed his right index finger at Andimo as if he was talking to a child. He brought his finger up and down, up and down, as if it was a hammer hitting a nail.

“And this has nothing to do with our families,” he said, “or who we really are. This is just a thing we do to survive out there. You want to eat really well?”

He put his hands together and clapped them a few times.

“This is your fucking meal ticket. So… are you in or are you out?”

“Joseph,” said Sal, “if Andimo wants to leave, then let him go! Let him go home.”

“Let him go?” asked Joseph.

“Sal, did you say let him go? Shut up! Because, he’s not going anywhere.”

Sal tapped himself on the chest with his index finger.

“And neither are you. Sure, I will let him go if he does not try to come looking for any of us in the future. I will let him go as soon as he lets me go. When you let me go, I’ll also let you go.”

Sal pointed the same finger at us.

“Where the fuck do you all think we’re going to go? Let us not forget about our brotherhood, this thing of ours.”

Sal thought for a second and came up with something better to say.

“Look… everyone here took a blood oath. Am I right? You come in on your feet and you leave in a casket. Remember? So, now, there is no going back… for any of us.”

“Hell,” said Sal.

“I think we’re all going to fucking hell.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I said, as I looked at Joseph.

“And why do we kill people, Joseph?”

Joseph said, “Who cares, Vito? We kill people because that is our life. Sometimes murder balances things out.”

Joseph always acted as if he was an expert at life’s problems.

“Nothing in between can exist,” he continued.

“You get out of line, you die. Who the fuck is going to challenge that shit?”

“So, you do it for the power?” asked Sal.

“And you murder people because your wife left you? Man, you’re a crazy bastard. You don’t have anything else to live for, just like me, Joseph. You are just like me, one twisted bastard.”

“Yeah!” shouted Joseph.

Joseph shot up out of his chair. He balled his hands into fists, tucked his head, and got into a fighting stance. Faster than Joseph, Sal got up off his chair. Joseph cocked his right hand back and got ready to unload. Sal went into his pocket. He pulled out a pocketknife, popped it open, and put the blade up to Joseph’s face. Joseph was ready to fight but thought twice when he saw the glint of light on the tip of the blade before it touched his face. Sal balled his hand into a fist while he held the pocketknife up to Joseph’s face.

“Maybe… what you need is one of these across your fucking chiseled jawline,” he said.

“Man, I will knock you the fuck out, Joseph, and then I will cut your fucking face up into little pieces.”

Sal knew Joseph was not a fighter, as well as Joseph knew that Sal was not going to hit him or cut him up. This was just their weird, odd way of communicating, slash bonding with each other. Then, two minutes later, they were back to being friends again. Charlie stood up.

“Guys,” he got in between Joseph and Sal to de-escalate the situation, “sit down. Sit down. No need to curse.”

He pushed them both apart.

“This life seems like it gives us power, but it all comes with a price.”

The three of them took a seat.

“And you all know this,” said Charlie.

“Yeah,” said Andimo, “and we got this thing coming up. We have to be very focused.”

“We’re doing something together,” said Charlie.

“And that’s all that counts. Shit! I never did anything in my life with anybody before I met you guys.”

Charlie looked at us one-by-one. He had a proud sullen look on his face.

“I always said when it’s my time to go,” he said, “I’d rather you blow me up into little pieces with a bomb or something. Because if you shoot me and I live, I’m fucking coming after you. It doesn’t matter where you hide, I will still come after you.”

Charlie always told the truth. Therefore, we always listened to what he had to say, always.

“I spent most of my time practically building the sickest remote-control bombs,” he reminded us.

“If any of you are interested, you’re all welcome.”

Sal changed the conversation.

“Wow, it’s been years since anybody tried anything stupid on us.”

“There’s no need to wonder why,” said Andimo.

“You all know everybody respects us a lot in Naples.”

He thought for a second.

“No doubts about that.”

“Yes,” I said.

“They do respect us, but it’s because of who your brother is, not because of any of us.”

“Man,” Joseph smacked the air with his hand, “his brother is long gone. Calogero has been out of the picture for a very, very long time now.”

He thought for a second.

“And we’re still alive because we’re making far more moves than anyone can imagine.”

“That’s right,” I cut in.

“I know I’m going to be wealthy because I am loyal. Shit, I even imagine myself being a huge boss someday. I am untouchable, and if the money is right, I’ll do whatever it takes… anthing.”

I looked at them.

“And I mean anything.”

“Anything?” asked Sal.

“Look… I’ll do whatever it takes to be who I already have imagined myself to be,” I said.

“Now, that is some deep shit right there,” said Andimo.

“You’re just on a whole different level than all of us, Vito.”

“Yeah,” asked Charlie, “and what fucking level is that? What the fuck are you talking about, Andimo?”

He wanted to know the meaning behind Andimo’s statement.

“The only level that we’re on is that we’re all fucking crazy for what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

“Don’t you fucking mean totally murderous?” asked Sal.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Andimo is talking about me being on another level. Do you mind, Sal boy?”

Through the duration of these questions and answers, Andimo felt an overwhelming and unseen anxiety in his heart. Despite his usual ability to know what to say around us, his nervousness remained unnoticed. The intense anxiety made him feel impatient, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

All eyes were now on him, although we had no idea what thoughts were racing through his mind or the underlying fear that consumed him. Andimo feared the unknown, uncertain of what awaited us tomorrow, but his imaginative mind convinced him that we were capable of anything we set our minds to. His heart raced faster and faster, and in an attempt to calm it, he felt compelled to speak, to say something, anything.

As Andimo sat there, preparing to speak, even though he knew it wasn’t true, he imagined that we could hear the pounding of his heart growing louder and faster. Yet, it was merely a product of his fearful and imaginative mind. Andimo nervously scratched his hands every few seconds and discreetly wiped off a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck when no one was looking. Whatever our plans were for tomorrow, Andimo wanted to be an integral part, ensuring that everything went smoothly. He wanted to convey that he was ready, ready to do whatever was necessary, for the cause. Then, Andimo looked at us. He had an honest committed gleam in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said.

“You guys convinced me. Add me in.”

Automatically, as Andimo talked to us, he felt a feeling of togetherness, and that made his inner fear dwindle to nothing. Indeed, it was that look of determination on each of our faces, which was the cause of our downfall. It immediately convinced each one of us that we were a team. That we were… untouchable!

“Yeah,” said Sal, “me too. I am also in it to win it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“The hell with it, I’m in there too. You know… I’m down.”

“That’s right!” said Charlie.

“We’re all on a fucking sick level!”

“I don’t care what level we’re on,” said Joseph.

“I’m ready to do this shit right now!”

“Funny,” said Andimo, “we’ve all known each other since we were little kids.”

“Come on,” I said.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yeah, we’re going to put in some really good work tomorrow,” said Joseph.

“Of course, we are,” I said.

“Of course, we are.”

After our little interesting meeting, we all went to our homes, we prayed, and then we fell asleep.

Now, the next day, at midday, we all got together again, and we went to work.

We worked for a wealthy landowner named Gaetano Notarbartolo.

Our job was simple. All we had to do was guard his luxurious estate and the large perimeter that surrounded it. So, as we walked the perimeter of the estate, under the scorching July sun, many of the colorful flowers that surrounded our view greeted us with their powerful sweet scents.

Gaetano was a very powerful wealthy man. Of course, as time passed by, we were all naturally jealous of him. Even though we always agreed and admitted to one another that we were equally envious of our boss, we never paid mind to those kinds of thoughts. It was only when we saw Gaetano with his fancy car, his jewelry, and his loyal-to-the-maximum driver that the envy alone immediately consumed us.

At five-foot-one, Gaetano always walked around like he was tough and much taller than he actually was. Gaetano wished to be a little taller, but he always said, “When you put a gun to a man’s head, he automatically forgets how tall you really are.” Gaetano had a dark tanned complexion, brown suspicious spooky eyes, black-gray hair, and he looked very strong and wise at his old age of seventy-four. He had made his bones, meaning Gaetano had killed many, many people before any of us were even born.

Gaetano made all his money through his various associations with top-level mafia racketeers. He supplied untold quantities of heroin throughout the U.S. with the help of the Americanized mafia. And Gaetano happened to be Calogero’s most trusted representative throughout all of Sicily. Carrying shotguns “Luparas,” Andimo, Joseph, Sal, Charlie, and I walked about, making sure the entire perimeter of Gaetano’s estate was safe and secure.

Meanwhile, a car pulled up. Trust me… I remember it as if it were yesterday.

Gaetano’s tall bulky driver named Marcello Bono got out of the car, covering his face from the powerful harsh sunlight. Sweat drops ran down Marcello’s face, disappearing into his collar, as he strode around to Gaetano’s side of the car and opened the door for him.

Marcello carefully helped Gaetano out of the pearl white Rolls Royce and then slammed the car door as if the car was of no value. As soon as we saw that, we all gathered up and helped Gaetano walk towards the entrance of his house. Marcello said not a single word. He fixed his tie, looked down at his watch, brushed off his suit with his hand, and then got back inside the car, like clockwork. Gaetano wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shaky right hand.

“Today,” he said, “I have money for all of you. When I am not around, I really appreciate real men watching my huge estate. Besides, I cannot be at two places at once.”

“No,” said Joseph.

His finely-tuned smirk on his face transformed into a warm pleasant smile.

“You can’t. By the way, thank you for helping us. We all really needed these jobs. Hey, we have to work, right?”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Gaetano.

“It’s just a job.”

“Yeah,” said Joseph, “but we really love our jobs.”

“Hey,” asked Sal, “how long have we been working here? It’s been like six months, right, Joseph?”

“Sal,” replied Charlie, “it has only been four months since we’ve been working here for Mr. Gaetano. When we started working, you borrowed money from me, remember?”

“So what,” said Sal.

“I know I owe you that money, but why are you bringing that shit up now? I told you I was going to pay you…”

“Of course, you did,” said Charlie.

“And… that was four months ago, my friend.”

Sal shook his head and said, “Whatever. Just… stick to the plan.”

Now, while things were going as planned, Andimo tried his best to feel comfortable and confident. Being part of a murderous plot heightened his hidden inner anxiety, mixed with fear. He made a conscious effort to take control of himself on the spot and stay in tune with the rest of us by simply, deeply, sticking to the plan.

“What do you mean by that?” Andimo asked.

“You know, Charlie is right, Sal. I’m certain we haven’t been working here for more than four months.”

Sal glanced at Gaetano’s driver, who was moving in the car.

“Surely,” Andimo continued, “it must be more.”

Joseph said to Charlie, “I think you’re all wrong.”

I looked at the Rolls Royce and started to daydream. Several times, I thought to myself, “In the end, Gaetano’s fancy car, his huge estate, everything… will finally be ours.”

We were on an unstoppable mission. It felt as if we had even extorted “CONSEQUENCES” and “KARMA,” as they seemed absent whenever we were around. However, greed snapped me out of my daydream, realizing I had been focusing on Gaetano’s Rolls Royce instead of our planned actions… to take everything from Gaetano, not just his fancy car.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“Let me ask our boss’s driver how long it has been since we’ve been working here.”

I smiled at Charlie; this was my cue to step in.

“He should definitely know.”

I walked away and approached the driver’s side of the car. Joseph looked at Gaetano, trying to shift the focus to himself.

“Hey boss,” he asked, “do you remember how long it has been since we’ve been working for you? Suddenly, nobody knows anything. I want to know.”

“No,” said Gaetano.

The old man simply wanted to stop by and pay each of us our monthly wages. Suspicion crept into Gaetano’s mind as this was the first time he had ever been questioned by any one of us. It was a simple question, yet it compelled Gaetano to answer in order to make his stay short. “Pay them and leave,” was all he kept repeating in his head. “Pay them and leave.”

“Not really,” Gaetano said.

“You all know, my mind is very forgetful.”

That was all lies. Gaetano’s mind was sharper than the sharpest knife I have ever held, in my entire murderous life. Soon, Joseph looked back at me, indicating that everything was going according to plan. His nod confirmed our understanding of the situation. A proud smile adorned his face, as if he could already envision the successful outcome. It was clear that Joseph had a firm grasp on the victory that awaited us, like a triumphant pirate dividing the spoils.

Sure, each of us knew our roles and what needed to be done to achieve our goal. As Gaetano was assisted towards the entrance of his estate, I focused on my part. Outside the car, Marcello and I exchanged a handshake. I used my left hand for the handshake, concealing the shotgun I held in my right hand. I purposely kept the shotgun out of Marcello’s sight to put him at ease.

Anyway, Marcello was always vigilant and uncomfortable around armed individuals. His hands were damp with sweat or perhaps something else, making me unsure if he had spit on his hand. I wiped my hand discreetly on the side of my pants. I could sense Marcello’s exhaustion after hours of driving. The intense heat of mid-July, reaching 94 degrees Fahrenheit outside, caused everyone’s faces to glisten with sweat.

The car lacked air conditioning, adding to Marcello’s discomfort. All he wanted was to find some respite and rest, patiently waiting for Gaetano to return to the car. Marcello thought he was going to get a bit of rest while Gaetano returned to the car, yet I came in to disturb, and shatter his resting time… completely.

“Hey,” I knew this was my moment, the perfect moment to catch him off guard, “Marcello, how long has it been since we’ve been working for your boss?”

Marcello was so tired and dazed; he hid his face in his cupped hand. He thought of many ways to get me away from him, but his thoughts weren’t fast enough.

“Man,” he looked down at his watch with his dead brown eyes, and then he brushed back his thick black hair with his cupped hand, “I can’t remember shit like that. Come on, what is this? Why are you busting my balls, Vito? Besides, who can even think in this heat? I know when you guys started…” he wiped the sweat off his face, “it wasn’t this fucking hot.”

For a second, in my mind, everything had slowed down to a pause. Outside the car, I could see that my presence alone was getting Marcello more agitated.

“Look… I’m in my own world most of the time. Remember, I’m just the fucking driver, Vito.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

Wow! I could feel Marcello thinking, feeling, wondering. So, I had no choice but to take his mind outside. Therefore, I immediately halted his train of wondering thoughts on the spot. And for the quickness, I caught him off guard.

“Hey, check this out, you forgetful motherfucker.”

I raised my shotgun up to Marcello, and then I pumped two back-to-back shots. The impact of the first shot split his skull in two. Immediately, blood, along with bits of flesh and bone, covered the passenger side window. The blood, bits of bone, and flesh slowly slid down the car window. The impact of the second shot went through his chest and came out his back. He slid down as far as he could in his seat until his head was well below the window.

When Gaetano heard the shots, he was frightened. Should he look back to see the obvious or does he react? Therefore, out of pure natural fear, Gaetano shot Joseph point-blank in the forehead with a large-caliber gun he had concealed in his outside suit pocket. The impact of the shot pushed Joseph’s head back as he fell to the ground.

By the time I heard the shot, it was too late. As I turned my head towards the critical situation at hand, I saw the gun in Gaetano’s hand as it exhaled a little cloud of smoke. I tried not to believe what my eyes were showing me. However, as I just stood there, helplessly watching, I was hoping that Joseph would somehow get up, but he did not, and this only made me think of the worst.

Gaetano was going to let off another up-close shot, on one of them, but he was not fast enough. Soon, I forgot all about what I had just done. My mind was not blank though. All I thought about was Joseph. With hungry vulture eyes, before I could even move, they surrounded Gaetano. Andimo, Charlie, and Sal raised their shotguns. They each let out all their anger on Gaetano as they shot him to death. As I finally walked up to them, I was in total shock. My shotgun slid off my hand as we all looked down at Joseph, as he let go of his last breath.

“Oh my fucking God,” I asked, as a tear ran down my cheek.

“What… what the fuck did we just do? What the fuck did we do?! He just had a fucking baby girl.”

“Joseph,” said Andimo.

“Damn,” asked Sal, “why him?”

For a moment, there was a silence in the air. We looked at each other and wondered, “Was it all worth it?” Surely, I knew that there would be some kind of consequences. Rising to the top was not going to be as simple as we thought. Sure, we each felt the pain in our dark hearts, but this was ‘the life.’ And even though I loved Joseph with all my heart, in the back of my mind, all I could think about was, “Better him than me…” So… not wanting to dwell on the pain any longer, I broke the silence.

“Look, this is the life Joseph fucking chose,” I said, as I held back my tears.

“The life we all chose! Now… let’s get going and clean all of this shit up! Now it’s all ours.”

Charlie asked me, “Vito, in the end, was it all… really worth it?”

A tear slowly slid down his cheek.

“We now own this fucking old man’s entire estate, money, and property.”

“Yeah,” said Andimo, “but I lost Joseph.”

“We all lost Joseph,” said Sal, “not only you. We loved Joseph, not only you. So, what the fuck are we going to do now?”

Sal looked at us, and then he pointed down at Joseph’s motionless body.

“Look… this could’ve happened to any one of us,” he said, “any one of us!”

I felt Sal’s pain instead of my own.

“Come on,” I said.

Though it called for it, I did not spill any more tears. I was just ready to go on to the next level. But, I wondered how many of us would still be alive by the time we reached our peak on the game board of crime.

“Come on… let’s pick him up,” I said.

I bent down and started to pick Joseph’s body up. I noticed that they were all standing around motionless. I guess they were more in shock than I was.

“Hey, will… will somebody,” I pleaded, “please, give me a hand with Joseph. I have to be home before it starts getting dark.”

“Yeah,” said Andimo, as he helped me pick Joseph’s body up, “me too, Vito. Me too.”

Now, of course, Massimo Novoletta never forgot the favor Calogero did for him. He knew, way deep in his heart, he would be dead by now if it were not for Calogero’s help. No! Novoletta never had any intentions of going up against Calogero, but this time, he had no choice. Novoletta was the one that vouched for Calogero. He was the one that brought Calogero around the most powerful men in the Vatican.

And, unbeknownst to all, most if not all of the men high in the Vatican were professional assassins, which only worked for the Vatican. Their power came in the way these men blended into the common world. Yes. It’s true. I’m sorry to say, but secretly, most of the Vatican’s holy men, the Popes, the pontiffs, and even some of the bankers, were professionally trained assassins since birth.

Out of a hundred percent, sixty-four percent of the supposed holy men wearing holy crosses, walking around in holy garments, were all assassins. Since birth, each one was highly trained to do two things and two things only. Trained in finding their “TARGETS” and trained in eliminating their “TARGETS”. And after their training, they each went on a special hunt. They each picked their weapon of choice and hunted each other down.

Before each of them started their own game of death, there was only one rule they had to follow: “The first one to die ends the game.” It was a huge part of their initiation, which at all cost, they each were all obligated to go forward with. And no member in his right mind resisted the hierarchy.

Yes. They each went through their initiations quietly, discreetly, and as fast as they could. It was the quickest way and the only fair way to prove them worthy of continuing. And at any moment, if any one of them failed to comply or tried to back out of the group, then all the members of the group were responsible for the murder of that failed member.

Besides the members of their inner circle of religious assassins and those that influenced them since birth, nobody had the slightest idea what was actually going on. Who would ever think that behind all that protected holiness was an actual being always ready to murder at will.

Trust me, they warned Novoletta many times over, “Carved in stone, our rules are for everyone to follow.” Billionaire or not, like everyone else, if Calogero should ever break the rules set by the Vatican’s holy elite, he would have to suffer the consequences, which was death on sight! Surely, Novoletta’s time was running out, and he knew all about it.

It was not long before it became excessively obvious to everyone in the Underworld. All they knew was that there was a recent unprovoked murder. Someone had killed an important Sicilian boss and his loyal driver, and it was not going to go unpunished. Soon, all of those that were responsible for Gaetano’s death were going to pay with their own lives. In addition, all their loved ones and closest friends were going to die. And from there on, it was obvious that we were all dead.

After all, Gaetano was a powerful, moneymaking machine, raking in millions upon millions a year. Many loved him, including Calogero. Gaetano was a known fearless, loyal, respectful boss who had the holy power, and we were just not in his league. Or maybe we all bit off more than we could chew?

Now, if Novoletta does not kill Calogero and bring real proof back, they surely, in time, would put a contract hit out on his life. If Novoletta failed, which no one ever doubted he would, because of his supposed natural killing abilities, every criminal in the Underworld that ever knew Novoletta will know that he is on the Vatican’s hit list. And on that hit list will be the names of all the people Novoletta had vouched for, and on top of the list, will be his name.

Besides, Novoletta was not stupid. He knew the consequences. Novoletta knew what he was getting himself into when he vouched for Calogero. They told Novoletta in advance and even gave him a few warnings: “Slow down, Novoletta. You do not have to take everything that is on the plate. And remember, you are responsible for every single person you vouched for.”

Novoletta thought that with a lot of money, he could pay his way to the top. Eventually, by paying for it, he did make it to the top. The contracts that the Vatican’s elite made Novoletta and Calogero sign, with their own blood, and the oath of infinite secrecy they both promised to keep, went out the window the moment Gaetano took his last breath.

And as long as no one knew the truth about Novoletta, he was on top of the world. Because Novoletta was a well-known powerful character, he never wanted to come down from his powerful fantasy of being the man. However, Novoletta knew that if he killed Calogero, he was untouchable. So, overnight, for Novoletta to maintain his character’s status and to fight for his existence, he had no choice but to align himself with the Vatican’s most notorious team of professional assassins.

The order of the day was to assassinate Calogero Inantinelli and every single known boss throughout the world which Calogero had vouched for, and then… we were next. But, it was not going to be easy. Calogero was an assassin himself. He would have seen them coming a mile away. And this was why the assassins involved decided to meet and put their mental and monetary resources together to put an end to their Calogero and Andimo problem.

Not to forget, all throughout the Underworld, every known criminal knew that Novoletta was responsible for pulling many of history’s most spectacular hits. However, it was really his only youngest autistic brother that was behind every single one of the jobs that he had supposedly pulled. Now, for the first time ever, Novoletta was forced to go out and pull a real hit.

Every time Novoletta thought about it, it made him feel very sick to his stomach. He threw up all over the place. No one that saw Novoletta said anything about it. Everyone was obviously convinced that he was a real assassin. It was what made everyone scared of him and not question his presence.

So, Novoletta arrived early to the meeting. He was there to meet the Assassination Team of five assassins, and he did not want to be late. Novoletta nodded his head at each of the men as he shook their hands and gave them each a warm, yet distant respectful smile.

As Novoletta sat down, he gave them no reason to think that there was anything wrong. Even though Novoletta felt like throwing up again, he held it in. The pain in his stomach threw his thoughts out of alignment, yet he kept his composure. Everyone in the room was Sicilian. That was all Novoletta had in common with them.

Paolo Notarbartolo, the youngest brother of the deceased Gaetano Notarbartolo, specifically chose the five assassins himself.

As a high-ranking Archbishop in the Vatican, Paolo was devastated. He was so excited to go and visit his brother Gaetano, and then he found out he was dead. He hated the fact that it was none other than Calogero’s brother Andimo, Sal, Joseph, Charlie, and I, who had murdered his only brother in cold blood. Knowing his brother was dead was something Paolo took very personally. And every time Paolo thought about his brother, he went out into the warm night and killed an innocent man.

So far, everything was going forward as planned. The Assassination Team of five Sicilian assassins, imported from across the world, had to find a way to kill Calogero and every boss he had vouched for. And out of the list of two hundred and sixty-four men Calogero had vouched for, the Assassination Team picked out the most powerful bosses first. The oldest assassin at the meeting was sixty-four years old.

His name was Alberto Lalicate.

Alberto had a pockmarked chubby face and was too overweight for his small stature. He had brown tired eyes, brown-grayish hair, wore glasses, and he spoke with a Sicilian accent. Alberto, with purpose, got up from his chair. He handed a copy of the hit list to each participant, and then he sat down.

Novoletta was like a God to Alberto. When he knew Novoletta was not looking his way, Alberto discreetly stared at him a couple of times. For many years, Alberto had only heard sick stories about Novoletta. However, even though everything had revealed itself to Novoletta, the minute he sat down with a bunch of real killers, he still could not believe what was going on.

There was no way on Earth that Novoletta could find it in his heart to find and kill his childhood friend, Calogero. In a million years, he would have never thought about it. Besides, Novoletta had a lot of love for Calogero. He never forgot what Calogero did for him. If it were not for Calogero, Novoletta would have been dead by now, and he knew it.

Novoletta thought that maybe Gaetano’s brother Paolo would forgive and forget those involved in murdering his only brother. He thought that Paolo would somehow put an end to the mass murder that was about to happen as soon as the meeting was over, but he was wrong the minute he saw Alberto giving everyone present a copy of the hit list. To Novoletta, everything felt like a dream, but he knew he was not dreaming. He thought he would feel much better once everything was over.

“Now,” Novoletta asked Alberto, “where do we start?”

Alberto told everyone, “First, I say we wipe out Calogero’s entire structure, from the bottom to the top. Take out all his men in Sicily. We travel across the country as we kill many more men.”

Alberto waved his hand in the air.

“We go to New York, and one by one, we take all of them out. We must be ready.”

Another thought came to Alberto’s mind.

“Don’t forget, until we catch up to him, Calogero Inantinelli is still the boss of all bosses. And because of his vast tremendous wealth and influence in the Underworld, many other well-known assassins throughout the world, experts at the killing game, might try to get at us, just to side up with this boss of all bosses.”

“Fuck them thoughts of fear and doubts,” said Nunzio Santa Paola.

“I’m fucking serious. Anyone gets in our fucking way, they will get eliminated too. This is smooth sailing. Nobody even knows we are coming. Besides,” he banged hard on the table with an opened palm, “we're not warning them, we’re fucking hitting them up!”

Nunzio looked at Novoletta.

“And who in our fucking sick world wants to get in the way of another man’s hit?”

Nunzio was 56 years old but roamed around as if he was 26. He had brown eyes, receding dark hair, and he was the shortest one out of the whole group. Novoletta looked at Alberto.

“And how many of these men do I have to take out myself?” he asked.

Alberto looked at the hit list for a few seconds. He looked up at Novoletta.

“You don’t have to kill any of these men,” he told him.

Novoletta took a deep breath in and slowly let it out in relief. A grin filled his face. When Alberto told Novoletta that he did not have to kill anyone, it made him feel so much better. Overwhelmed, he was ready to go home and forget that any of this ever happened.

“No,” said Alberto.

“You leave this all up to us. We’re going to kill them all.”

Alberto looked at the hit team.

“The five of us here will be responsible… no problem. Everyone that Calogero vouched for in Sicily, we’re taking them all out.”

He thought for a second.

“Take a bunch out throughout the country. After we kill them all, we will go to New York. They will never see us coming.”

Alberto pointed at everyone, except Novoletta.

“In New York,” he continued, “each one of you here will be responsible for taking out an entire crime family by himself. So, each one of you must be prepared to take out many, many men.”

Alberto turned to Novoletta and put all his focus on him.

“Novoletta,” he told him, “you’re responsible for taking out only one man.”

Novoletta had a look on his face, as if he was facing an upcoming truck. Novoletta got up from the chair. He put his hand on top of his head and closed his eyes. For a second, Novoletta completely lost his balance. Novoletta straightened himself up and slowly opened his eyes as he sat back down.

“And who’s that?” he asked, as if he was exempt from the Assassination Team.

“Your job is quite simple,” said Alberto.

“All you have to do is take out your childhood friend, Calogero Inantinelli. That is it. That’s all you have to do.”

Because of Novoletta’s reputation, Alberto and the rest of the hit team never had any disbelief in him. Novoletta will pull the hit, without any problems at all. Alberto looked at the hit team, and then he looked at Novoletta.

“We all here know you can do it,” Alberto said, “because, for sure, you can get closer to him than any one of us can. We’ll take care of the rest of them on the hit list.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Nunzio to Alberto.

“We go to Sicily first and wipe them all out. Travel the country and take them out.”

He looked at everyone, except for Novoletta.

“After that, we go to New York, and each one of us has to take out a massive amount of men.”

He knew that together, they could pull it off.

“It’s done.”

“A massive amount of men?” Tommasso Leone asked everyone.

Tommasso was a hulk of a man at six-foot-three. He was 46 years old, 348 lbs., with black hair, brown eyes, and he had attractive features.

“For sure,” continued Tommasso.

“I’ll bet none of them will ever see it coming.”

Tommasso turned to Giovanni Inzirillo.

A conservative type, Giovanni was 49 years old, and five-foot-seven. He had black hair, brown eyes, and chiseled features.

“Giovanni,” Tommasso asked, “what do you think?”

Silvino Kapone, with a medium build, black eyes, and brown hair, answered Giovanni’s question.

“No,” he said.

“It won’t be hard at all to kill all of these men. Fuck it. We have to get these motherfuckers any way possible.”

Silvino warned them.

“If we don’t, you all know the fucking deal. We do not exist, our families do not exist, and neither do our closest friends.”

Silvino warned them again.

“These high-ranking elite motherfuckers… they will try to take each and every one of us out, one by one. And they will take pleasure and their sweet time doing it. I believe they know where the fuck we are at, at all times! They have real deep satanic connections.”

Silvino smiled.

“Now, if we pull this shit off, they will not dare intervene because we have protection from the Vatican. We have the power of the Gods if we choose to use it correctly.”

The hit team agreed.

“Now if we get sloppy,” continued Silvino, “and we do not do this job, we are all dead. I believe we should fully join these men before they can decide to make a move on all of us.”

Silvino thought for a second.

“This shit, from here on, is simple, a walk in the park. Hit them in Sicily, travel the country, and hit some more men. We go to New York, and each one in the team has to take out a family top boss, his underboss, the consigliere, all of their captains, and all of their soldiers.”

Silvino sighed.

“Piece of cake, anyone here can do this by himself.”

Nunzio asked Alberto, “Starting right now, how much time do we have to complete Sicily, going around the country, and those nine hits each in New York?”

“I don't know about Novoletta here,” said Alberto, “but we can take our sweet time.”

“Really?” asked Giovanni.

“Because, I don’t think we should.”

“Really,” said Alberto.

“And after we kill everybody, we will each receive ten million dollars in our bank accounts. Does anyone here have any questions?”

Novoletta got all excited when he heard the word money.

“Wait a second,” he asked, “how much do I get for taking out Calogero Inantinelli?”

Novoletta looked at each of the men. He hoped one of them was going to tell him something profitable.

“You all know,” he continued, “that’s a very special unique hit right there. I mean… it’s going to be nearly impossible, just trying to get close to a man like him.”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Alberto, with a wave of his hand.

“You get nothing, Novoletta. Not a single dollar.”

“Why?” asked Novoletta.

“Why can’t I also get paid? Am I not a part of this Assassination Team, or what?”

“I don’t know,” said Alberto.

“Who cares? After you kill Calogero, the five of us here will take good care of you, from our money.”

“How?” asked Novoletta.

He meant, “How much?”

Novoletta tried to negotiate the best possible outcome, leveraging the situation to his advantage. He wanted to maximize the benefits while pretending to be willing to carry out a task he had no intention of doing.

“Simple,” said Alberto, as he looked at everyone.

“Each one of us here will throw money into a pot for you. By the time you complete your mission, Novoletta, you will have four, maybe six million dollars waiting for you, in your account.”

Alberto looked at Novoletta. He wanted to get a feel for how Novoletta felt.

“So, you don’t have to worry,” said Alberto.

“I don’t get it,” said Novoletta.

“Why are you guys getting way more money than me?”

“Because,” said Giovanni, “we always get more, always. And besides, we are going to be putting in more work than you.”

Giovanni looked at everyone in the hit team and then he looked at Novoletta.

“The Assassination Team, that you see here in front of you, well… we are responsible for taking out hundreds of men, while all you have to take out is only one.”

For a brief moment, Giovanni thought about the situation clearly, which led him to say what he had to say next.

“Now, four to six million dollars for taking out just one single man is a lot of money than we’re getting paid, per man. And obviously, none of us here are complaining.”

The serious, determined, relentless look on Giovanni’s face was all the warning Novoletta needed to accept his role in the biggest part he ever imagined playing.

“Novoletta, this shit is happening, no matter what, and you will be a part of it. Otherwise, you will raise suspicion in the minds of those individuals that want all of the men in the hit list, including Calogero, to take their last breath… starting with us.”

In that brief moment, Novoletta felt more pain than ever, but his greed soothed his pain very fast, until he did not feel the pain anymore. Now, in order to get that money, everyone had a mission to complete. The simple plan was already set in motion, and nothing or no one was going to stop it. Novoletta had to find and kill his childhood friend, Calogero, and the Assassination Team were going to kill everybody in Sicily, all throughout the country, and then they were going to head to New York.

In New York, Alberto was going to kill everybody in the Valenza family. Silvino was taking out the entire Colando family, Giovanni was going to take out the entire Sidona family, Tommasso was going to take out the entire Manorelli family, and last but certainly not least, Nunzio was going to take out the entire Catanzaro family. The hit team had in their possession the names, photos, and addresses of each of the men they had to kill. They were determined not to stop hunting these men down, just like game in the wild, until every single individual on the hit list met their demise.

Now, unfortunately, by the time Calogero returned to his luxurious condominium in Palermo, Italy, he sensed immediately that something was amiss. Upon noticing his front door ajar, he wasted no time. Calogero swiftly retrieved a firearm from his waistband, attaching a suppressor to the weapon, and cautiously entered the premises.

Inside, the unbelievable sight that greeted him was his trusted family adviser, Luciano Brusca, sprawled lifelessly on the living room floor.

Luciano, a loyal Consigliere, had been an integral part of Calogero’s circle. Kneeling down, Calogero examined the motionless figure, his 200 lb. frame bearing the marks of a brutal attack.

“What a damn shame,” Calogero murmured, brushing away a tear from his eye.

“Brusca.”

With gentle precision, he closed Luciano’s vacant eyes using his index and middle fingers. The thought of someone executing Luciano at point-blank range, delivering two fatal shots to the back of his head, was unimaginable to Calogero. In New York, Calogero’s underboss, Domenico Bontate, had issued specific instructions to Luciano. He had informed Luciano of a slight delay, intending to arrive a night later than planned.

“Do me a favor,” Domenico’s voice echoed through the phone, “go see Calogero. He needs you. He’ll be there precisely at 10:00 P.M. tonight. Don’t worry, Luciano, I’ll join you both tomorrow night at the exact same time. I promise…”

Unbeknownst to Luciano, the Assassination Team embarked on a relentless journey, traversing towns throughout Sicily and Italy, methodically eliminating every individual on their hit list. Oblivious to the brewing storm, Luciano faithfully followed Domenico’s instructions.

An order was an order, and as the family adviser, Luciano understood the importance of being present and awaiting Calogero’s arrival, no matter the circumstances. Calogero sought to make critical power moves, relying on Luciano’s guidance and expertise. But, little did Luciano know that they were entangled in a war with the Vatican. Their indomitable position had shielded them from the notion that anyone would dare to target their ranks.

Soon, the bodies began to accumulate on the streets, one by one, marking the aftermath of the ruthless onslaught. Massive shootings, brutal stabbings, and torturous interrogations became commonplace as Calogero’s men faced relentless pressure to divulge information. Yet, despite the imminent arrival of “DEATH” at their doorsteps, Calogero’s fiercely battle-tested, loyal men, dedicated to both him and the secretive criminal life they embraced, remained resolute, refusing to utter a single word to their captors.

This defiance alone only fueled the captors’ anger and frustration, as they contrasted it with the imagined scenario where every member of The Assassination Team would have already confessed… by now! Such animosity, tinged with jealousy, underscored the stark reality that Calogero’s men upheld their loyalty, not only to their boss but also to the sacred code of silence they had sworn to protect. Each of them embodied an unwavering toughness, honed through battles and trials.

In response, The Assassination Team escalated their violent and brutal methods to unimaginable levels. They unleashed a reign of terror where no act was deemed too heinous or off-limits, resorting to stranglings, car bombings, kidnappings, mutilations—a merciless onslaught devoid of any shred of mercy.

Their first objective was led by Alberto and his comrades. They embarked on a journey to Palermo, Sicily, where they discovered many of Calogero’s family soldiers enjoying their time at a bar, completely unaware of the impending doom. Alberto had devised a twisted plan, using an unsuspecting elderly woman to carry a bomb in a briefcase.

Without warning, a thunderous explosion shattered the bar, obliterating everyone inside and leaving only fragments behind. This macabre scheme was the product of Alberto’s dark imagination, executed through the unwitting involvement of the elderly woman.

And, several days later, during a seemingly innocent gathering to celebrate a six-year-old boy’s birthday party, the Assassination Team launched a surprise attack on several influential captains. Armed with Uzis, Nunzio, Silvino, and Giovanni unleashed a barrage of bullets, indiscriminately mowing down their targets. The Assassination Team showed no remorse, ruthlessly gunning down men, women, and even children in their relentless pursuit of these seven individuals.

On the following night, Alberto stumbled upon Luciano almost by chance. He covertly trailed Luciano until they reached Calogero’s condominium in Palermo. Alberto patiently waited for hours before making his move. Luciano, the wisest member of Calogero’s inner circle, remained oblivious to the brewing war. Had he been aware, his combat instincts would have immediately kicked in.

So, Luciano entered Calogero’s condominium and settled down on the couch, consuming two strong drinks before succumbing to sleep. As Luciano’s eyes fluttered open, he faintly heard the sound of a firearm being cocked back. Alberto had already infiltrated the condominium, leaving Luciano no time to react. Not a single word escaped Luciano’s lips as Alberto coldly shot him twice, point-blank, in the back of the head.

Alberto poured himself a stiff drink, downed it, and poured another, casting a sinister, demonic grin at Luciano’s lifeless body. He knew he had more in store for Luciano, intending to send a message to Calogero that would haunt him forever. So, after finishing his drink, Alberto proceeded to inflict further damage upon Luciano using a straight razor. With bloodied hands, he then sat down, lit up a cigarret, took a few pulls and composed a letter for Calogero to discover—a letter filled with deadly seriousness, conveying their relentless pursuit of him.

With his trusted consigliere gone, Calogero armed himself and awaited his underboss, Domenico Bontate. As Domenico arrived at Calogero’s doorstep, he discovered Alberto’s letter, which Calogero proceeded to read aloud. The letter wasted no words:

Whenever we find you, Calogero, you are fucking dead! What are you going to do now? If you are reading this, then for sure, by now, all of your men are dead! You hear me! All your men are fucking dead! All of your friends, family, and everybody you vouched for will also soon be dead too.

There is nowhere on the planet you or anyone you vouched for can hide from us, motherfucker! You, all your men, and every single boss you vouched for should literally kill yourselves because when we find you all, you will surely, painfully die, one by one. Give yourselves up. Die quickly or die in severe pain, as Luciano Brusca did. That candy ass gangster.

And no matter how you want it to go, in the end, I personally promise you very soon you will all be dead! We promise to be there when it happens. I am writing you all this because obviously, I do not give a fuck.

Your brother and his little Naples crew should not have put their hands on Gaetano Notarbartolo or his personal driver Mr. Marcello Bono. That shit touched Gaetano’s youngest brother’s heart… deeply. Gaetano was the brother of a very powerful and well-known man in the Vatican. I guess you did not know that. Now… we do not give a fuck.

Marcello Bono was his blood cousin. Your brother Andimo was one of the men responsible for the murders of Gaetano and Marcello. We know this for sure! Andimo is your blood brother. When we find him and his wife, we will make sure they suffer to the maximum. All his friends and his entire family will also suffer to the maximum.

By the way, we hope to see you very soon. Oh, and Luciano’s penis is inside your freezer. I would have taken his heart out, but I did not have enough time. I have to go now… because we have to kill all of your friends now. Remember, power takes away from those that do not have it!!!

Oh, and by the way, we also found out you have a fucking son. We cannot wait until we find your son, Santo. Yeah, we know exactly who he is… and exactly where he is at! We are going to personally rip his fucking little heart out, and then we are going to stuff it in his little mouth. That is a promise.

P.S. You’re a dead man walking!!!

And… that was how the letter ended.

Calogero looked up at Domenico.

“Now… what the hell are we going to do?” he asked.

“Boss,” asked Domenico, “what do you think we should do? If you ask me, I think we should go to war. Until it’s over, we go to war!”

Domenico looked down at Luciano’s motionless body.

“Did I fuck up? I was always loyal. Man, all of us can handle all of these weak motherfuckers.”

“All? If I am correct, I think you and I are the only ones left. This is why I am trying to ask you. You know what, I have a plan.”

Calogero never thought he would be at war, with what once gave him more power than he can ever control. This time around, Calogero only wanted to know, how to beat this unusual invisible force of power.

“First of all, I don’t know how, but they fucking know I have a son.”

“Boss, really… you have a son?”

“I needed to keep him safe. It was the only way…”

“Say less. I understand, boss. So, what do you want to do now?”

“We have to get my son out of Sicily, and bring him to someplace safe.”

“And then what, boss?”

“And then… and then we’re going to personally go to fucking war with everybody that’s against us, until there is not a single one of them left!!!”

“Sure, boss. We will get your son, right now. I got your back a million percent. Do not worry. I know the deal. If anything ever happens to you, your son will continue your legacy. It will be my honor to make sure he does, at all cost, boss.”

Domenico wanted to look as if he was full of courage and ready to give his life up for the cause.

“Besides, if anything is going to happen to you, it’s going to happen to me also. I know you know that, boss.”

“I know… I know. Look, I may not have much time left. So, come on. Let’s go get the future heir to the throne.”

Calogero and Domenico both looked down at Luciano, and then they both walked out the front door, as if they were never there.

Now, instead of things getting better, things just worsened.

Because on the same night Calogero found Luciano dead in his condominium, a drunken man named Felip Gones confronted both his brother’s wife, Antonina, and her elderly mother after coming out of a church. Felip was a 40-year-old homeless street loser. He was tall, skinny, soaked through, had black eyes, brown hair, and a ruddy complexion. For many years, he had been wandering the streets of Naples, doing what he did best—raping women.

So without giving it a second thought, Felip forcefully grabbed the elderly mother by the back of her skinny neck. He grabbed her left breast, squeezed it, and when his penis did not get erect, he forcefully shoved her frail body aside. Wanting more erotic excitement, he then snatched the younger Antonina by her neck, took his penis out, and tried to force her to go down on him. When Antonina resisted, and tried to scream, he covered her mouth with his hand, dragged her into the shadows, and viciously raped her.

Her mother ran through the streets screaming, “My daughter! Somebody help my daughter!”

Later that night, hoping it was his beloved wife and his beloved mother-in-law, Andimo got a knock on the door. When he opened the door, he felt something was wrong, as Father John, the local priest, walked in. He almost never pays a nightly visit to anyone unless he has bad news.

“Son, I come with some really bad news.”

“Tell me.”

“Perhaps you should sit down…”

“Just tell me!”

The priest flinched, and his body went back a little.

“Your wife has been raped. She and her mother are both in the hospital. I am so sorry.”

Andimo grabbed a hold of the priest’s shoulders and rattled them back and forth. The priest’s head rocked back and forth, like a doll’s head. Andimo stared into his eyes.

“Who did it, Papa John? You tell me… who did it?!”

“Dimo,” the priest looked down at Andimo’s hands, as a tear slowly slid down his cheek, “please, let go of me… let go.”

“I will. Just tell me who did it!”

“Please, I don’t know. I swear to God… I don’t. Why would I lie to you? You are like a son to me.”

Andimo let go of the priest. He covered his face with his cupped hands, and tears dropped from in between his fingers.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Papa John. Please… please forgive me.”

The priest grabbed a hold of Andimo and hugged him tight.

“I forgive you, my son. I forgive you. But… can you forgive yourself?”

“I can,” he cried and cried.

“I will.”

A few days after the tragedy, Andimo walked into a local bar to drink his anger away. He sat down on the bar stool. The bar was smoke-filled, crowded, and everyone seemed to be minding his or her own business. A short bald bartender smiled at Andimo, then handed him a beer. Andimo took a couple of gulps, then put the beer down on top of the counter.

To his right, Andimo noticed a man sitting down on the stool next to him, drinking a beer. The intoxicated man was constantly looking at him. He stared right back at the man.

The man, in his mid-sixties, short and rough-looking, was none other than the boss of Naples, Don Frank Zaza.

“And what the fuck are you staring at?” asked Andimo.

Frank kept staring at him with his mean brown eyes. Though Andimo looked familiar, Frank was way too drunk to care.

“Nothing,” he said, “I just wanted to show you a little something.”

“And what’s that, old man?”

Frank went into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a picture of a beautiful redheaded woman and showed it to him.

Andimo was curious.

“And who is that?” he asked.

“Listen, do you want something to drink?”

“No. I’ve had enough to drink.”

Frank pointed at the picture.

“This here is a picture of my Antoinette.”

“And,” said Andimo, “who gives a fuck, old man? She left you, and now you are interested in me? No thanks, pal. I’m not interested in men.”

Frank did not get angry with Andimo for the choice of words he used.

“It was about six months ago,” he continued, “my wife Antoinette was viciously raped and beaten badly by four men. They took advantage of her, real bad, and then they dumped her in an alleyway, like an animal. I believe it was four drunken men.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, really, but I’m trying to have a moment to myself here.”

“I know. I know you are sorry. I also know that you feel like shit.”

“Tell me, how the fuck does anyone know… how I fucking feel?”

“Everybody in town, including me, knows what recently happened to your wife.”

Andimo became overprotective.

“What about her?” he asked.

“What do you know about my wife?”

“Yes, we all know she was raped by one of the four drunken men that I am talking to you about.”

“Look, man,” Andimo, with anger, smashed his bottle of beer on the floor, “I don’t really want to sit here and talk to you about that shit right now. That shit makes me angry.”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Because the truth is, sometimes I really feel like actually killing myself for not being there for her.”

“Don’t ever say that. It wasn’t your fault, no more than it wasn’t my fault with what actually happened to my wife.”

“Man, every time I think about it, I feel like it is my fault for not being by my wife’s side on that particular night. She asked me to go with her to church, and I said no. I said no…”

Andimo cracked an empty smile at the bar owner. The owner opened another bottle of beer and put it on top of the bar counter for him. When the owner saw Frank, he smiled at him and acted as if he did not see Andimo smash the beer bottle on the floor. Besides, the owner knew very well that at closing time he had to give Frank half of everything his bar made. Other than that, it was business as usual as the owner kept away from Frank’s radar.

“I know what you mean,” said Frank.

“I feel the same way you do. I just try not to dwell on it.”

“Dwell on it? That still does not change anything for me. I am still hurting inside. Besides, why don’t you mind your own business, old man?

“But what if I tell you, or better yet, show you something that will actually change the way you feel right now for the better?”

Frank caught his attention. Andimo’s eyes widened. His ears rose to attention.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Let me show you something.”

Frank discreetly pointed at a man who was talking to a woman as he drank a beer at the end of the bar.

“You see that man over there?”

“What man?” Andimo discreetly looked.

“Is it the man with the beard?”

“No,” said Frank.

“Look at the man standing right next to him.”

“The man talking to that prostitute, you see him?”

“Yes, that’s the man.”

“So,” asked Andimo, “what about him? What’s up with him?”

“He’s one of them.”

“What do you mean, he’s one of them?”

“He’s one of the four men that raped and brutally beat my wife.”

“How do you know that shit, old man?”

“Oh, I know.”

“Yeah, but how do you know? You need to be sure, old man.”

“Oh, I know it’s him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, one hundred percent. His name is Felip. He is a rapist, and he needs to be stopped.”

Frank told Andimo everything he wanted him to know but totally left out that his people had already gotten rid of Felip’s other three friends.

“And that’s not all I’m sure about. You see, he is also the man that viciously raped your beloved wife.”

“What?” Andimo was going to smash his beer bottle onto the floor, but he kept his anger in check.

“No way, old man. Look, you shouldn’t be fucking saying things like that.”

He grabbed a hold of Frank’s shirt collar.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, old man.”

He let go of Frank’s collar.

“No. It cannot be. It just can’t be. This motherfucker can’t be here, enjoying a cold beer, after everything that he has done. No. It can’t be him, old man.”

“Believe me, it’s him. Look, pal, I have no reason to lie to you, because I don’t even know who you are. His name is Felip Gones. I’ve been following him for a few weeks now.”

Andimo finished his beer and then he stood up.

“Hey, what are you going to do? Sit down.”

“Just watch me, old man.”

Before he walked away, Frank grabbed Andimo by his arm.

“No,” Frank whispered to him.

“Please. Please wait. Now is not the time. Sit down… sit down!”

Andimo sat down.

“Look, whatever you want me to do, I don’t care. You do what you have to do. So let me do, right now, what I must do.”

“No,” insisted Frank.

“This must be done right. Believe me, we’re going to finally get him, but we must wait. Wait for the right moment.”

Frank lied to him.

“If we do, he might lead us to the rest of them, drunken rapists.”

“Bullshit, man. That is bullshit, and you know it. For all you know, his raping buddies are way long gone.”

Andimo banged on top of the bar counter several times with his fist.

“Now… right now… let’s end this motherfucker’s life, right now!”

“No! What you should do is calm yourself down because that’s no way for a man of honor to be acting or go about doing things.”

“How would you fucking feel if it all happened to you? No, no, no. It’s time to right the wrong he has done!”

Andimo had a determined look on his face. He looked at Felip and saw that he was about to leave the bar.

“Not later… right now!”

Andimo started to get up from the bar stool. Frank grabbed him by his arm.

“I said, please, don’t do it.”

“Why?”

Andimo looked down at Frank’s hand as he tightened his grip. He knew Frank was not going to give him an explanation that was going to change his mind.

“You need to show a bit of consideration and respect here. It didn’t just only happen to your wife, it happened to my wife also.”

“Man, I do not know who you are, but you need to get your fucking hands off me. I am capable of knowing what I am doing with my own life. This is my fucking life, not yours! Therefore, you respect that. You understand me, old man?!”

“Okay,” Frank let go of his arm.

“I can respect that for now, but you should wise up, my friend. Before… you can’t wise up.”

Frank’s words sounded threatening.

“Besides, who do you think you are? Frank Zaza? Just leave it alone. I told you, I got it all under control. Don’t worry. He will surely suffer the maximum pain ever,” Frank looked at Felip, and then he put all of his focus on Andimo, “even more than he has made others suffer. Believe me. Just trust me on this one.”

Frank thought for a second.

“Let me take care of him. Don’t do it yourself. Trust me, he will suffer.”

“Oh, I believe you. He will surely suffer.”

From the other end of the bar, Andimo and Frank watched the rapist as he lit up a cigarette and walked out of the bar.

Frank looked at Andimo.

“Remember what I told you,” he said.

“We get them all together. That's how it’s going to be done.”

“And that’s what you think is going to happen to this rapist?”

Before Frank could answer him back, in quite a hurry, Andimo threw money on the counter, got up off the stool, and then he walked out of the bar.

Outside, in the alleyway, Felip walked towards the wall. When his shoes were inches from the wall, he pulled down his zipper and pissed on the wall. Without any warning, Andimo grabbed him from behind and put him in a choke-hold. He lifted Felip up and plunged a knife into his heart. Felip pissed all over himself as he took his last breath. The last thing Felip saw was the glint of the moon on his piss.

Two nights later, the Assassination Team met up in a house in Naples, ready to carry out their plan involving Andimo, his wife Antonina, and Calogero’s son Santo. They gathered in a room, taking their seats on a long leather sofa, ensuring enough distance between them. The smell of new leather refreshed the atmosphere. Alberto retrieved two pictures from his inside suit pocket and placed them on the glass table, allowing everyone to examine them closely. He pointed at the pictures and began explaining.

“This here is Calogero’s brother and his brother’s wife,” Alberto said.

“And I’ll bet a million dollars that Calogero’s son is staying with them.”

Nunzio questioned Alberto, asking how he was so certain about the son’s presence.

Alberto confidently replied, “Let’s just say I’m never wrong. Besides, where the fuck else would they keep a little kid like that? He has to be with them. Don’t worry, this will be simple.”

Tommasso chimed in to express his agreement and assure Alberto that he was on the same page. However, he had a lingering concern.

“But the kid,” Tommasso hesitated, “do we really have to kill him too?”

Giovanni responded with a callous tone, showing no remorse.

“Of course we do. I don’t give a fuck if he’s on the hit list or not. We’re taking out that little fucker too. Look, we’re not taking them out to dinner, man. To ensure our own survival, they all must die.”

Nunzio supported Giovanni’s view.

“That’s right. Calogero’s son wont see his next birthday. Yeah… he has to go.”

Silvino declared his readiness, saying, “If that’s how it has to go, then, that’s how it has to go. I’m ready.”

Tommasso echoed Silvino’s sentiment, “Yeah, me too. Who gives a fuck about this little kid? While we have the opportunity, let’s take them all out, including him.”

Alberto retrieved the pictures and returned them to his pocket.

“Are you guys ready?” he asked.

They exchanged looks and silently acknowledged their agreement. Fully aware of what they had to do, they stood up and exited the house.

The Assassination Team had meticulously planned their actions, but their plans were immediately disrupted when Frank Zaza, the powerful boss of Naples, intervened. Upon hearing about the arrival of these unknown men, Frank took it upon himself to assert his dominance and make an example out of each and every single one of them. Frank swiftly relayed his orders to his own hit men, who wasted no time in carrying out his commands.

The five assassins found themselves separated, each falling into a trap designed specifically for them. Alberto was the first to unknowingly step into the snare. So, Alberto went to an apartment located half a mile away from their meeting place.

Feeling bored, Alberto decided to relax in the living room, enjoying a high-quality cigar. He savored each puff, holding the smoke in his lungs as part of his smoking ritual. However, Alberto’s tranquility was abruptly shattered when a firearm was pressed against the back of his head, jolting him back to reality. It was one of Frank’s men who had infiltrated the living room.

“Don’t you fucking move,” the man warned, snatching the cigar from Alberto’s hand and tossing it across the room.

Confused and furious, Alberto demanded answers, “Who are you? How the fuck did you get into my place?! Do you know who the fuck I am?!!!"

In response, the man silenced Alberto by striking him unconscious with the butt of his weapon.

Well, after the meeting, Nunzio, driven by his insatiable sexual appetite, found himself inside a high-class strip club. The pulsating music amplified Nunzio’s ego, fueling his desires to unimaginable heights. He settled onto a bar stool, captivated by the sight of four beautiful Sicilian women dancing atop the bar counter.

One of the women drew closer to him, enticing him with her seductive moves. Nunzio reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of cash, generously slipping several bills into the woman’s bra.

“This is for you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Once the woman finished her performance, she approached Nunzio. Taking his hand, she led him towards the back of the club, where several private rooms awaited.

Opening the door to one of the rooms, they stepped inside. Nunzio perched himself on a massage table, anticipation coursing through his veins. The woman smiled at him, sensually caressing her own breasts, before closing the door. She approached Nunzio, deftly undoing his pant zipper.

“Relax,” she whispered.

However, their moment of intimacy was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door. The woman promptly answered, revealing the club’s manager on the other side.

“Yeah,” she inquired, “what’s up?”

“I’m sorry,” the manager replied, “do you have a minute?”

Seizing the opportunity, Nunzio quickly removed his suit jacket, neatly folding it and placing it on the table. He reclined on the massage table, awaiting the woman’s return. But as the door swung open once again, Nunzio’s gaze met one of Frank’s men standing over him, brandishing a firearm equipped with a built-in suppressor, aimed directly at his groin. The man motioned for Nunzio to remain silent, raising his index finger up to his lips. So after catching Nunzio literally caught with his pants down, they quickly set their sights on Tommasso.

Inside a house, Tommasso emerged from the bathroom only to find himself face to face with one of Frank’s men standing nearby, aiming an Uzi with a built-in suppressor at him.

Tommasso instinctively raised his hands, uttering only two words, “Oh shit…”

Meanwhile, Silvino was indulging in pleasure, lying in bed with a prostitute in a hotel room. However, the moment took a dark turn as one of Frank’s men entered the bedroom and abruptly shot the woman in the head. She collapsed on top of Silvino, exposing him to the sight of the man already aiming his weapon at him.

“Get dressed, Playboy,” the man ordered, picking up Silvino’s clothes from a nearby chair and tossing them towards him.

Now, in another hotel room, in another totally different location, minutes later, Giovanni decided to fix himself a drink. Upon realizing that the ice bucket was empty, he picked it up and stepped out of the room. Little did he know, from his peripheral vision on the right, he noticed two impeccably dressed men emerging from the elevator.

Initially, he dismissed them as just a couple of intoxicated individuals returning from a night of heavy drinking. However, Giovanni’s heightened awareness of his surroundings alerted him to the true situation at hand. In an instant, both men swiftly drew their firearms from inside their suit jackets. Startled, Giovanni dropped the ice bucket and bolted down the desolate hallway, his mind racing with a preconceived plan.

He sprinted towards the nearest exit door, flung it open, and raced down the stairs, fueled by a desperate and dangerous plan. The two men pursued him relentlessly. Reaching the door to the next floor, Giovanni hurried over to a vending machine. Skillfully concealing his hand behind it, he retrieved two firearms with built-in suppressors and prepared for the men’s arrival. Crouching down, he anxiously listened as the door swung open.

“Where did he go?” one man questioned his partner, their footsteps drawing nearer.

Giovanni’s heart pounded fiercely, fearing that its rapid beats would betray his location. He knew he had to act swiftly to neutralize the threat, but he was all too aware of the potential consequences if he failed. So, with determination, Giovanni rose from his cover and unleashed a barrage of bullets upon both men, catching them completely off guard. They fell to the floor, unable to react in time.

Giovanni approached them, continuously firing upon their lifeless bodies until his weapons ran dry. Lost in the intensity of the moment, Giovanni’s racing thoughts consumed his consciousness, overshadowing any considerations of an escape plan. And before he could take another step, another one of Frank’s men approached him from behind and swiftly struck him unconscious with a blackjack.

So… believe it or not, about an hour later, one by one, the entire Assassination Team—all five wannabe assassins—slowly regained consciousness. They found themselves in a vast underground wine cellar, tightly secured to chairs that were bolted down to the floor. The cellar was adorned with an abundance of vintage wine bottles, while long tables nearby displayed an assortment of drugs and an assortment of many weapons.

Soon, the effects of the drugs gradually wore off, allowing each man to become aware of his surroundings. As they looked up, their gaze met Frank Zaza, positioned before them in a seated position, cradling a MAC-11 Uzi with a built-in suppressor on his lap. Standing behind Frank were approximately forty to sixty men, all dressed lavishly like their boss, clad in expensive suits, each wielding an assortment of firearms with a built-in suppressor.

Frank switched his weapon to firing mode, prompting his men to follow suit. A chill ran down the spine of each of the five assassins, knowing that escape was impossible while they remained bound to their chairs, affixed to the floor. Their greatest concern was the uncertainty of what awaited them next.

“What do you want from us?” slurred Alberto, struggling to speak.

“Are you talking to me?” retorted Frank.

“No matter what it is,” interjected Giovanni, “you better just fucking kill us all now. I promise you, we won’t give you any information, pal. And one day, we’ll catch you out there… without your fancy weapon and these heavily armed men behind you. What will you do then? You should know, pal, eventually, we will come after you!”

“Relax,” Frank calmly responded, pointing his weapon at each of them.

“Relax, my friend. Do you even know who the fuck I am? No, no, no. You don’t talk to me like that. Nobody does. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Frank Zaza. Now, what the fuck are you brave cowboys doing in my town?”

The assassins remained silent, uncertainty weighing heavily upon them.

“Relax,” Frank reiterated, surveying each of the men.

He attempted to put them at ease, adopting a more affable approach in the hopes that they would cooperate.

“Look, I’m not gonna kill any of you,” he declared.

“I just… I just want some answers. Among your possessions, my men discovered photographs, locations, and a list of names. It appears you gentlemen are after my arch-enemy, his family, and several others.”

Frank spat on the floor, displaying his disdain.

“To be honest, I can’t stand that Calogero character. We were all here preparing to eliminate him, his brother, and the whole damn lot, and then you fools try to insert yourselves into the picture.”

“So… you’re not going to kill us?” Nunzio inquired, attempting to maintain a brave facade.

“Nope,” Frank replied firmly.

“Look, I won’t kill any of you if you tell me the truth and nothing but the truth. But if any of you dare to lie to me, you’ll witness firsthand the devastation this pretty weapon can inflict… on all of you. Right here… right now.”

“So what do you want to know?” Silvino cautiously asked.

Giovanni turned his head, looked at Silvino, and said, “Why don’t you shut the fuck up! Don’t you tell this motherfucker a God damn thing… don’t tell him shit!”

Frank understood why Giovanni was pissed off, but he did not care. He just wanted to know the truth of what was really going on.

“Look… I just want to know the truth,” said Frank.

“Are you guys going after Calogero?”

“Fuck you,” said Giovanni, “you fake-ass Zaza boss. Don’t you know, we’re killers? We’ve killed a lot of people too!”

Giovanni turned and looked at Alberto.

“Don’t you fucking tell this motherless prick anything, Al!”

“Will you shut the fuck up!” said Alberto as he looked at Giovanni.

“Just… just please, let me talk to him!”

Alberto focuses his respectful attention on Frank.

“Yes,” said Alberto.

“We’re going after Calogero and everyone he is connected with. So, what?”

Giovanni turned and looked at Alberto again.

“Oh, your a fucking snitch, Al! You’re a fucking snitch,” he said.

“You just wait, Al! One day… I’m gonna snitch you out!!!

“Gentlemen, that’s great!” said Frank, with joy in his voice, “Wonderful! I fucking love it!”

“Now, what other truthful thing are you going to tell and reveal to me?”

“There isn’t anything else,” said Giovanni.

“That’s it. And the fact that I can’t stand your fake-ass, and this snitch… next to me.”

“Are you sure?” asked Frank.

He knew one of them would answer his question.

“Yes,” said Silvino.

“We’re fucking very sure.”

Frank pointed his weapon at Silvino.

“Okay,” said Frank.

“To show you how much of a fair guy I am, I’m going to let each and every single one of you tough guys go. Remember, this is my town. So, you and your friends here cannot ever come into my town and kill whoever you want. No one, but my men and I, kill anyone in this town. You tough guys… fucking got that?”

Each of the assassins nodded in agreement.

“Now, you let us go,” said Alberto, hoping Giovanni was not going to say anything to piss Frank off, “and we’ll leave your town… right now.”

“Now,” said Frank, with a smile on his face, as he put the weapon on his lap, “that’s what the fuck I wanted to hear. But, remember, you guys better not ever come back to this town, because I do not give second chances. You guys come back here and you will all die. And… don’t worry about Calogero’s brother and his brother’s wife. My men and I will be glad to take them out for you guys, while you cowboys are doing your thing far, far away from this town… my town.”

“For real?” asked Alberto.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” said Frank, as he motioned to his men to untie each of them.

The next day, Calogero’s brother, Andimo, sat down at the kitchen table with his wife, Antonina. It was lunchtime, and she passed him a bowl of leftover spaghetti. He took the bowl and placed it within reach, wrapping his fork with spaghetti and filling up his own bowl. Antonina wasn’t feeling well, having only gotten out of bed to heat up the food.

“Dimo,” she asked, “where is Santo?”

“I told him to go outside and play.”

“Yes. The boy needs to get out more. The fresh air will do him a lot of good.”

“I’ll go get him in a few minutes.”

She reached for the bowl and took some spaghetti for herself.

“The boy needs to eat something,” she said, placing the bowl back down.

“He will feel much better. He’s been sick all week.”

“He’ll get much better, you’ll see.”

“That is what I want to see, Dimo. Even the doctors don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Don’t worry, honey. One day he is going to get his wish to feel better. Maybe things will change when my brother comes around.”

“Wake up. Your brother has not been in the boy’s life, not one day, since the boy was five years old. Santo is nine years old now, going on ten this month. Do you know we’re all Santo knows?” she exclaimed, frustration evident in her voice.

Antonina looked at Andimo, feeling as if he wasn’t paying attention to her. Throughout their conversation, he kept glancing at the front door.

“Dimo,” she said, “what’s going on? What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about how much better you’re feeling too. The doctors did say it was okay for you to come home.”

“I’m feeling much better, but I am more worried about my mother. She is not taking what happened to me very well. Dimo, promise me something—for the sake of Santo and even momma.”

“What’s that, my love?”

“Promise me you will never leave our side, ever,” she pleaded.

“Of course I won’t leave. That, I promise you,” he reassured her with unwavering determination.

“You love me?” she whispered, her voice filled with vulnerability.

“Of course,” he replied, his eyes reflecting sincerity.

“I love you with all my heart.”

“My love,” she said softly, her voice filled with affection, “can you please go and get Santo? It’s time for him to have a meal. Once hes done eating, he can go and play to his hearts content. Oh, and don’t forget to remind him to wash his hands before he sits at the table.”

Chuckling, he replied, a smile playing on his lips, “The last time he sat at the table, he had a firm grip on a handful of dirt.”

She chuckled along, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, he is quite the playful one.”

“He certainly is. I’ll be right back,” he assured her before heading off to find their adventurous boy.

Andimo stepped out of the house, taking only a few strides, when he came face to face with Frank Zaza. Their eyes locked, and a sinister grin spread across Frank’s face. By the time Andimo realized that we were also with Frank, he was confused, but it was way too late for him to respond to his visual curiosity.

With a hint of malice, Frank taunted, “Hey, remember me? Remember what I told you, when we were inside the bar? I warned you not to do it, didn’t I? But, you wouldn’t listen…”

In a swift and brutal motion, Frank blasted Andimo’s head completely off with a single deadly shotgun blast.

Inside the house, Antonina was startled by the thunderous blast of a shotgun. Alarmed, she rose from her seat and cautiously approached the window, dreading what she might witness. Peering through the glass, her eyes fell upon me first. Not for nothing, but Sal and Joseph were a hundred percent right. Up until now, I had stubbornly refused to believe Sal and Joseph’s words. They had always maintained that there would come a time when we would find ourselves aligned with Frank Zaza.

But reality had a way of defying my disbelief. Here we stood, side by side with Frank, our allegiances shifting and our loyalties tested. It was a stark reminder that in this life, friendships could be fragile, and circumstances could push us down unexpected paths.

As I glanced at Andimo, the weight of our shared history and the depth of our betrayal hung heavy in the air. The bond we had once cherished now tainted by the choices we had made. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but there was no turning back now. We had entered a realm where friendships became casualties, and alliances were forged in the crucible of survival. I could still hear their words ringing in my ears.

“Don Zaza,” said Sal, “and all of his hundreds of soldiers control this town of Naples. Don’t you know that shit?”

“And sooner or later,” Joseph interrupted, “like it or not, we’re all going to work under Don Zaza and all his many crazy loyal soldiers.”

Though hard to believe, I found myself accompanying Frank, driven by his sense of disrespect from Andimo. Charlie Riina, Sal Maisto, Sam Vagans, and I were all part of the group.

Sam Vagans was a bulky, short man in his early fifties, yet he carried himself as if he were in his early twenties. Despite his age, Sam seemed to defy time. His loyalty to Frank was unwavering, as Frank had a mental stranglehold on him. However, deep down, Sam yearned for the perfect opportunity to break free from Frank’s demanding and commanding presence. He bided his time, waiting for the moment when he could escape his grasp. Now, together, we stood as witnesses to the macabre spectacle of Andimo’s blood and brain matter staining the front of the house.

Filled with panic, Antonina rushed to the front door, hastily locking it. In a frantic flurry of thoughts, she made a crucial decision. Racing upstairs with all her might, she entered a bedroom at the far end of the house and swiftly secured the door. Moments later, a barrage of shotgun blasts echoed through the house. A momentary silence followed, only to be shattered by another volley of gunfire. Desperate to catch Santo’s attention, Antonina opened the window and called out to him, her voice filled with fear and urgency.

“Santo! Santo!”

Startled, Santo ceased his play and looked up, proudly displaying a red ball he had discovered.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Frank, along with us, kicked down the front door, nonchalantly making our way into the house. Charlie, Sal, Sam, and I joined him.

As Antonina pulled her head back inside, Frank kicked open the bedroom door, revealing her trapped within. The five of us stood in the room, our eyes fixed on her, fully aware of her helpless state. Raising our shotguns, we each took aim and fired, unleashing a barrage of devastating shots that sent Antonina hurtling backward. She tumbled out of the window, her lifeless body landing on the grass like a sack of potatoes. Santo turned around, his eyes fixed on Antonina’s slow movements. The ball slipped from his grasp as he approached her, his steps hesitant and cautious.

“Santo,” she whispered, her voice filled with urgency, “get out of here. Run…”

He stumbled and fell onto her, his hands stained with blood. Antonina coughed, blood spilling from her lips. Desperately, she tried to draw in a breath, but it was too late.

“Santo… run… run for your life,” she managed to say before her final breath escaped her.

Silence enveloped the scene, broken only by the sound of shotguns being reloaded. Santo looked up at the window, where we stood with cruel smiles, watching him while we prepared to fire again. Despite his unsteady footing, Santo mustered the strength to rise. With fear in his eyes, Santo fled, not caring which direction he ran, as long as it took him far away from us. He ran with all his might, his fragile legs carrying him as fast as they could. Despite stumbling twice, he picked himself up each time and continued running.

Inside the bed room, we exchanged glances, silently debating who among us would be the one to chase after the child.

“What the hell are you guys daydreaming for?” said Frank, snapping us out of our thoughts.

“We have to go and get that kid.”

“Yeah,” I chimed in, a sinister smile on my face, “we better hurry, before he gets away.”

“Holy shit,” exclaimed Sal, the realization hitting him.

“Vito’s right. We better fucking find him before somebody else does.”

“Come on,” urged Charlie, “lets go get this little prick.”

“Where the hell is he going to go?” scoffed Sam.

“A small kid like that, I’ll catch him crawling.”

The five of us dashed out of the house, fueled by the hunt for Santo.

“Hey,” I interjected, grabbing Sam’s arm, “I thought we weren’t supposed to kill women and kids? Andimo was my best friend.”

“Yeah, he was my best friend to. Times have changed, Vito,” Sam responded, shrugging off my hand.

“And don’t forget, in this life, you have no friends. For when its time for you to go, it is your best friend that the boss sends to make sure you take your last breath.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, realizing the shift in our principles, “sorry about that, Sam.”

We continued our relentless search for Santo, determined not to give up, even if we were unsure which direction he had fled. Unfortunately, Santo ran towards the middle of a dirt road and was accidentally struck by a passing car. And by the time we spotted him, he was already being driven away.

Inside the car, Carlos Rosario and his wife of six years, Maria, looked back at the rear seat to check on their son Ruben’s well-being.

Carlos, standing at five-foot-nine and weighing 164 lbs., knew they were lost in the town of Naples but didn’t want to admit it to his wife. In his late thirties, Carlos had brown eyes and a medium build. Maria, also five-nine, weighed 156 lbs., had light brown eyes, and long black hair.

“Are you okay, Ruben?” Carlos asked, glancing at the rear-view mirror.

“I’m okay, dad,” Ruben replied.

Satisfied that his son was unharmed, Carlos stepped out of the car. His eyes landed on Santo lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding profusely from a large cut on his forehead. Blood stained the car’s bumper. Carlos lifted Santo from the ground and placed him in the back seat beside Ruben. He then got back into the car and drove away. Maria appeared upset with Carlos.

“What?” Carlos looked at her.

“What do you want now?”

“And what are we supposed to do with this kid now?” Maria voiced her concern.

“How the hell should I know? We can’t just leave him on the side of the dirt road like that. Hell, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? First, you get us completely lost, then we almost run over this kid! Carlos, we’ve been driving all over Naples for hours now.”

Maria paused, unsure of what to say next.

“I think we should…”

“You think we should do what? What! What the hell should we do?!”

“I think we should go back.”

“Back? Back where, to Colombia?”

Carlos thought Maria had lost her mind.

“But we just got here. Besides, what are we going to do with this kid in the back seat?”

“And how the hell should I know? It’s not like we killed him. He’s still alive.”

Maria had a sudden idea, catching Carlos off guard.

“Maybe we can bring him back and take him with us.”

“Stop it!” he said.

“Just stop it! Ever since our first son Joseph Anthoni died, all you do is keep haunting me with that shit!”

“Carlos, can’t you see? Finally, Ruben can have a little brother to play with. After all, we did find him on the ground.”

“Maria, are you listening to yourself? That is a little kid back there! It’s not like we just found a stick of gum on the ground.”

Carlos glanced at Santo through the rear-view mirror.

“Now, this kid definitely must have parents. They must be out there, worried, looking for him right now. You and I are both parents. Don’t you understand that?”

“Oh, Carlos, it’s just that we have so much space at home, and with you at work all day, Ruben and I get a bit lonely.”

“Stop, don’t,” he said.

“Please, Carlos…”

“Shut up! Just shut up! Are you crazy?! What’s wrong with you?! We are not taking this kid anywhere, except to where he actually belongs, with his parents!”

“But… Carlos.”

“That’s enough, Maria! Just think! They’re probably worried, looking for this kid, right this minute.”

He banged his fist on the dashboard.

“I don’t care. We’re going back, right now. That house…”

Carlos remembered the house. He turned the car around and headed towards it.

“That house we just passed earlier, the one back there. Surely, this kid must live there.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know. Either he lives in that house or somebody around there must know who he is. All I know is we’re not taking this kid back with us to Colombia. No matter what you say…”

Carlos couldn’t wait to bring Santo back to wherever he lived.

“What… are you freaking nuts? You really actually thought you were going to get away with snatching this little kid up?”

“But… you never listen to me!”

“Maria, we’re bringing him back, and that’s it!”

In the back seat, Santo remained motionless. He was knocked out. Ruben stared at Santo’s S.I. tattoo on his hand for a few minutes, and then he fell asleep.

“Carlos,” she said.

“Now, you just stop thinking crazy shit and just look out for that damn house, Maria. It should be coming up any minute now.”

“Over there,” Maria pointed out the house.

“There goes the house. It’s right over there.”

She looked back at Santo, and then she looked at the house.

“You see it?” she said.

Carlos drove up to the house. Their first sight was of Sal cleaning up Andimo’s blood off the front of the house. They both got out of the car. Carlos helped her take Santo out from the back seat. She carried him and walked up to Sal, who stopped scrubbing the blood off the front of the house.

Sal looked at Carlos and Maria, carrying Santo, and then he resumed scrubbing the blood. In a million years, Sal never thought that he would ever see Santo again, ever. Sal didn’t want to make it obvious, but he was definitely in shock when he saw them bringing Santo back.

“Excuse me,” said Carlos.

“Yeah,” said Sal, as he looked up at him, “what do you want?”

“You see,” said Maria, “my husband and I found this kid on the side of the road. We hit him with the car. It was an accident, but he’s fine.”

Sal kept on scrubbing.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said.

“Damn kid always takes off on me. He’s been acting that way ever since his mother died.”

Carlos realized Sal was scrubbing blood off the front of the house.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I just told you his mother passed away,” said Sal.

“No,” said Carlos.

“I mean the blood. What happened?”

Sal attempted to divert Carlos’s attention from the actual events.

“Somebody shot our dog,” said Sal.

“Why, that’s awful,” said Maria.

Instantly, tired of cleaning the blood off the front of the house, Sal devised a sinister plan to accomplish multiple objectives. His idea was to eliminate two problems at once: capturing Santo by any means necessary and eliminating Carlos and Maria to ensure there were no witnesses to his heinous actions. With a malevolent grin spreading across his face, Sal made a proposition, his intentions veiled beneath his seemingly hospitable words.

“Hey, why don’t you guys come into my house?” he suggested, his voice dripping with a twisted sense of hospitality.

“Make yourselves comfortable. It’s the least I can do for you guys bringing my son back home safely.”

His smile, though seemingly kind, carried an unsettling undertone that sent a shiver down the spines of Carlos and Maria. They exchanged glances, uncertain of what lay beneath Sal’s seemingly generous offer. Yet, feeling a sense of obligation and wanting to appear polite, they hesitantly accepted, their guard still raised in the back of their minds.

Carlos and Maria, still carrying Santo, exchanged glances filled with relief and trust. They surveyed their surroundings, ensuring their safety, and then turned their attention to Sal.

Sharing a reassuring smile, they felt a sense of security in each other’s presence and stepped into the house together.

“Please,” Sal said, gesturing warmly, “make yourselves comfortable. It’s the least I can do…"

Maria gently settled Santo on the living room couch. She exchanged a glance with Carlos, indicating her readiness to leave through a nod. It was the seriousness in Maria’s expression that prompted Carlos to reach the same decision. However, he didn’t want to come across as rude to a man who had opened his house to them, providing a space for them to rest and recover. Yet, one more serious look from his wife confirmed that it was time to go.

“I'm sorry,” Carlos apologized, scanning the living room before focusing his gaze on Sal.

“We have to go. Our sole intention was to bring your son back safely.”

Carlos stole a few more furtive glances when Sal’s attention fixated on Santo. A deep sense of unease stirred within Carlos when he noticed a picture hanging on the wall. Instead of a portrait of Sal, he saw one featuring Andimo, his wife, and Santo. Despite his instincts signaling something amiss, Carlos decided to disregard his concerns and prioritize thoughts of his own son.

“Besides,” Carlos continued, his voice determined, “we have a son of our own waiting for us in the car.”

“It’s getting quite late,” Maria interjected, her tone urgent.

“We really must be on our way.”

Sal chuckled at her remark.

“Oh, you two aren’t going anywhere.”

Confused, Carlos thought Sal was joking and replied with a smile, “Why not?”

“You two aren’t going anywhere,” Sal stated firmly, laughter fading.

“Because you’ve both seen my face. And that’s no good.”

Surprised, Carlos questioned, “What the hell are you talking about, man? So what? Come on… you lost your son, my wife and I found him and brought him back to you. Doesn’t that shit mean anything to you, as a father?”

Within seconds, Charlie, Sam, Frank, and I descended the stairs and entered the living room. We leveled our shotguns at Carlos and Maria, causing them to freeze in shock.

“And you’ve seen my face,” Charlie remarked.

“And you’ve seen mine,” I added.

“I know you’ve already seen me,” Sam declared, his tone cold and resolute.

“So, you both ain’t going anywhere. Hell no. We definitely can’t let you both go.”

Frank interjected, his voice cutting through the tension, “How about my face?”

He locked eyes with each of us, silently conveying a message. Frank then directed his gaze towards Carlos and Maria, his expression laden with malice and cruelty. Carlos and Maria exchanged glances, desperately hoping for a different outcome. They anticipated that we would reveal it was all a twisted prank, and they would be free to leave with gratitude for saving the boy’s life. A parting sentiment of, “Feel free to visit anytime. Goodbye now…” However, the expected turn of events never materialized.

Approaching Carlos, Frank glanced at Maria before striking Carlos over the head with the butt of his shotgun. One powerful blow rendered Carlos incapacitated. Uncertain of her next move, Maria attempted to flee toward the front door. Frank raised his shotgun, aiming at her, glanced down at Carlos, then at us, before unleashing a single blast that sent Maria sprawling forward through the air.

Soon after, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, Charlie and Sal efficiently hogtied Carlos, his son, and Santo, tightly securing their limbs and sealing their mouths with duct tape. Frank entered the room to inspect their handiwork.

“That’s it,” declared Charlie, casually tossing the roll of tape onto the bed.

“They’re all tied up and ready to go, Don Zaza.”

“I see,” Frank responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s about time you guys did something right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Frank?” Sal retorted, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“Nothing,” Frank dismissed, his tone chillingly indifferent.

“Now, I want both of you to find some gasoline.”

Frank surveyed the room with a sinister grin, his mind consumed by a dark plan.

“We’re going to set each of them and this entire house on fire, right now.”

Pushing Charlie aside, Frank strode out of the room, leaving Sal bewildered and questioning the depths of their depravity.

Turning to Charlie, Sal couldn’t contain his disbelief.

“What? Is he fucking serious? We’re setting people and houses on fire now? What’s wrong with this guy? What’s wrong with us?”

Charlie remained silent, seemingly lost in a trance of unwavering loyalty to Frank Zaza.

“Don’t worry,” he finally assured Sal, his voice eerily calm.

“I’ll go and find something to set them and this entire fucking house on fire.”

Sal knew better than to defy Frank’s wishes. The horrors he had witnessed were etched in his memory, and the unwavering loyalty in Charlie’s eyes made it clear that resistance was futile. He had to fall in line or suffer the same gruesome fate as those bound and waiting for their unsuspecting, agonizing deaths.

“Alright, man. I get the point,” Sal reluctantly agreed, his voice tinged with resignation.

He understood the gravity of the situation and the implications of defying Frank’s wishes. With a heavy sigh, Sal mustered the resolve to comply.

“Come on, I’ll go with you,” he said, signaling his readiness to follow through on their unsettling task.

“Come on,” Charlie beckoned, and they left the room together.

Inside the shed, which was conveniently situated next to the house, Charlie and Sal meticulously scoured the surroundings in search of gasoline. Sal broke the silence, his voice filled with a hint of frustration.

“Find anything?” he inquired, hoping for a positive response.

“I already told you twice,” Charlie retorted, his tone growing impatient.

“No, I haven’t found shit.”

The fruitless search only added to their mounting unease, as time ticked away, and the weight of their unsettling task bore down upon them.

Now, outside the house, a mysterious car pulled up behind Carlos’ vehicle. Calogero, accompanied by his underboss Domenico Bontate, was inside the car. They gracefully stepped out of the car and made their way towards the house. But as they passed by Carlos’ car, their eyes caught sight of the smeared blood on the bumper—a small but noticeable sign that something out of the ordinary had taken place.

“You see that, boss?” Domenico asked.

“Yeah,” Calogero replied, “I see it.”

“Looks like blood.”

“I know.”

Simultaneously, they reached inside their sports jackets, retrieving their firearms equipped with built-in suppressors.

Calogero glanced at his underboss.“Are you ready?” he asked.

“What? Don Calogero, I will take you back. Back to our first hit ever. Come on, let’s do this.”

With caution, they both entered the house, moving slowly.

In the upstairs bedroom, we decided to light up some cigars while we waited for Charlie and Sal to bring the gasoline.

“Vito,” Sam asked, “why do you claim that the cigars I buy are different from yours?”

“Because,” I replied, “you purchase cheap, fake cigars while I opt for the best quality ones. It’s all about getting the best for me.”

“It’s all about quality,” I chimed in.

“What quality?” Sam retorted.

“They’re just cigars to me. A fucking cigar is just a cigar.”

“Don't you believe that, Sam,” I countered.

“There is such a thing as pure quality.”

“Whatever, Vito,” Sam dismissed.

“Forget about it, guys,” Frank interjected.

“I’m heading to the bathroom.”

“Hey,” Sam remarked, “don't forget to wash your hands, Frank.”

“Sam,” Frank replied, “don’t be a fucking wise guy.”

Franked looked at me and said, “You too, Vito…”

Vito, with a hidden smile on his face, spits out, “What? I didn’t even say anything, Frank.”

Frank pointed his bony finger at me, and with a don’t mess with me voice said, “Just in case…”

“Hey,” Sam clarified, “Frank, I was only kidding. I was only kidding.”

Frank walked out of the room, making sure to close the door behind him. He continued down the hallway, passing by a bedroom until he reached a bathroom a short distance away. Once inside, Frank unzipped his pants and relieved himself in the sink. As he stood there, he thought to himself, “Man, fuck them. What do any of those bums know about quality?”

In Naples, Frank Zaza was notorious for eliminating anyone who dared to cross his path. He had a lot on his mind, constantly strategizing and ensuring his own self-preservation. Frank was well aware of his own criminal activities and carried a sense of guilt deep in his heart. However, due to his belief in his own invincibility, he had become indifferent to the consequences of his actions.

However, unbeknownst to him, Calogero and Domenico were standing just outside the bathroom door, listening intently. Calogero cautiously opened the door, allowing it to reveal a small gap. With precision, he extended his hand, taking aim at Frank, and fired two shots directly into the back of his head. Frank instantly collapsed to the floor, lifeless. Seizing the opportunity, Domenico followed suit, inserting his hand through the doorway and unloading several rounds into Frank’s head and motionless body.

Charlie and Sal approached the house, each holding two canisters of gasoline.

As they neared the door, their attention was drawn to the second car parked behind Carlos’ car.

“Hey, Sal, this second car looks very familiar,” Charlie remarked.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it before,” Sal replied.

Upon reaching the door, Calogero and Domenico slowly opened it, causing Charlie and Sal to freeze in shock. Calogero and Domenico gestured for silence, placing their index fingers to their lips.

“Charlie,” Calogero spoke in a low voice, “listen to me. Is my son here?”

“Yes, he is,” Charlie confirmed.

“What are you guys doing?” Calogero questioned, his voice filled with urgency.

“Be honest.”

Sal pointed towards the house, knowing the weight of their words in the presence of a man of honor like Calogero. They carefully considered their response before speaking.

“Don Calogero,” Charlie began, “we were instructed to burn this house down. It was all Frank Zaza’s idea. He even killed your brother and his wife. We have always been loyal to you, but circumstances have changed during your absence.”

“I asked,” Calogero demanded, “where the fuck is my son?”

Reluctantly, Sal revealed the truth.

“He’s… they have him tied up in the upstairs bedroom.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Calogero exclaimed.

“Zaza,” Sal began, placing the blame squarely on him, “it was Frank Zaza. I believe Zaza wanted to assert his dominance while you were away, Don Calogero.”

Despite his trembling, Sal gathered his courage to share the story, maintaining his composure in front of the true boss.

“Frank aimed to take control, town by town.”

Calogero inquired, “Who killed Gaetano, the old man, and his driver?”

“First and foremost,” Charlie interjected, striving to reassure Calogero, “your son is upstairs, unharmed. We haven’t laid a finger on him. Secondly, it was Zaza who orchestrated all this madness.”

Charlie stumbled over his words.

“He’s responsible. Zaza was the one who carried out the killings.”

“Don Calogero,” Sal added, “Zaza probably assumed you would never return. He most likely believed you were dead.”

“Yeah,” Charlie chimed in, deceiving Calogero, “it was him. Zaza desired Gaetano’s estate, his wealth—everything. Zaza wanted it all.”

Charlie hoped his lie would go unnoticed by Calogero, as his life would be in grave danger otherwise. With Calogero burdened by his own thoughts, he gave everyone a reprieve. Had Calogero discovered the truth—that we were the ones who murdered Gaetano and his driver—we would all have faced certain death, starting with Sal and Charlie.

“Frank, he wanted everything…” Sal interjected.

“Now,” Calogero spoke, attempting to extract the truth from both Charlie and Sal, knowing that it didn’t matter anymore, “as you can see, I’m back. So, you better tell me the damn truth because I’ve learned it was my brother Andimo, Vito, Joseph and you two who killed Gaetano and his driver.”

“No,” Charlie denied, lying through his teeth, “no, no, no, that’s not true. That’s not true. They lied, they lied to you. It was Zaza. He was the one behind their deaths.”

“Don Calogero,” Domenico interjected, focusing on what truly mattered, “come on. It's getting late.”

Upstairs, in the bedroom, Sam and I sat at the edge of the bed, our shotguns pointed at Carlos, Ruben, and Santo. They were still hog-tied on the floor, blindfolded, and with their mouths taped shut.

“Hey,” Sam said, breaking the silence, “Vito, where are Charlie and Sal? What’s taking them so long? They’ve been gone for a while now.”

“They’re probably still searching for the gasoline. Frank might be helping them,” I replied.

“You ever heard the saying, if you want something done right, do it yourself?” Sam pondered.

Charlie, Sal, Domenico, and Calogero ascended the stairs and approached the room, from which they could hear voices. Sam got up from the bed, glanced back at me, and opened the door. He was taken aback when he saw Calogero. As Calogero entered the bedroom with Domenico, he smacked Sam across the face. Calogero and Domenico aimed their guns at Sam and me, while Charlie and Sal followed suit by entering the room. Calogero gazed down at his son, feeling a pang of remorse, yet acknowledging the path he had chosen.

“Vito,” I got real nervous and stammered, feeling the weight of his gaze, when he addressed me, “who tied up my son? And who is this man, along with the young boy?”

“It was all Frank Zaza’s doing,” I responded.

“He’s responsible for the deaths of your brother, his wife, Gaetano, his driver, and he even intended to burn this man, his son, and your son alive inside this house,” I revealed, my voice filled with urgency and gravity.

“It was Zaza…”

Calogero mimicked my words, “It was Zaza. Zaza did this…”

The truth was elusive for Calogero, as it perished when he and his underboss killed Frank Zaza.

“Zaza did that. Look, I just want the damn truth, Vito! Because, Zaza is dead now!”

Besides, as long as his son remained unharmed, Calogero didn’t care who had done what.

“So, I guess you guys are the only ones left,” Calogero remarked.

“Sam,” Domenico instructed, “clean up this mess.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam replied.

“Someone untie my son,” Calogero requested.

“I’ll do it,” I volunteered.

I approached Santo, knelt down, and began untying him.

“Vito,” Calogero called, “untie this man and his son, and get them out of here safely. Make sure he keeps his mouth shut. Oh, and Vito, ensure nobody messes with my son ever again.”

“Whatever you say, Don Calogero. That’s why I was here—to ensure nothing happened to your son,” I lied, fully aware that as long as Frank was dead, Calogero would never learn the truth.

“What are we going to do now?” Domenico questioned Calogero, seeking his guidance.

“They’re systematically eliminating us, one by one. Even if we manage to kill them all, they’ll find a way to keep coming after us, won’t they? This is their way. Unless we wipe out every last one of them, this will never end… until we’re all dead.”

Calogero pondered the thought, speculating on their options.

“If we eliminate them all, eventually there will be no one left to come after us, right? The only problem is, we don’t know who or how many of them are still coming for us.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Domenico inquired.

“America?” Calogero suggested.

“Yeah,” Domenico agreed, “it’s time to go to America. This war will be fought… in America. Now that we have your son, that’s all we needed. Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah, let’s see if they can fuck with us in America,” Calogero asserted.

Now, back in the town of Castellammare Di Stabia, Sicily, just a few days before Calogero’s departure to America with his son Santo, Domenico gave an order. He instructed Charlie and Sal to retrieve Calogero’s car. And despite Calogero’s intention to handle the task himself, Domenico insisted that Charlie and Sal take care of it. At this point, the remaining individuals on Calogero’s side were Domenico, Sam, Charlie, his brother Sal, and myself, Vito Yannone. Everyone else in Calogero’s family structure had been murdered.

So, Charlie and Sal entered Calogero’s car. However, when Charlie attempted to start the vehicle, it was instantly engulfed in an explosion triggered by a remote control bomb. The blast shattered the surrounding windows, and Charlie and Sal were killed on the spot. Only minuscule fragments remained of their bodies.

It was a somber moment as the lifeless bodies multiplied, scattered across the globe. Within a few weeks, Calogero had witnessed the complete collapse of his entire family structure. It became evident that this war would not cease until every underworld figure, including Calogero himself, whom he had once vouched for, met their demise.

But, what haunted Calogero the most was the knowledge that he had handed Massimo Novoletta a comprehensive list. This list contained the names, addresses, and photographs of the most influential and powerful bosses worldwide. Initially, each boss had contributed to secure the holy power, but now that very list sealed their fates.

The Vatican’s Assassination Team of five chosen assassins, Giovanni, Alberto, Nunzio, Silvino, and Tommasso, were dispatched to track down and eliminate all the bosses on the hit list. Their next target was New York. Ultimately, the decision to kill Calogero fell upon Novoletta. However, he had no choice but to carry out the orders given to him. Calogero’s name occupied the top position on the hit list, causing anticipation among the influential figures within the Vatican, especially his son Santo.

The five assassins initially believed that locating Calogero would be easy, leading them to focus their efforts on targeting the other individuals listed. Within a week after the tragic bombing that claimed Charlie and Sal’s lives, twelve bosses and numerous members of their organizations met their demise.

Undeterred, the Assassination Team continued their search for the remaining targets on the list, while also extending their actions to those not initially listed. The relentless war against the Vatican, the mafia, and all other marked bosses persisted. However, there came a point when Calogero reached his breaking point, having endured enough!

Calogero, accompanied by his underboss, Sam, and I, brought his son to America. Once Calogero knew his son was safe and out of harm’s way, he instructed Domenico to arrange a meeting with the most powerful bosses of the five crime families in New York. Calogero placed great trust in Domenico, knowing that Domenico feared him. Calogero had a strict policy of not keeping individuals around him who could potentially become a threat. He prided himself on being an astute judge of character, at least in his own estimation.

Calogero’s internal crime family structure once mirrored the traditional Americanized mafia structure. He held the position of boss over all the bosses worldwide. Not only was he the boss of bosses, but he also had his own structured family, of which he was the boss. As the boss, Calogero retained an underboss, a loyal consigliere, and several dedicated Captains. Additionally, he commanded the loyalty of several hundred soldiers who were always ready to act.

The true source of his power lay in the way he governed his own family. In Calogero’s family, a rule was established that the several hundred soldiers would only deal with their respective Captains. None of the family soldiers ever had direct contact with Calogero. Likewise, the family Captains never met Calogero or the underboss, Domenico, in person. Only the Consigliere held knowledge of Calogero and Domenico’s true identities.

When Calogero wanted someone eliminated, he would meet with his underboss, with the consigliere present during the meeting. This arrangement allowed Calogero to distance himself from the act of murder. He would assign the responsibility for the hit to Domenico. Domenico, in turn, would delegate the task to one of the family Captains.

The chosen Captain understood that they had the option to pass it down further, but within Calogero’s family structure, intelligence was valued. The Captain had to make wise decisions when it came to carrying out the hit. The Captain, as usual, delegated the hit to one of the family soldiers, and the mission was accomplished. Trust held significant importance within Calogero’s family structure before it was torn apart from top to bottom.

In the end, Calogero always knew whom to rely on for passing along important matters. That’s why he selected Domenico to reach out to the five most influential bosses in New York. Calogero hoped that together they could resolve the ongoing war against the Vatican. The five bosses of New York willingly agreed to meet with Calogero. Calogero was unsure of what he would say to them, but it didn’t concern him much. After all, he held the position of their boss. Calogero had a deep familiarity with the five bosses, especially with Sam and me, as we were developing a close friendship.

Sam Vagans and I, Vito Yannone, were the ones who proposed the idea of uniting with Calogero to the other crime families. Our aim was to exponentially increase our collective power and eliminate everyone associated with the Assassination Team, including their roots.

Calogero believed that Charlie, Sal, Sam, and I were under the powerful controlling influence of Frank Zaza, leaving us with no choice but to side with him or face certain death. It seems that Calogero had come to the conclusion that we were the ones who had protected his son, considering our close friendship with his late brother Andimo. However, the truth was that, under the control and influence of Frank Zaza, we had actually intended to kill his son as well.

Despite this disturbing truth, or perhaps because of it, I remained fiercely loyal to Calogero, unwavering in my allegiance no matter the circumstances. Yes, Calogero could have chosen to kill Charlie, Sal, Sam, and I for getting him entangled in the situation that arose after we killed Gaetano and his loyal driver. But was he absolutely certain that we were the ones responsible for their deaths?

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. At this point, Calogero needed all of us, but why? I guess we were all that was left from the past, a past he chose never to forget. And I guess we reminded him of that. Now, it was evident that Calogero had shifted his focus from living for himself to living for his son, Santo. Every move Calogero made from here on was solely aimed at paving a straight and secure path for his son’s future throne. He wanted Santo not only to be accepted but also respected when the time came for him to take over the throne.

And that’s why Calogero handed Sam and me positions of power instead of eliminating us. He wanted to ensure that his son had at least two loyal men in his life who were ready to guide him in his most important role ever. Our task was to facilitate a smooth transition for Santo without any interruptions.

It struck me that despite all the harm we had caused this hardworking and battle-tested man, Calogero chose not to take our lives. Instead, he granted us the ultimate life. He gave us a chance to redeem ourselves and become instruments of his final desire. We were fortunate to keep breathing, and as a result, we had no choice but to crumble under his gaze and carry out any command he gave us, even if it meant running through fire.

The moment Sam and I realized we were still alive when we should have been dead, we made a genuine decision. A real pact. We, along with those whom we could influence, would become Calogero’s humble servants for life. Why? Because Calogero truly deserved it, and we knew it. And, we were determined to make sure everyone in ‘the life’ knew what we knew… at all cost!

Upon Calogero’s arrival in New York, he somehow managed to remove two of the existing New York crime bosses and installed Sam and I as their replacements. This was our reward for choosing the life that we just had no choice but to humbly accept. And accept it we did.

It was highly suspicious that no one knew what had happened to the other two New York bosses, who were killed as soon as Calogero arrived in the city. But Sam and I were finally real bosses, so we didn’t give a shit. For all we knew, Calogero was the one who killed them. And desperate to prove his final point, Calogero was willing to do just about anything to guarantee his son’s acceptance and ensure that he would be completely respected when the time came for Santo to take over the throne.

Now, several days later, there was a mafia commission sit-down in New York, the first secret meeting that Calogero was excluded from.

The bosses gathered to discuss the mysterious deaths of Michael Valenza from the Valenza crime family and Giovanni Catanzaro from the Catanzaro crime family.

The details were scarce, and it seemed like nobody knew anything concrete. All they knew was that poor old Michele, the Valenza family boss, was discovered inside a church with his throat slit from ear to ear, a gruesome sight that shocked everyone.

The following day, Calogero appointed Sam Vagans as the replacement for the Valenza family boss, effectively renaming the family to the Vagans. As for Giovanni Catanzaro, his bloated body was found in his Long Island home, his head grotesquely riddled with bullets, left floating in a bathtub. Both of Giovanni’s ankles were bound with duct tape, and his hands were also restrained. In the aftermath of Giovanni’s assassination, Calogero chose me as the replacement, and the Catanzaro family became known as the Yannone family.

The other three crime bosses, Frederico Colando of the Colando family, Joey Sidona of the Sidona family, and Tommy Manorelli of the Manorelli family, harbored suspicions that Calogero had some involvement in the deaths of Michael and Giovanni.

However, there was little they could do but go along with it while maintaining their skepticism. Calogero instructed Sam and I to do whatever it took to establish communication with the three other bosses. We assured them that everything would be alright, emphasizing Calogero’s expertise and strategic capabilities. Days passed, and time became inconsequential. The sole focus was on survival amidst the ongoing war.

Now, Calogero, his son, and Domenico resided in a luxurious five-star hotel in Manhattan, regardless of the cost. Money held no significance to Calogero; his priority was the relentless pursuit of victory.

One night, at the hotel, Calogero put his son to sleep while Domenico went out on business to persuade the other three New York bosses to align with their boss.

After taking a shower and exiting the bathroom, Calogero found his childhood friend, Massimo Novoletta, sitting on the couch. Novoletta exuded the demeanor of a professional assassin, seemingly possessed by his brother’s spirit. On his lap rested a Mac-11 Uzi machine gun, equipped with a built-in suppressor, and nervousness was evident as sweat dripped down his face. Instead of aiming for Calogero’s head, Novoletta shot him with a seemingly benign smile.

Novoletta remarked, “This hotel is very exclusive and very expensive. However, the security is lacking. Don’t you think?”

Calogero harbored no anger towards Novoletta; he simply wanted to understand why this was happening.

“So,” Calogero questioned, “what do you want? How did you know I was here? And I hope you haven’t touched my son.”

Novoletta assured him, “Your son is safe in the bedroom. There’s… there’s no need to involve him. This is between you and me. Besides, I came here because I wanted to speak with you in person.”

Calogero remained composed despite Novoletta’s armed presence on his couch.

“Novoletta,” Calogero said, “we can talk. But, why did you bring the machine gun? What is it for?”

Aware of his advantage, Novoletta remained silent, allowing Calogero to lead the conversation.

Calogero continued, “If you and I have any kind of problems, we’ll overcome them. Let me take my son somewhere safe, and I promise I’ll return. We can discuss whatever you want to talk about.”

Novoletta looked down at his weapon, contemplating his next move.

He then lifted his gaze to meet Calogero’s eyes and responded with a softened tone, “You don’t have to take your son to any place safe. Your son is safe. Right here with us. Trust me. I didn’t come here to hurt your son. Like I said, I came here because I wanted to speak with you in person.”

“And like I said, Novoletta, we’ve known each other for many, many years. I’m still loyal to you. Whatever the issue is, we can resolve it together.”

For a moment, there was a humbled silence in the air that revealed the depth of their true relationship and the turmoil they were currently facing. Calogero’s plea for understanding and resolution demonstrated his real loyalty, while Novoletta’s acknowledgment of Calogero’s concerns assured him that his son was safe in their presence.

The weight of their words hung heavy in the room, creating an atmosphere where even the slightest sound could be heard. In that moment, you could hear a pin drop. Moved by Calogero’s sincerity, Novoletta decided to break his silence.

“Look, I’m in a lot of fucking trouble,” he confessed, trembling with fear.

Calogero questioned, “Come on… what could you possibly be scared of?”

Novoletta admitted, “I’m scared of you, Don Calogero.”

Calogero smiled, hoping to alleviate Novoletta’s anxiety.

“Come on,” he urged, “you know you can talk to me, Novoletta. Put the machine gun down. There’s no need for weapons between us.”

Novoletta placed the machine gun on his lap, aware that he had pushed the boundaries. His trembling index finger remained on the trigger.

“Alright,” Novoletta acquiesced.

“I’ll be straightforward with you. The most powerful elite men in the Vatican have hired an Assassination Team of five skilled, professional assassins. They’re already here in New York, searching for everyone you vouched for. They possess the list—the damn list you gave me to hand over to them!”

Novoletta nodded solemnly.

“The list with names, addresses, pictures, and known locations of everyone you vouched for,” he emphasized.

“The five assassins are here! And they’re here to eliminate the five New York bosses and dismantle their entire family structure. I believe, they’ve already found two of the bosses.”

Novoletta urgently warned Calogero, “Look, these are professionals. They never miss. And they won’t stop until they’ve killed every single one of you on that hit list. Do you understand me?”

Calogero had two pressing questions.

“Why are you telling me all this? And why didn’t you reveal my location to them?” he inquired.

“Why didn’t you just… give me up?”

Novoletta’s response was resolute.

“Because,” he said, “maybe I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, my friend. Besides, they assigned me the task of killing you.”

Amidst the tense conversation, Calogero remarked, “If you wanted to kill me, you could have riddled me with bullets as I emerged from the bathroom, because it’s obvious that you now look like you have no choice in the matter. So, why didn’t you? Why didn’t you just… kill me on the spot? And don’t give me any excuses about you not being a killer. You know… you need to do this. You need to do this now. Or else… they will kill you, my friend.”

As Calogero stood, ready for whatever outcome, he felt an instant feeling of emptiness and loss, yet he was not broken. The fact that Calogero could instantly forget about everything and continue on in life is what always put him back together, preventing him from cracking.

Why should I lie? Calogero’s feelings of emptiness and loss silently brought to mind Catania, the woman he had been forced to kill in order to protect his son Santo. It also reminded him of the loss of his late brother Andimo, his brother’s wife Antonina, and all the loyal men who had lost their lives in the treacherous world they inhabited.

The thought of them weighed heavily on Calogero, haunting him with the senseless loss they had endured. It was something he couldn’t bear to constantly dwell on. But, he had no choice. Calogero firmly believed that as long as his son Santo successfully ascended to the throne and had at least two powerful mentors to guide him through the transition, his own purpose would be fulfilled.

All that remained was for Novoletta to end Calogero’s life with a storm of bullets, freeing him from the haunting pain that had brought him and his childhood friend Massimo Novoletta to this final moment in time. And though Calogero longed for death and sometimes entertained thoughts of ending his own life, he lacked the conviction to follow through. Calogero knew this about himself, which is why he respectfully invited Novoletta to be the one to end his life.

“Why don’t you kill me right now? You see… I’m unarmed.”

“Yeah, I could,” admitted Novoletta, “but I don’t really want to kill you. I never did.”

Calogero pressed, “Why not? I’m unarmed. So, how can I stop you? This is your chance, Novoletta. Do it! I’d rather have you kill me than anyone else in the world. Because if you don’t, you know, they will kill you, and pretty much everyone you’ve ever shaken hands with.”

Novoletta’s voice softened as he replied to Calogeros provocative words, “What, are you nuts? That’s not even my style. Considering that I never killed a single person in my life, a man like me doesn’t kill a man like you, face to face. And besides, I owe you one for saving my life. And for that, I am really, truly grateful. And you know that…”

Calogero questioned, “And how does that relate to the present situation? When you know if you don’t kill me… they will kill you.”

“Yeah, I known that,” Novoletta admitted.

“Tell me something I don’t know. I was just hoping you could help me again. In doing so, you and those who are still alive can remain alive too.”

“If you need help with anything,” Calogero cautiously addressed Novoletta, unsure of his true loyalty or intentions while armed, “you’ve got it. No problem. I just want my son to stay alive, and ultimately, reap the rewards that he has coming to him. And I don’t want him harmed. Look, together, we can take care of our Vatican problem. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll provide it for you.”

Novoletta, after briefly rubbing his index finger, thumb, and middle fingers together, stated his demand.

“I need money. A substantial amount of money. Enough to disappear and never come back.”

Calogero inquired, “How much money do you think you’ll need?”

Novoletta’s humble smile morphed into a greedy grin.

“Millions, Don Calogero. I need many, many millions. And, I know you can get it for me.”

Calogero mirrored Novoletta’s gesture, rubbing his index finger, thumb, and middle fingers together.

“Sure, this is what you want, right? I can make it happen for you immediately. I can get you however much money you need, Novoletta.”

After a brief pause, Calogero added, “But first, I need to have a sit-down with all the surviving bosses.”

Novoletta questioned, “What are you going to say to them? Or better yet, what can you say to them?”

Calogero admitted, “I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say to them. Do you have any bright ideas, Novoletta?”

Novoletta, confident in his plan, shared his suggestion.

“Tell them the truth. Let them know you have a loyal, battle-tested, trustworthy man inside the Vatican who can help you and keep all of them alive.”

Novoletta believed that as long as he could make Calogero understand that his needs were the same as his, everything would go smoothly.

“Tell them I can provide them with the names, addresses, pictures, and current locations of the five assassins responsible for ensuring each of you is killed.”

“Okay,” Calogero agreed.

“I’ll collect a million or two from each surviving boss.”

Knowing he could negotiate for more, Novoletta made his counteroffer.

“No deal,” he stated firmly.

“I want ten million dollars from each boss still standing… including you, Don Calogero.”

Calogero was taken aback.

“Wow,” he exclaimed.

“Get the hell out of here. You’re joking? You’re not kidding me? That’s, a significant amount of money.”

“I know it is,” Novoletta shrugged.

“After all, as you can see, when it comes to life, money isn’t everything, Calogero. So, do we have a deal or not?”

“Sure… sure. We have a fucking deal. I promise you, Novoletta, you will get all your money,” Calogero agreed, emphasizing his commitment.

Calogero checked his mental checklist before continuing, “But those addresses better be good. We don’t want to know where these five bums were fucking yesterday, capeesh! We want to know where the fuck they’re going to be tomorrow. You got that?!”

Novoletta, aware of how to keep Calogero’s interest, replied confidently, “Oh, I know what you mean. You don’t have to worry. This is going to be good for both of us. Trust me, Don Calogero.”

“Alright,” Calogero cut to the chase.

“How fast can I get that list of these five bums?”

“As soon as I get my money, you’ll get the names, pictures, and their addresses of where they are right this very minute. So, do we have a deal, Don Calogero?”

“Of course, we have a deal. By the way, thank you very much for helping… all of us survive.”

“No, thank you. By the way,” Novoletta got up from the couch and approached Calogero, handing him the machine gun, “I really brought this machine gun for your own protection. I thought maybe you could use a few of them.”

“Thanks again, Novoletta.”

Calogero glanced at the machine gun and mimicked shooting into the air.

“Now this is what I’m fucking talking about,” he exclaimed.

“This is nice, very nice. You think you can get me a couple more?”

“Sure, why not. For you, I’ll throw them in, as a gift from me to you,” Novoletta generously agreed.

Calogero had one more question, “When I get all the money, how will I contact you?”

Novoletta handed him a business card with a phone number written on it.

“Here’s my card. Give me a call,” he said.

Before parting ways, Novoletta added, “When you've got all the money ready for me, just call me. Take your time. Remember, Don Calogero, the longer you guys fucking take, the less time you will all have to live.”

Novoletta’s gaze wandered towards the well-stocked liquor bar, his eyes momentarily fixated on the array of bottles. Meanwhile, Calogero let the weight of their conversation sink in, his thoughts resonating with the words he had just spoken.

“I’ll be waiting for your call, Calogero.”

After sharing a few drinks and shaking hands, Novoletta left the hotel penthouse with a big, huge, demonic, greedy smile on his face.

Now, after Novoletta left, Calogero sat down on the couch that his best friend had recently occupied. His intentions were not to outsmart or manipulate Novoletta into his lucrative deal, but rather to contemplate the lives of those who still remained. Calogero, the boss of all bosses, lived by a strict code of loyalty, always going the extra mile for the men who had tirelessly protected his name and throne throughout the years of battles. He felt it was the least he could do for those who didn’t deserve to die for actions beyond their control.

Calogero, with his battle-tested experience, desired to ensure the safety of his men and pave a secure path for his son Santo to inherit the throne without any complications. Combined with Novoletta’s insatiable greed, it provided the necessary universal force for Calogero to ensure the Uzi machine gun in Novoletta’s hands ended up in his possession.

Sitting on the couch, gripping Novoletta’s weapon, Calogero was overwhelmed by thoughts of how easily Novoletta could have ended his life with a single squeeze of the trigger, faster than the deal had been made. In Calogero’s mind, as long as he had Novoletta on his side, everything seemed fixed, unchangeable, and permanent. However, Calogero’s belief in Novoletta’s innocence and his unwavering trust in his childhood friend caused him to underestimate the power of Novoletta’s immense, unadulterated greed.

Calogero’s certainty in the finality and unalterable nature of his decision, plan, and arrangement with Novoletta stemmed from Novoletta’s immense greed alone. Calogero believed that due to this greed, it would be challenging to modify or change the plan to eradicate the Vatican’s team of professional assassins.

So in Calogero’s eyes, the deal with Novoletta had reached a point of no return. From this moment forward, everything was “set in stone,” figuratively speaking. The deal he made with his childhood friend Novoletta and its expected outcome would be tremendously rigid and resistant to any kind of alteration.

And that’s precisely what Calogero believed, or rather, it was the outcome he fervently anticipated. With Novoletta, his devoted childhood companion, aiding him in safeguarding those he swore to protect at any cost, Calogero envisaged a future where their collective efforts would prevail. However, as I mentioned before, Calogero’s unwavering faith in Novoletta’s innocence and his deep trust in their longstanding friendship not only clouded his judgment but also led him to underestimate the sheer magnitude of Novoletta’s insatiable greed.

So, a few days later, as the sun rose past 8:00 A.M., a sense of anticipation filled the air at the illustrious Plaza Hotel in the heart of New York City. The grand meeting room was meticulously prepared for a pivotal gathering, where the fate of the underworld hung in the balance. The room buzzed with an air of tension and significance, as the four influential New York bosses, alongside myself, gathered in anticipation of Don Calogero’s arrival. As Calogero entered the room accompanied by Domenico, he took a moment to express his gratitude.

“Vito, Sam, I want to extend my sincere thanks to both of you for helping us arrange this meeting today.”

All eyes focused on Calogero, eagerly awaiting his words.

Addressing the room, Calogero continued, “I also want to acknowledge the heads of the New York five families: Vito Yannone from Manhattan, Tommy Manorelli from Queens, Frederico Colando from the Bronx, Joey Sidona from Staten Island, and Sam Vagans from Brooklyn.”

Calogero’s gaze shifted, acknowledging the presence of bosses from across the country.

“I want to express my heartfelt appreciation to all the other bosses who have traveled from far and wide, including California, Florida, Texas, Kansas City, and other significant territories. Your presence here means a great deal.”

Taking his seat, Calogero was assisted by Domenico, who ensured his comfort. Many of the attending bosses had brought along their trusted underbosses or formidable bodyguards, whose formidable martial skills were evident.

In a moment of reflection, Calogero glanced at the assembled group and posed a poignant question, “How… how did things spiral into such disarray?”

The room fell into a hushed silence, unable to provide an immediate answer. Some bosses helped themselves to the refreshing cold water offered in exquisite crystal pitchers placed strategically on the imposing solid oak table. Silver trays displayed an assortment of fruits and cheeses, providing modest sustenance and tasteful embellishment to the table.

The atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the gathering awaited the next turn of events. The weight of the situation hung in the air, as if suspended by an invisible thread. For a brief moment, absolute quiet prevailed. Tommy, in a show of respect, placed his right hand over his chest.

“Are we all engaged in a war?” he questioned Calogero.

The boss from Texas seemed eager to speak, but Tommy silenced him with a wave of his hand. Tommy’s sole intention was to hear what Calogero, his boss, had to say.

Calogero imitated Tommy, placing his hand on his chest and affirming, “Yes, Tommy, we are at war.”

“But with whom?” Tommy inquired.

“Tommy,” Calogero replied, his gaze shifting to each of us, “we are at war with those in the Vatican who bestowed upon us the sacred Holy power.”

“Why?” Joey interjected.

“It was Zaza’s fault,” Calogero revealed.

“Frank?” questioned Tommy.

“But, isn’t he your man… in Sicily?”

“Zaza, yes,” Calogero confirmed, his tone carrying a hint of regret.

“I warned you about him. He had the potential to be a valuable earner, but his ambition blinded him. He coveted your position, without grasping the sacrifices and hard work you’ve dedicated to sustain our way of life.”

Most of the bosses found themselves in agreement, their silent exchange of glances and affirmative nods affirming their alignment with Tommy’s perspective. The room was filled with a palpable sense of consensus, with each nod serving as a confirmation of their collective understanding.

However, standing apart from the concurring majority were Sam and I. We maintained an air of reservation, our dissenting views apparent in our expressions. Despite this contrast, Calogero maintained a composed smile, reciprocating the nods of those who shared his viewpoint.

“Why that low-down dirty bastard?” Joey exclaimed.

“What did he do now?!”

“What did he do?” Calogero responded.

“Frank Zaza killed an untouchable holy man. Someone with the Holy power bestowed on him by non other than the pope himself. The same power I received, which made me, as well as all of you here, untouchable. Yes. It was Frank Zaza.”

“But of course it was him!” Tommy exclaimed.

“I told you he was the weakest link… a long, long tome ago!”

“So… that’s why,” Joey realized, “they killed Giovanni and Michael. Wow! Are they really trying to eliminate all of us too?”

“That’s exactly… what they are doing,” Calogero confirmed, “right now.”

“Look, follow me… The Vatican’s elite, fully backed up by the pope himself, has hired five professional assassins to kill every single one on the list that I gave to them. This Assassination Team is using the list of those that I have vouched for to take us all out, one by one. So, need I remind everyone here that’s present, because they have our names and pictures of all of us, they know who each and everyone one of us are, our friends, family, and they also know exactly where they could find every single one of us.”

Calogero paused for a moment, so as we could all think about what he was telling each and everyone of us, and to think about what he was going to tell us next.

“Gentlemen, not only is my name on that hit list, but they have all of your pictures, names and addresses too. And believe me… they won’t stop until each and every single one of us here is dead. Look around you…”

It took a few seconds for everyone to acknowledge each other’s presence as they glanced around the room and back at Calogero.

“For we are the only ones left.”

“Calogero,” Sam addressed, “please, share your knowledgeable wisdom with all of us present. Tell us… what do you suggest we all do about this war with the Vatican? Is there any way… I mean… any way possible we can win this war without losing more men? I mean, really…”

“Sure,” Calogero replied.

“But, the only way we could possibly win against those determined to make sure that we all take our last breath, is by sticking together. I have a contact in the Vatican. We grew up together, and I totally trust him.”

“Tell us… what can he do for all of us?” I asked.

“I mean… we’re dropping like fucking rain here.”

“For starters,” Calogero explained, “my friend in the Vatican, he can provide us with a list of their names, pictures, and addresses of these assassins for tomorrow.”

“Tell us,” Tommy urged Calogero, “what do we need to do to obtain that list of five names, pictures, and addresses?”

“My contact is asking for ten million dollars apiece,” Calogero revealed, “from every boss who is still alive, including myself.”

“That’s not bad,” Joey remarked.

He knew that his life was worth more than the money.

“If we end this now,” he continued, “we will never have to go through this again.”

Calogero slammed his fist on the table.

“So,” he declared, “do we go for it, or do we fight it out to the death, until there is not a single one of us left?!!!”

We jumped to attention. We looked at one another, and then we all looked at Calogero.

“Yeah…” said Tommy, “yeah, we should go with the cost instead of the loss of fighting to survive. I mean… after all… we are not animals here.”

Tommy gave Sam and I a dirty, filthy look, as if we both were not worthy of up-holding our positions of power.

“Considering what other people might think,” he said.

“Look, gentlemen… we each have more money than we need,” I said, seizing the opportunity to fully convince them.

“I say we all pay up… now!”

“He’s right,” said Sam.

“We can’t waste any more precious time,” said Joey.

“I’m in,” said Frederico.

“Let’s take the fucking Vatican out!!!”

All the other bosses from around the country agreed, eager for swift action.

I looked at Sam, and then I said to Calogero, “We’re going to win this war. Trust me…”

“Sure we will, Vito,” said Calogero.

“Remember, we are all bosses here. We will definitely take these motherfuckers down, no matter what!”

“And when we give this Vatican friend of yours… all the money,” Tommy interjected, seeking reassurance for his investment, “who’s going to be responsible for taking out these five assassins that supposedly can’t wait for all of us to take our last breath?”

“You mean… who’s going to kill them? No. You… none of you, don’t have to worry about that,” Calogero assured them, addressing all the bosses.

“None of you have to worry about that. Leave all that up to me.”

Calogero already had a plan in mind.

“You see,” he explained, “I know this really sick motherfucker who loves pulling multiple hits, even on days like Christmas and Easter. And he is with us. Always…”

“And what’s so motherfucking sick about this secret, mysterious character of yours?” Tommy asked.

“No disrespect, boss, and I know that I just don’t speak for myself here, but if you ask me, we’re putting up millions of dollars each, so this guy… man, he better be official. Cause… to me, he sounds like nothing more than a fantasy, like some kind of fucking, fake fairy-tale.”

“No. This man is the real-deal,” said Calogero.

“Battle-tested to the maximum. He will not let us down… ever. Trust me, he will get the job done. And when I tell you he’s sick… you better believe it. Besides,” continued Calogero, “after he pulls a Christmas hit, the man goes back home and puts the toys together for his own children. No one ever sees him coming. And by the time they see him coming, it is way, way too late. If he comes to your door, you won’t even know you even had a problem, because he makes you forget, instantly, by putting a shower bullets right through your head.”

Calogero knew how to tell a really good story. Yes… it was all true. Every single bit of it! The man that Calogero spoke, or better yet, boasted about was a real life psychotic, relentless, battle-tested, murderous psychopath, which was self-programmed to stop at nothing to get close to his “INTENDED TARGET.” In other words… the man that Calogero boasts about, without a doubt, is truly indeed a sick, twisted motherfucker.

“Yes,” said Tommy sarcastically, as he looked at me, “for sure, boss, this man that you speak about does sound erratically dangerous… like a sick, twisted fucking pretzel to me. Man, I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alleyway. But… we also need to think about the worst. For example… if this guy you speak so dearly about fails his mission, and gets killed… somewhere along the way, then it’s all over, for all of us here… including you, boss.”

“Hey,” asked Joey, changing the topic.

“What happened to that Zaza character?”

“Zaza?” said Calogero.

“He’s dead already.”

“Are you sure?” asked Tommy.

“Because, that motherless prick is a sneaky devilish, bastard.”

“Of course,” said Calogero.

“I took him out myself in Naples.”

“Good,” said Frederico.

“He deserved that shit!”

“Okay,” said Calogero, addressing all of us.

He pointed at Domenico.

“Domenico here will be responsible for collecting the cash money from each boss that’s still alive,” he said, “including from me. And… we should create a small pot for those that may have a bit of trouble getting the ten million. When Domenico brings me everyone’s money, I will contact my man inside the Vatican. Until then… we all should be very careful. And, just remember, these assassins are still out there… somewhere… still… trying to hunt all of us down, until… there is not a single one of us left!”

Calogero, with a look of confidence, glanced at each of us.

“Thank you all for being here. Get home safe.”

When the meeting was over, Calogero stood up from the chair, as Domenico respectfully pulled the chair out for him. Calogero gave us all a real, true hopeful outlook, and then he and Domenico walked out of the room. So… somehow, some way, Calogero, in less than a half-an-hour, had managed to convince me and all the other bosses he had vouched for to either pay up or face certain death. And this time around, we all had no choice, but to truly listen to him… at all cost!

We simply… had no choice in the matter. For it was something crucial that had to be done… or else… we all risk loosing everything that each and every one of us bosses had worked so, so hard for. Till this day… that we decided to all gather as one… not as individual entities. So… we had to go along with the plan… no matter what!

So… Calogero’s next perfectly-orchestrated, serious move was to call Novoletta and inform him that everything was going as planned. It took a few days, but Domenico managed to collect all the money. Twenty-something bosses, including Calogero, paid ten million dollars apiece.

As if on cue, two nights later, holding onto two metallic briefcases, Novoletta walked inside Calogero’s penthouse. It was a bit after 10:00 P.M. when Calogero presented Novoletta with two hundred-sixty million dollars in cash. Suitcase after suitcase, Domenico brought in the money. Domenico opened one of the suitcases. Novoletta could see it was filled with stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Domenico walked out of the penthouse, allowing Calogero and Novoletta to finally get down to business.

“Here is all your money,” said Calogero.

“Do you wish to count it?”

Novoletta’s eyes were satisfied.

“No,” he said.

“I trust you.”

“Okay,” said Calogero.

“Now that you have all your money, give me everything you got on them bums.”

Novoletta placed both metallic briefcases on top of the living room table. He opened one of the cases and reached inside, pulling out a large black envelope, which he handed over to Calogero.

“Inside that envelope,” said Novoletta, “are the names, pictures, and the locations of where the five assassins are, right this very minute. Honestly, unless they secretly sent more people to come after all of you, I’m pretty sure everything in that envelope is all you will need for all of you to stay alive.”

With a sense of accomplishment, Calogero opened up the envelope. He knew he had passed the first hurdle in getting closer to eliminating those hired by the Vatican to come after them.

“So,” asked Calogero, as he looked at the pictures, “these are the five bums sent to make our lives a living hell?”

“That is correct, Don Calogero.”

“What else did you bring me?”

Novoletta pointed at both briefcases.

“Besides the envelope,” he said, “I brought you these four MAC-11 Uzis, which I had promised you. There are two in each of the cases. My gift to you, Don Calogero. If you need any more, just let me know. I get them by the dozen.”

Calogero walked over to the briefcases. He opened one up and saw two brand new Uzis, complete with suppressors and bullet clips. Calogero reached for one of the Uzis when the phone rang. He answered it, and it was Domenico on the other end.

“Are we in business?” asked Domenico.

“Oh,” said Calogero, “yes, we are.”

“Okay,” said Domenico.

“Come downstairs. I’m in front of the hotel.”

“Where’s my son at?” asked Calogero.

“He’s safe… in the car with me. He’s sleeping in the back seat.”

“Okay,” said Calogero, as his thoughts and movements went into fast mode.

“Wait for me, I’m coming right down.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

After the call, Domenico reached into his inside suit pocket. With an evil smile, he pulled out one of Novoletta’s business cards. Turning the card over, he revealed the words written on the back: DO NOT. I REPEAT. DO NOT FORGET THE REMOTE CONTROL BOX.

Calogero retrieved two hotel key cards and handed one to Novoletta. Instead of putting the second key card back in his own pocket, Calogero absentmindedly placed it inside the black envelope.

“Novoletta,” said Calogero, “that is the key card to get inside this penthouse. It’s yours. I’m out of here. Nice doing business with you, old pal. Take care of yourself. Take your time.”

Calogero hugged Novoletta and shook his hand.

“Look… you don’t have to worry about anything. You can stay here as long as you like, with everything on the house. So, stay as long as you like, pal.”

Calogero put the envelope inside the opened briefcase and closed it up. He grabbed hold of both briefcases and, without saying a single word, walked out of the penthouse.

It took a few seconds to sink in for Novoletta to realize what he had just done. Despite making millions of dollars for helping Calogero, he didn’t feel good at all. Once Novoletta felt Calogero was long gone, he made himself a strong drink and sat down on the couch, staring at all the suitcases filled with money.

The weight of his actions settled upon him like an oppressive fog. Despite the fortune he had amassed by aiding Calogero, a profound emptiness consumed him. The allure of wealth had become tainted, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Bound to the Vatican, Novoletta reveled in the power and reverence it bestowed upon him. But he knew that his association with Calogero had severed his ties to the influential men within those sacred walls. The reality loomed before him, forcing a choice he never wished to confront.

If Novoletta spared Calogero’s life, the Vatican would unleash a merciless contract on him, seeking not only his demise but the annihilation of his entire family, every single person he had ever vouched for. And if they ever discovered his betrayal of the five hired assassins, the punishment would be unimaginable. Moreover, escaping the clutches of his influential position as the revered Grand Master Mason of Loggia Propaganda 2 (P2), an international Masonic unit boasting a staggering membership of 464,000, seemed insurmountable.

The realization that there was nowhere left to hide sent chills down Novoletta’s spine. The prospect of his own demise loomed ominously. Reluctantly, he acknowledged the grim truth—he had no choice but to eliminate Calogero. The thought of suicide briefly danced across his troubled mind, yet the insidious greed that coursed through his veins compelled him to cling to life, savoring the spoils he had acquired.

Meanwhile, in Calogero’s residence, nestled in Ridgewood, Queens, a palpable tension hung in the air. The late hour signaled the clandestine nature of the gathering. Calogero, ensuring his son Santo was safely asleep in an upstairs bedroom, descended the stairs and entered the living room, where his trusted underboss, Domenico, awaited. Taking a seat beside Domenico on the couch, Calogero spoke with a sense of urgency, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I need you to do me an immense favor.”

Domenico’s gaze met Calogero’s, his curiosity piqued.

“Of course,” he replied.

“What is it that you need?”

“I need you to arrange a meeting between the I.M. and I,” Calogero revealed, his words carrying a weight only understood within their dark world.

Domenico’s expression shifted, recognizing the gravity of the request.

“You mean the man?” he asked, a hint of apprehension coloring his vo.

Calogero nodded solemnly.

“Yes, I want you to bring him here. I have serious, yet profitable matters to discuss with him.”

Seeking clarity, Domenico pressed further.

“What… what exactly should I say to him? What is this about?”

Calogero’s eyes hardened, his resolve clear.

“Tell him… tell him nothing. When I see him, I will have the conversation. If he inquires, simply inform him that it’s an opportunity to amass great wealth.”

A brief pause followed as Calogero deliberated, before issuing a final command.

“And remember, don’t divulge anything else. Understood?”

Domenico assented, his loyalty unwavering.

“Of course,” he replied.

“When should I retrieve him?”

“Now,” Calogero stated firmly.

“I want you to fetch him immediately.”

Domenico’s eyebrows furrowed, skepticism evident in his vo.

“Right now? At this hour, where do you think I can find him?”

Calogero leaned back, his gaze fixed on a distant point.

“That, my friend, is a task I leave in your capable hands,” Calogero remarked, a flicker of confidence crossing his face.

“Besides, at this time, Domenico, you know where he’s always at.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Domenico responded, acknowledging the weight of the task at hand.

With purpose, he rose from the couch, exchanging a firm handshake with Calogero before making his way toward the front door.

“And you better not come back without him,” Calogero warned, his vo laced with a combination of expectation and authority.

“I know. Trust me, I won’t,” Domenico assured, his determination resonating in his words.

With resolute steps, he exited the house, disappearing into the night. Left alone in the living room, Calogero sauntered toward the bar section, his thoughts momentarily diverted. A desire for respite propelled him to concoct a drink, his hands deftly maneuvering the array of bottles and glassware, seeking solace in the familiar ritual.

Of course, it was the old change of plans that was responsible for changing absolutely everything. Calogero had just dropped off his son at Dianna Cochina’s apartment in the bustling Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. Dianna was one of the many women he had been involved with, though their relationship lacked depth. Calogero provided for her financially, but kept her on a tight leash to ensure she didn’t indulge in drugs, especially in the presence of his son.

Initially, Calogero had convinced himself that Dianna could play the role of a nurturing mother figure. However, he soon realized that transforming a prostitute and addict into a homemaker was an impossible task. And with his son safely situated, Calogero and Domenico embarked on their mission to seek the assistance of the man, the only viable solution to their Vatican predicament.

When Domenico reached out to the Iceman, he agreed to meet, but on his own terms. He declined the invitation to return to Calogero’s residence in Ridgewood, Queens. The Iceman, always vigilant in the perilous underworld of crime, was wary of meeting up with individuals who carried their own weapons. He took no chances with his own life. Instead, the Iceman preferred conducting meetings in the multitude of nightclubs scattered throughout the sprawling city of New York.

As Calogero and Domenico stepped into the nightclub shortly after midnight, the vibrant atmosphere instantly enveloped them. It happened to be Saturday, the club’s designated gay night, where DJ Junior Vasquez spun tracks that kept the energy high until sunrise. The tight security measures demanded Calogero and Domenico undergo thorough searches and pass through a metal detector before paying the twenty-five dollar entry fee.

Once inside, their eyes scanned the crowded space until they finally spotted the Iceman, providing a sense of relief. Occupying the entire VIP section, the Iceman sat at a table, surrounded by an assortment of expensive liquor bottles. Although the club catered to a homosexual clientele, neither Calogero nor Domenico felt entirely at ease with this unconventional meeting spot. The Iceman, noticeably intoxicated, beckoned them to take a seat with a wave of his hand. They complied, settling into their chairs while the pulsating music reverberated through the room. Despite the deafening noise, they strained to catch the Iceman’s words.

“I must admit,” the Iceman began, his voice cutting through the clamor, “meeting you and Domenico in this unconventional venue may raise some eyebrows. But a man in my position knows the value of blending into unexpected places. It keeps me one step ahead of the game, you understand?”

Calogero found himself momentarily speechless, his eyes darting between Domenico and the Iceman.

After a brief pause, he managed to respond, “Yeah, I suppose so.”

The Iceman, emanating an aura of familiarity and respect, spoke up.

“Just like old times, boss,” he acknowledged.

“We’ll share a few drinks, engage in conversation with you and Domenico, and afterwards, we’ll part ways, leaving no trace of this encounter. Like always…”

Calogero nodded in agreement, acknowledging the Iceman’s proposal. The weight of the situation hung in the air as they prepared to delve into the depths of their discussion. The nightclub continued to pulsate with energy, the music intensifying its grip on the crowd.

Reflecting on their long-standing history, Calogero posed a question to the Iceman, his voice filled with curiosity, “Mr. Ice, how long have we known each other? You and I?”

A reminiscent smile tugged at the corners of the Iceman’s lips as he replied, “Since… since we were kids, Don Calogero.”

Intrigued, Calogero pressed further, “Why do you call me ‘Don,’ Calogero?”

The Iceman’s expression turned mischievous, his eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and amusement.

“Well,” he began, his voice dripping with a hint of theatrics, “let’s see. You single-handedly wiped out all the dons in Italy and Sicily, seizing control of their territories. And your ruthless ambition and cunning earned you the title of don.”

Calogero nodded, acknowledging the truth in the Iceman’s words.

Then, refocusing the conversation, he asked, “Anyway, are you ready to take on some real serious work?”

The Iceman chuckled, his reply tinged with a casual nonchalance, “Hey, it’s not like I need the money, but I’m not taking anyone out for less than a million. And even that won’t be enough to satisfy my appetite for gambling, amigo.”

Calogero remained silent. With a nod of his head, Calogero agreed to the Iceman’s request. Calogero felt a bit disgusted as he witnessed a male couple making out on the dance floor, but he came to do business, so he disregarded any other thoughts that came to mind.

“Tell me,” said the Iceman, taking a sip of his drink, “what do you really want me to do? To whom do I owe this sit-down? It’s been quite a while since you’ve used my unique services.”

The Iceman took another sip.

“I guarantee you I have improved much on my killing skills and techniques, which will now enhance my killing spree. Last time we bumped heads was when I took out that guy who took out Novoletta’s brother. A piece of cake.”

“We know,” said Domenico.

“Just be careful with Massimo Novoletta,” the Iceman warned Calogero, his voice filled with a mix of concern and skepticism.

“He may be your childhood friend, but the grasp those psychopathic, satanic worshipers in the Vatican have on him is suffocating him… real bad. Who knows the extent of his involvement with them? How can we place our trust in someone like that?”

The Iceman paused to take a sip of his drink.

“We turn our backs just once, and we might risk losing our own lives. Those motherfuckers worship Satan. They’re kidnapping and sacrificing children and all that stupid shit. How can you trust people like that? Their lives don’t matter.”

“What do you think?” asked Calogero.

“The Vatican is very well funded,” replied the Iceman.

“They will never run out of money. They never continue their daily tasks until those they need to kill are dead. I know this because I follow the same code. However, these people have no soul. No honor.”

The Iceman nodded his head to the beat of the music.

“Making a deal with them is just like making a real deal with the devil himself.”

“I understand,” said Calogero.

“You can know them,” said the Iceman, his voice laced with caution, “but you should never do any kind of business with any of them. They’re all untrustworthy, every single one of them, including your childhood friend Massimo Novoletta. I mean, let’s face it, the man is a total fraud. Novoletta, being the coward that he is, had his own autistic brother carry out all the hits that the Vatican paid him for, until it all caught up to him and you had no choice but to save his life.”

The Iceman nodded his head to the rhythm of the music, his words carrying weight.

“You see, because his brother did all the dirty work, Novoletta managed to convince those top elite Vatican members that he’s a real battle-hardened assassin, completely devoid of any remorse. But let me tell you, Don Calogero, a man like him will eventually turn on you to protect his own life and reputation. And that’s the secret he’s been hiding from them, and us, for years—the true essence of who he really is.”

“Okay,” said Calogero.

“I understand.”

Calogero started to have second thoughts. He knew he should have killed Novoletta the second he got his hands on the list of the five hit men. However, Calogero was desperate to get rid of the Vatican problem. He wanted peace within the crumbling end of his family structure, and those he had vouched for. There was no way many loyal men were going to die because of a problem he didn’t even start.

“The next time I fucking see Novoletta,” said Calogero with an angry tone, “I’m going to take him out!”

“Please,” said the Iceman, making a gun with his hand and scraping his index finger across his neck, “let me take him out for you. You know if I see him first, he’s gone, my friend… he’s history”

“No,” said Calogero, his voice filled with determination, “I’ll take care of him myself.”

The Iceman nodded, acknowledging Calogero’s decision.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he replied, conceding, “he’s all yours. But if I find him first…”

Calogero interrupted him, a glint of familiarity in his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, Mr. Ice. After all these years, I’ve come to know your style. So… let’s put Novoletta aside for now.”

The Iceman poured a drink, contemplating his next words. With a swift motion, he downed the liquid courage.

“Now… let’s focus on business.”

“How many stones do you have in your shoe?” inquired the Iceman, his voice laced with curiosity.

“Five,” Calogero responded, his tone steady and resolute.

The Iceman leaned in, a predator preparing to strike.

“Sure, I can take out five,” he declared, his words oozing with deadly confidence.

“Without no problem…”

Calogero’s assurance remained unwavering.

“Yes, of course you can. Don’t worry. I have their names, pictures, and current locations, right down to this very minute.”

A smile tugged at the Iceman’s lips as he surveyed the array of liquor bottles on the table. He pointed to one, a silent invitation.

“Keep the drinks flowing, gentlemen. Tonight, it’s all on the Iceman. So, drink up and let loose. Here, everything falls under my domain. Care for a drink, boss?”

Calogero declined, a knowing smirk gracing his face. He had other matters to attend to. Domenico, however, seized a glass and placed it before the Iceman, his eyes yearning for respite.

“Just need something to take the edge off,” he confessed, vulnerability creeping into his voice.

The Iceman nodded, understanding the desire to find solace in the embrace of spirits.

“By all means, Mr. Domenico. Let the liquor soothe your weary soul. Shall we indulge?”

The Iceman filled Domenico’s glass halfway with gin.

“So,” said the Iceman to Calogero, “with all the information you’re giving me on these five assassing, it’s all about finding them, following them,” Domenico gulped down his drink, as he took mental pointers from the Iceman, “and when I think the time is right, they’ll surely get taken out, without any problems at all. I’ll bring you fast results, a head, a foot, and a couple fingers if that’s what you want.”

“Do you want all their information right now or tomorrow morning?” asked Calogero.

“Domenico here will get it for you.”

“Like always,” replied the Iceman, “the same thing. I’d like all that stuff for tonight, so by tomorrow morning I can go to work on finding these five bum-ass motherfuckers.”

Calogero looked at Domenico, as a good idea popped into his mind.

“Domenico,” said Calogero, “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Sure,” said Domenico, “whatever you need.”

“First, bring me home,” said Calogero.

“Afterwards, you come back here and give Mr. Ice here the stuff he will need to take care of business. And give him one of the brand new MAC-11 Uzis with the suppressor.”

“Sure,” said Domenico, “no problem. I’ll take care of that for you… for the quickness.”

Calogero shook the Iceman’s hand.

“Okay,” Calogero said to the Iceman, “it was good seeing you again, my friend. You take good care of yourself. Oh, by the way, be very careful.”

The Iceman took a sip of his drink.

“I hear these motherfuckers are professionals. You hear me?”

“You can forget about them,” said the Iceman, as he drew an X in the air with his hand.

“They used to be professionals. Don’t worry about it, boss. And you both have a good night.”

The Iceman put his drink down on the table.

“You both get home safe. I’ll see you guys very, very soon.”

“I sure hope so,” said Calogero.

Calogero, the Iceman, and Domenico rose from their seats, their intentions clear. With a firm handshakes, Calogero and Domenico bid farewell to the Iceman, their unspoken exchange filled with understanding. Wasting no time, Calogero and Domenico swiftly made their exit from the exclusive VIP section, leaving the pulsating ambiance of the club behind.

Following instructions, Domenico guided Calogero to his girlfriend’s apartment, where Calogero longed to reunite with his son, Santo. Once Domenico completed his task, he ventured to Ridgewood, Queens, the designated location to retrieve the coveted black envelope and the MAC-11 Uzi, accompanied by its suppressor.

In due course, Domenico rendezvoused with the Iceman, conducting the exchange of the black envelope and the weapon, away from prying eyes, a block away from the nightclub. Domenico’s journey from Manhattan to Ridgewood had taken its toll, and fatigue overcame him as he sought refuge in Calogero's residence, drifting into a deep slumber.

As the Iceman immersed himself in the depths of intoxication, a persistent curiosity tugged at his senses. The enigmatic black envelope, luring him with its secrets, finally overcame his resistance. Yielding to temptation, he carefully tore it open, revealing a collection of photographs nestled within. His gaze fixated on each image, his heart pounding with mounting disbelief. Within this ominous assortment of targets marked for elimination, one figure stood out, jarring his very existence—his own father.

A torrent of emotions surged through the Iceman’s veins, a blend of shock, confusion, and an unsettling sense of fate. The weight of his burdens suddenly multiplied, intertwining his personal vendettas with the perilous path he had chosen. The Iceman’s mind raced, grappling with the gravity of the situation. What had his father become? How had their paths diverged so drastically, converging now on a collision course defined by duty and blood ties?

In that solemn moment, amidst the haze of alcohol and the weight of his own choices, the Iceman’s resolve hardened. The world around him dimmed as he committed himself to an arduous journey, one that would force him to confront the depths of his own identity while navigating the treacherous realm of family loyalty and betrayal. The Iceman’s destiny, entwined with the photograph in his hands, beckoned him into a realm where the boundaries of right and wrong blurred, where duty and personal vendetta converged in a deadly dance.

A profound shock coursed through him, for he had never fathomed his father’s involvement in the realm of contract killings. Uncertainty gripped him, unsure of the path he should tread. Refusing to execute his own flesh and blood would undoubtedly prompt Calogero to mark him as a target, an undeniable contract on his life. The weight of his decision loomed heavy.

At his Central Park penthouse, the Iceman tumbled onto his king-size bed, overcome by dizziness and sickness. His massive frame, weighing 364 pounds and standing six feet five inches tall, collapsed onto the bed as he shut his eyes. Amidst the haze, his thoughts raced, reflecting on the distance he had traveled and the countless hits he had carried out. With a trembling hand, the Iceman brushed back his light brown hair, his only movement until morning broke.

In a twisted reality, the Iceman’s father embodied the archetype of a real sadistic serial killer, targeting many street prostitutes, human traffickers, drug cartel members, murderers, rapists, pedophiles and pimps for his own sadistic pleasure or perhaps driven by a misguided sense of vigilante justice. But soon, his father found solace within the confines of the local Masonic lodge, which is the basic organizational unit of Freemasonry.

And once he became a Freemason himself, he climbed its ranks to become a hired assassin for the Vatican’s upper echelons, just like Massimo Novoletta. However, the Iceman’s father was the real deal—a true murderous practitioner of darkness, concealed within the seemingly innocent facade of a Masonic brotherhood.

So, when morning arrived, the Iceman glanced at the alarm clock—6:40 A.M., signaling the commencement of his work. Pouring a cup of black coffee, he settled at the kitchen table and gingerly opened the black envelope. Taking a sip, he spilled its contents onto the table. True to Calogero’s words, the photographs, addresses, and names of the five targets lay before him. Among them, a hotel key card caught his attention, displaying the name and room number.

Puzzled, the Iceman held the key card in his hand, its purpose eluding him. His mind whirred, attempting to unravel the significance hidden within its existence. Little did he know, it was a mere oversight, a remnant of Calogero’s haste, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Unaware that the key card granted access to Novoletta’s exclusive penthouse, the Iceman had no time for leisurely contemplation. With urgency gripping his every move, he couldn’t afford to dismiss any possibilities. The need to verify its purpose nagged at him, urging him to tap into his intelligence and adapt to the situation at hand.

And drawing upon his resourcefulness, the Iceman set forth on a path of investigation. Every piece of information, no matter how seemingly insignificant, would be analyzed and scrutinized. He would leave no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, in his relentless pursuit of truth.

Time pressed against him, driving his senses into overdrive. The stakes had risen, entangling him further in the intricate web of secrets and deception. As he embarked on this newfound mission, the Iceman braced himself for the challenges ahead, armed with determination and a formidable intellect.

The key card, once a simple object of curiosity, now held the potential to unlock doors both physical and metaphorical. Its true purpose remained shrouded, urging the Iceman to untangle the enigma that lay before him. With each step taken, he inched closer to a revelation that could reshape his world and set into motion a sequence of events with unforeseen consequences.

Heading to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, the Iceman secured a penthouse, strategically positioned across from his observation point. Patiently, he awaited the unfolding events, his anticipation building. However, as fate would have it, he discovered an unexpected twist—a twist that brought him face to face with Novoletta, the very man he had been monitoring.

With this revelation, the Iceman swiftly gathered his belongings, leaving the luxurious confines of the hotel behind. His plan became clear and unwavering—he would eliminate the five assassins before directly confronting Novoletta. The clock ticked relentlessly, and time was of the essence.

The Iceman couldn’t afford any more casualties at the hands of those five dangerous individuals. Another successful hit would not only tarnish his own reputation within the treacherous underworld but also jeopardize his standing among the elite. In the criminal realm, weakness was an invitation for exploitation—a vulnerability that the shadowy forces governing the underworld preyed upon relentlessly.

In a hypothetical gathering of real, battle-tested soldiers, the Iceman would undoubtedly occupy the front row, exuding an aura of danger and commanding presence. However, in the present scenario, with multiple targets on his list, he sought solace in the seclusion of his penthouse.

Like a vigilant sentinel, the Iceman perched high above Central Park, using the vantage point to devise an impeccable strategy. Seeking clarity and inspiration, and just to kill the edge, he poured himself a generous drink, allowing the amber liquid to fuel his thoughts.

Settling onto the plush couch of his opulent living room, he held the familiar black envelope once again. Within its depths lay the crucial information that would shape his next moves—the adversaries, their identities, and precise locations meticulously documented.

The Iceman’s gaze fixated on the photographs within the envelope, each image an opportunity for calculated action. In this moment of solitude, his mind worked tirelessly, mapping out a path that would ensure success and preserve his own safety. The stakes were high, and the Iceman knew he had to act with unwavering precision and ruthless determination.

Silvino Kapone, the first target, concealed himself in an apartment nestled within the Castle Hill section of the Bronx. The Iceman’s mind locked onto the information, mentally mapping out the path that would lead to their fateful encounter.

Tommasso Leone, the second assassin, held a more personal connection—he was the Iceman’s own father. His residence occupied a house in the borough of Woodside, Queens, an unsettling twist in the tapestry of their shared history.

Nunzio Santapaola, the third man, had taken refuge in an exclusive hotel nestled on the bustling 34th Street in Manhattan. The Iceman visualized the scene, plotting his approach in the midst of the city’s teeming chaos.

Giovanni Inzirillo, the fourth name etched on his list, had made an apartment in Staten Island his sanctuary. A bridge away from the mainland, the Iceman mentally traversed the waters to confront his next adversary.

And finally, Alberto Alicate, the eldest among them, had entrenched himself within a Brooklyn apartment, his fortress of shadows. The Iceman’s mind calculated the risks and rewards that awaited him in the labyrinthine streets of Bushwick, Brooklyn.

Each assassin, with precise calculation, had deliberately chosen a domain where the targeted families held sway, striking at the heart of their power structures. The meticulously crafted plan of the five assassins seemed to proceed flawlessly, until the Iceman, driven by his own agenda, injected a disruptive force into their web of deceit and violence. For the quickness…”

The Iceman dedicated countless hours to studying and analyzing the locations of the five assassins. He meticulously visualized his actions, running through every hit in his mind while practicing his kung fu techniques. In no time, while the assassins were reveling in casinos and high-end strip-clubs, the Iceman had devised his strategy to eliminate them… all!

The five assassins never anticipated any problems, given their overconfidence in themselves. They likely considered themselves godlike or immensely powerful due to their elite status as assassins within the Vatican. However, they failed to comprehend the urgency of the situation or the imminent threat posed by the Iceman.

The assassins always took their sweet-time, leisurely moving from one target to another. And, as long as the Iceman still existed, on this Earth plane, hunting them down, this approach would ultimately become their downfall. While they believed they had all the time in the world to locate their targets, the Iceman was swiftly, slowly, but surely, closing in on them.

Confident in their knowledge of the whereabouts of their intended targeted victims, the five assassins assumed they wouldn’t escape their eminent demise. But little did they know what was about to come crashing down upon all of them. The five assassins believed they had everything, completely under control. Yet, they just could not see the obvious, in front of them, that Massimo Novoletta had simply betrayed them all.

Look, as you can see for yourself, maybe Novoletta’s problem was that he was way, way too greedy, but the man surely was not stupid. Instead, he was very, very slick. And with slick, snake like actions, he had found some kind of way, somehow, some way, to cleverly distanced himself from the group as soon as he arrived in America, yet, for some kind of weird reason, the assassins didn’t suspect a single thing was wrong. They simply trusted Novoletta, to the fullest, considering him a professional assassin and a real, true powerful man of honor.

However, as you can also see, the reality of it all… was very quite different. To me… Vito Yannone, the boss of the Yannone crime family, Novoletta was actually a real fraud, of the most fakest kind… ever! But… no one knew it! And to make things truly worse, Novoletta had never, ever killed anyone in his entire life. No, no, no! Novoletta never, ever ‘MADE HIS BONES!!!’

For the slightest sight of just one drop of real blood, would simply, immediately, put him in an actual coma. Besides, the real reason why I absolutely had no real trust and respect for Novoletta, as a man, is because I have been killing many, many people, since before I could even spell my very own name, and this fake-ass assassin gets a leading role, in my story?! Unbelievable! I mean… this story should be about my boss, Calogero, and I. But, as you can see, it finally became… more, more than that!

And if you ask me, Novoletta was an extreme, well-kept, on the down-low coward, slash, truly wealthy, fake-ass killer, which now a days they would call… a bitch-ass nigger! For it was actually his mentally shattered, twisted and disturbed, autistic brother, Massamo Novoletta, which he was no prize either, and was about the most twisted-ass, fine-tuned, battle-tested assassin, ever to roam the face of the Earth, until he got himself killed, by the man… he was supposed to kill, who carried out the murders on Novoletta’s orders.

For sure… Novoletta had deceived both the Vatican and the five assassins, from the start, as he simply infiltrating their ranks with a simple, dark lie. Overnight, Novoletta became renowned as a feared assassin. And because of that, and that alone, no one suspected that he could be a fraud, a faker, a snitch or capable of setting up his own people. The underworld held Novoletta in real high regard, believing in his fine-tuned character without question. They saw, and visualized him as a perpetual murderous killer machine, with no remorse for life, always lurking somewhere… some how.

Meanwhile, the five laid-back assassins enjoyed their time in New York City, indulging in adult entertainment and assuming no one knew about them. With their wealth, they wanted to prolong their enjoyment and live in a bubble of blissful ignorance. But, unbeknownst to them, the Iceman was about to shatter their illusion. If they had known he was coming after them, they would never have dared to challenge the mafia or any other organized crime bosses.

The underworld mistakenly believed the Iceman had retired from the killing game, but the truth was far from it! A very, very long time ago, the Vatican had learned their lesson when it came to messing around with the Iceman. No one knew what those supposed holy men had done to him. One infamous night, the Iceman killed six influential elite men who were believed to be untouchable.

There were rumors that the Vatican’s elite had once wanted to hire the Iceman for their own sinister purposes—to eliminate their enemies, women, and even kidnapping children. However, the Iceman had no interest in such disturbing requests and flatly refused them, feeling deeply, deeply insulted.

One night rainy night, upon returning home, the Iceman discovered that his entire family had been ruthlessly slaughtered. His wife and children perishing in the fire that consumed the entire house, leaving him to live the life that he just did not want to live. But revenge consumed his thoughts, and the more the Iceman ascended in life, the more he realized its corruption.

So, in a single night, he not only killed six of the Vatican’s elite men, but he also carved the letters “I.M.”, deep, on each of their chests with a straight razor and drove ice picks into their eyes. Walking right into the Vatican, by some unknown means, the Iceman executed these well-known men, leaving behind a gruesome display of mutilation.

Before disappearing from the scene, the Iceman incapacitated four more men and carved the same “I.M.” on their faces. An “I” on the right side and an “M” on the left. Soon after, word spread that the Vatican had placed a half-billion-dollar bounty on the Iceman’s head. But… good luck trying to find him. The Iceman was like a ghost, here one moment and gone the next. Even after the night he struck, the Vatican continued its relentless search for him, yet, till this very moment, he remained elusive.

Ironically, Calogero, the Iceman’s boss, never informed him that he had been sent to eliminate assassins dispatched by the Vatican to kill Calogero and the five bosses of New York’s crime families. This was the one secret Calogero kept from the Iceman, along with the fact that he himself used to be a man with the Holy power, given to him by the pope himself.

If the Iceman had known that the men he was about to kill were sent by the Vatican, he would have taken them out for no charge at all. Some time ago, the Iceman had sent a message to every hitman in the underworld, offering to eliminate anyone targeting the Vatican or Masonic Lodges worldwide… free of charge!

The Iceman was fully prepared for his mission. He boarded a train, precisely at 4:06 A.M., with Silvino Kapone as his first target. Knowing that his targets would likely be asleep between 4 A.M. and 6 A.M., he planned to strike during this time frame. Disembarking at Castle Hill in the Bronx, he located Silvino’s address, a project building, and exercised patience as he stood outside.

After a few minutes, his opportunity presented itself. He noticed a short elderly man exiting the building with his wife and a stroller. Seizing the moment, the Iceman approached, feigning distress as if he had lost his keys.

“Hold that door,” he requested, and the unsuspecting man obligingly held it open, unaware of the danger lurking nearby.

Inside the building, the Iceman pressed the elevator button, awaiting its arrival. Equipped with a cleverly designed lock pick that resembled a gun, he skillfully manipulated the lock keyhole, effortlessly gaining access to Silvino’s apartment. Once inside, he retrieved an Uzi with a suppressor and proceeded cautiously.

As he approached, he heard the sound of running water, indicating that Silvino was showering in the bathroom. Ensuring that Silvino was alone, the Iceman took a seat on the living room couch, pointing the Uzi towards the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his moment. Surveying the surroundings, he noticed a firearm and a substantial amount of money on the living room table.

After several minutes, the water ceased flowing from the bathroom. Acting swiftly, the Iceman rose from the couch, anticipating Silvino’s emergence. Silvino appeared, draped only in a pink towel, his face filled with shock as he beheld the unfamiliar figure brandishing an Uzi. Silvino’s gaze shifted towards his own weapon on the table, contemplating whether he stood a chance against the stranger had he possessed it in his grasp.

Before Silvino could react, he uttered, “Oh… shit,” moments before the Iceman unleashed a hail of bullets, piercing his body.

Leaving behind the scene of his calculated execution, the Iceman returned to the train, en route to his next target. Along with seizing Silvino’s firearm and money, he extinguished his life.

Upon reaching his condominium, the Iceman swiftly deposited the acquired possessions and discarded Silvino’s weapon. With his focus already shifting to his next victim, he embarked on the next phase of his relentless hunt.

Next up on the Iceman’s list was Nunzio Santapaola. The time had come to confront him in his hotel penthouse. Inside the elevator, as Nunzio ascended to his luxurious abode, little did he know that the Iceman lurked nearby, ready to strike. With calculated precision, the Iceman had already gained unauthorized access to the penthouse by skillfully picking the lock, ensuring his advantage in this deadly game.

As the elevator doors slid open, a moment of disbelief washed over Nunzio. There stood the patient figure of the Iceman, his presence shattering the illusion of safety. Before Nunzio could fully comprehend the imminent danger, the Iceman sprang into action. In a split second, a hail of bullets erupted from the Iceman’s weapon, tearing through the air with deadly intent.

Nunzio was caught off guard, his world instantly upended. The force of the impact sent him sprawling, his body crashing to the floor in a chaotic tumble. In that moment, time seemed to stand still. For the Iceman, this was another step closer to his ultimate, murderous goal.

With each target eliminated, the web of betrayal tightened around those responsible. Yet, even in this moment of triumph, he knew that the stakes grew higher. The shadows of retribution loomed larger, and the consequences of his actions reverberated through the clandestine world he inhabited.

Now, the encounter with Giovanni Inzirillo, the third assassin, proved to be a formidable challenge for the Iceman. It took place in Staten Island, where the Iceman, fully focused on his murderous mission, attempted to pick the lock and gain entry to Giovanni’s place. However, his careful plans were shattered when Giovanni, unexpectedly aware of the intrusion, confronted him with a sawed-off shotgun aimed directly at his chest.

In a split second, before the Iceman could react, Giovanni pulled the trigger, “BOOOMMM!!!”, unleashing a devastating point-blank shot. The blast tore through the air with an ear-splitting roar, finding its target with deadly precision. The powerful impact slammed into the Iceman’s chest, sending him hurtling backward, his body crashing down to the floor in a painful and disorienting jolt.

For a moment, the world around the Iceman seemed to blur as searing pain radiated through his body. He struggled to catch his breath, the taste of blood filling his mouth. Every heartbeat throbbed like a drumbeat of impending doom. Yet, despite the shock and agony, the Iceman’s will to survive remained unwavering. His training, instincts, and sheer battle-tested determination pushed him to defy death’s grip. And… because he told his boss, Calogero that he would see him soon… he had no choice, pain and all… to get up!

Giovanni, convinced that the powerful blast that had ripped through the Iceman’s chest had ended his life, allowed a content smile to spread across his face. He took a few confident steps forward, relishing in his perceived victory.

But… Giovanni’s victory was short-lived, his overwhelming overconfidence blinding him to the truth. Unbeknownst to him, the Iceman had meticulously prepared for this precise, very moment. Concealed beneath his attire were not one, but two bulletproof vests, shielding him from the fatal blow. And though wounded, the Iceman quietly gathered his strength, slowly, slowly, slowly rising from the floor with a determined resolve to survive.

Fueled by an unyielding anger, the Iceman swiftly unleashed his vengeance. His grip tightened around the handle of his Uzi, unleashing a relentless storm like eruption of bullets. The room reverberated with the thunderous roar of gunfire, each shot finding its mark with ruthless precision. Giovanni’s body became a canvas for the merciless onslaught, his once confident demeanor now frozen in eternal oblivion.

The torrent of bullets emptied the entire clip into Giovanni, leaving him lifeless and broken. His triumphant smile now a cruel memory, forever etched on his motionless face. The Iceman, calm and composed, surveyed the after math, as he walked away from the scene, leaving behind the lifeless body of his fallen target. But before disappearing into the shadows, he couldn’t resist one final chilling gesture.

Glancing back at Giovanni’s lifeless form, he uttered with an eerie calmness, “Game over, Giovanni.”

It was a haunting farewell, a reminder of the ruthless world they inhabited, where loyalty held no weight and survival was the only currency that mattered. Now, that near-death experience served as a stark reminder for the Iceman to exercise utmost caution. Determined not to tempt fate and risk his life further, he became even more meticulous and vigilantly murderous in his future endeavors, ensuring his safety and success.

Next on the list was Alberto Lalicate, residing in an apartment in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. The Iceman positioned himself outside Alberto’s door, assuming a kneeling position, keeping a firm grip on his weapon. He peered underneath the door to ensure Alberto wasn’t lurking behind it. Satisfied that no one stood near the door, the Iceman skillfully picked the lock and quietly entered.

Proceeding cautiously, he advanced towards what appeared to be the bedroom. Within moments, Alberto emerged from the bedroom, holding a hamburger in one hand and a beer can in the other. Reacting swiftly, the Iceman rendered Alberto unconscious with a strike from the butt of his Uzi.

Moving to the bathroom, he located a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet. Though his primary objective was to assess the target’s solitude, the Iceman suppressed his anger, aware that a momentary lapse could result in another fatal blow, potentially leaving him lifeless.

Returning to the living room, he forcefully ripped out the phone cord and swiftly placed the bottle of alcohol and the Uzi on the floor. The unconscious Alberto was then bound with the phone cord while the Iceman remained on bended knees. He turned around, grabbing duct tape from atop the living room table, and tightly sealed Alberto’s mouth shut.

Urgently, he poured the entire bottle of rubbing alcohol all over Alberto’s body. From his sports jacket pocket, he produced a lighter and set Alberto ablaze. Fate had it that, though fortunate it wasn’t an armed individual ready for action, a disheveled blond woman, under the influence of cocaine, emerged from the bedroom where Alberto had kept her.

Startled, she glanced down and witnessed Alberto engulfed in flames. But, before she could react, the Iceman unleashed two quick bursts from his Uzi into her ample chest. Nonchalantly, he stood up and exited the apartment, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Upon reaching his father’s residence in Woodside, Queens, the Iceman readied himself by loading a fresh clip into his MAC-11 Uzi. As he approached the door, he noticed that it was already open, raising his suspicions. With caution, he stepped inside, entering the living room where his father, Tommasso Leone, sat bound to a chair. A wave of horror washed over him as he took in the scene—his father had been savagely beaten and tortured to death.

The sight of Tommasso’s throat slit from ear to ear and multiple kitchen knives plunged into his chest painted a grim picture. It was clear to the Iceman that the perpetrator had derived pleasure from inflicting unimaginable suffering upon his father. However, the astute weapons expert within him couldn’t ignore the uncanny resemblance between the massive bullet wounds on his father’s chest and the damage caused by a MAC-11 Uzi.

A realization struck him like a lightning bolt—someone had already delivered the ultimate punishment to his father, eliminating the need for the Iceman to seek vengeance personally. With a heavy heart, he took one last look at his father’s lifeless body, bidding him a somber farewell.

“I’ll see you in hell, dad.”

As he bent down, he collected several bullet casings, carefully placing them in his pocket as mementos. With a tear in his eye, he left the apartment, carrying the weight of grief and an unquenchable thirst for answers.

Returning to New York City and the Sound Factory nightclub, Calogero and Domenico reclaimed their seats in the VIP section. The atmosphere was electric, with DJ Junior Vasquez spinning hip-hop tunes and I, Vito Yannone, watching Calogero and Domenico’s backs, overlooking the pulsating crowd from the DJ booth.

Soon, the Iceman sauntered into the VIP section, feeling right at home. With a rhythm in his step, he made his way to Calogero and Domenico’s table, wearing a smile that matched the beat of the music. Taking a seat between them, he nodded along to the infectious rhythm. Before long, a stunning blond woman in her twenties approached their table, bringing with her several bottles of liquor. The Iceman greeted her with a nod and a smile, appreciating her presence.

“Sure,” he responded to her offerings.

“I'll start with all of this. Don’t wander too far. A generous tip is coming your way.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice sweet as she walked away from the table.

“So,” the Iceman turned to Calogero, “where were we?”

Still reeling from witnessing the Iceman’s quick, swift and efficient elimination of the five assassins, Calogero could only manage, “Mr. Ice, our business together has come to an end now.”

Pouring himself a drink from a newly opened bottle of vodka, the Iceman retorted, “You mean for now?”

He downed the drink in one gulp, his resolve unwavering.

“Yes,” Calogero affirmed, tapping Domenico on the shoulder.

“For now… Domenico, give him the keys.”

Domenico reached into his front pocket, retrieving a set of keys, and slid them across the table to the Iceman.

Examining the keys, the Iceman raised an eyebrow and asked, “What’s this?”

Calogero glanced at the keys and then back at the Iceman, explaining, “It’s your reward.”

A smile played on the Iceman’s lips as he remarked, “I don’t work for keys, Don Calogero.”

“No,” Calogero replied, shaking his head.

“Those keys belong to a brand-new Mercedes Benz. The car is parked on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street. It’s a shiny black beauty with XX on the license plates.”

Pouring himself another drink, the Iceman commented, “I have a thing for black and XX.”

“By the way,” Calogero interjected, “you are truly exceptional at what you do.”

“I’m the best,” the Iceman confidently declared.

“I agree,” Calogero affirmed.

“Okay, Mr. Ice. Your payment is inside the trunk of the Mercedes.”

“The car is mine?” the Iceman questioned, his curiosity piqued.

“I wanted to give you a gift,” Calogero replied, addressing him as Mr. Ice.

Eagerly, the Iceman inquired, “How much?”

“The Benz cost 164k,” Calogero stated matter-of-factly.

“No,” the Iceman clarified.

“How much is in the trunk?”

“In the trunk of the car, you’ll find ten million dollars,” Calogero revealed, his eyes meeting the Iceman’s.

“It’s all yours now… tax free.”

Finishing his drink swiftly, the Iceman processed the information. Instead of receiving one million dollars per hit, Calogero had paid him two million dollars for each job.

“Not bad for a night’s work,” the Iceman remarked, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Yeah,” acknowledged Calogero, his voice filled with admiration.

“You deserve every bit of it, Mr. ice.”

About fifteen minutes later, outside the nightclub, before Calogero and Domenico entered the car, Calogero instructed Domenico, “Domenico, make sure to inform the five families of New York and the remaining bosses that the war is over.”

Calogero paused for a moment.

“Just tell them… we won.”

Domenico agreed, saying, “Sure, no problem, boss.”

Calogero and Domenico both got into the car, and Domenico drove off. Because Calogero wanted to check on his son Santo’s well-being, Domenico dropped Calogero at his weird-ass girlfriend’s apartment in Brooklyn.

The following night, shortly after 8:00 P.M., Calogero finished tucking his son into bed and made his way to the living room for a moment of relaxation. Settling onto the couch, he grabbed the remote control and began flipping through the channels, searching for something to watch.

However, his supposed girlfriend, Dianna, had different plans.

Positioning herself directly in front of the television, Dianna blocked Calogero’s view, preventing him from finding any semblance of entertainment. Annoyed, he tried to reason with her, asking her to move aside so he could enjoy his evening. But Dianna’s intentions were clear–she wanted his undivided attention.

Caught off guard by her behavior, Calogero felt a mix of frustration and confusion. He couldn’t understand why Dianna was deliberately sabotaging his peaceful moment. Was there something she wanted to discuss or confess? Or was this some kind of game she enjoyed playing?

As Calogero stared at Dianna, waiting for an explanation, a sense of unease settled over him. There was an underlying tension in the room, thickening the air and making him acutely aware that something was amiss. Little did he know that this seemingly innocent act of blocking his view would unravel a series of unforeseen events, challenging everything he thought he knew.

“Dianna,” Calogero exclaimed angrily, “will you get the hell out of the way!”

“Not until you give me some money,” she demanded.

“Don’t you know I’m dope sick?”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Calogero retorted.

“What the hell do you want money for? For what?! So you can use the money to buy drugs?!”

Calogero attempted to change the channel with the remote.

“Get the… get the fuck out of the way before I beat the shit out of your junkie ass!”

“Yeah,” she taunted, “that’s all you’re good for, hitting women!”

Calogero rose from the couch and started to strike her with the remote control.

“I don’t like to hit women, bitch! I only like hitting junkie bitches like you!”

“You bastard, how dare you? You deserve to die! I should kill you!”

“What the fuck did you just say to me? You’re going to fucking kill me? Go ahead then!”

Calogero confronted her.

“Kill me! You junkie bitch! I’ve had enough of your junkie shit!”

With no other recourse, Dianna ran into the bedroom and locked the door. Calogero considered pursuing her but instead picked up the phone and called Domenico.

“Yeah,” responded Domenico, “what’s up?”

“Do me a favor, Domenico. Pick me the fuck up before I freaking kill this fucking junkie bitch.”

“Sure,” said Domenico.

“I’ll be right over. Just stay calm. Don’t do anything crazy, boss…”

Calogero stood in front of the apartment building, waiting for Domenico. When Domenico arrived, Calogero got into the car, and Domenico drove off. Frustrated, Calogero pounded his fist on the dashboard. He tapped the dashboard several times with his index finger.

“Who the fuck does she think she is,” he vented, “asking me for money? And I know she’s only going to do drugs with the fucking money, in front of my son!”

“Yeah,” agreed Domenico, “you’re right.”

“Of course I’m fucking right,” Calogero asserted.

“That’s why that junkie bitch never has any money.”

“So,” Domenico asked, “what do you want to do now?”

“I’m going to take my son and get the fuck out of there. He doesn’t need to see all that shit.”

“You’re right.”

“And the messed up part about it is I really love her.”

“Man,” said Domenico, “you have a lot of money. You could get any kind of woman you want. Why would you want to be with someone like that?”

“You’re right, Domenico,” Calogero replied.

“Besides, where do you want to go now?”

“Man, just drive until my head clears up a bit. Afterwards, bring me back to her house. I’m going to get my son, and then we’re out of there,” Calogero explained.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Don Calogero,” Domenico agreed.

But, little did Calogero and Domenico know that they were being closely watched and followed by none other than Massimo Novoletta. Their destinies were about to change forever. At the same time, as Domenico made a right turn at a green light, Novoletta, from inside his car, detonated a remote-controlled bomb under their car, specifically targeting Calogero and Domenico.

Calogero’s custom-built Mercedes S320, equipped with armored windows and bulletproof tires, was a formidable and indestructible vehicle. Yet the moment Novoletta activated the bomb, a powerful explosion ripped through the car, splitting it in half. Unbeknownst to Calogero and Domenico, Novoletta had planted the bomb while they were meeting the Iceman inside the Sound Factory Club.

Following the devastating incident, the homicide detectives launched an intense investigation. Their efforts led them to discover a crucial piece of evidence—a small black remote control box, roughly the size of a pack of cards. Novoletta had attempted to dispose of it by throwing it out of his car window, but it was found on the street.

After an intensive month-long investigation, the diligent detectives made a breakthrough in their search for clues. The small black remote control box, found amidst the chaos of the explosion, led them on a trail that ultimately pointed to a model shop in Ridgewood, Queens. It was there that the remote control box had been sold, specifically designed for a particular model airplane.

Through meticulous detective work, the detectives unearthed a crucial piece of information. The remote control box had been purchased four years earlier, along with six others, by an individual who had cleverly used a counterfeit identification. Slowly but surely, the investigators pieced together the puzzle and uncovered the true identity of the buyer.

To their astonishment, the buyer was none other than Domenico Bontate, Calogero’s trusted right-hand man and underboss. The motive behind Domenico’s acquisition of the remote control boxes remained shrouded in mystery, adding another layer of complexity to the case.

Unfortunately, with the untimely demise of both Calogero and Domenico, the detectives found themselves facing an impasse. There were no living witnesses to testify or cooperate, leaving the investigators without the vital information they needed to fully comprehend the motives and intricacies of the crime.

Frustratingly, with the two key figures no longer alive to shed light on the situation, the detectives were left with no choice but to close the case. Despite their dedication and relentless pursuit of the truth, the unanswered questions lingered, haunting their thoughts.

Sometimes, even the most arduous investigations meet dead ends, leaving behind a sense of dissatisfaction and a lingering feeling of unfinished business. For the detectives, this would be one of those cases, forever consigned to the annals of unsolved mysteries.

Novoletta, however, remained unconcerned. After the explosion, he continued driving without a care in the world, his mind consumed by thoughts of himself and the staggering $260 million awaiting him at the penthouse. He considered himself fortunate, but little did he know that his luck was about to run out.

Novoletta’s insatiable greed had clouded his judgment. Instead of making a swift escape to Italy, where the reward for killing Calogero would have far surpassed the money in the penthouse, he foolishly returned to the scene of his crime. Oblivious to the impending danger, he hastily retrieved the suitcases filled with money from the walk-in closet, unaware that he was being watched.

Silently and methodically, without warning, the Iceman approached Novoletta from behind, his every movement calculated and precise. Without hesitation, he pressed a high-caliber gun fitted with a suppressor against Novoletta’s head and pulled the trigger. Novoletta crumpled to the ground, lifeless, as if his puppet strings had been cut.

Not content with a single shot, the Iceman continued to fire, ensuring Novoletta’s demise. The sound of multiple gunshots echoed through the penthouse as bullets pierced the back of Novoletta’s head. The Iceman’s mission was accomplished.

Satisfied with the outcome, the Iceman turned his attention to the suitcases filled with money. One by one, he meticulously inspected them, marveling at the vast wealth they contained. Removing the suppressor from his weapon, he carefully tucked it into his front pocket and holstered the firearm, a sense of triumph gracing his features.

With a triumphant smile adorning his face, the Iceman embarked on a procession, carrying the suitcases across the hall to the luxurious penthouse he had rented for the week. Step by step, he repeated the process until there was no money left to transport. Within a matter of days, the Iceman’s newfound wealth had grown by an additional $270 million.

As the Iceman reveled in his unprecedented success, there was no sign of him slowing down. And though he may have wished for Don Calogero, the boss of all bosses, to still be alive, the immense fortune he now possessed left him wanting for nothing. The world was at his feet, and the Iceman was determined to make the most of his unparalleled wealth.

END PART ONE

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