Italian Mafia Novel With A Twist
I was four years old when my father was shot to death in the middle of a crowded Brooklyn, New York, street. I heard the three loud cracks, sounds I would later come to know as gun shots that sent three bullets penetrating the soft tissue of his back.
The bullets lodged deeply into his spine. He hesitated, his arms reached out to regain his balance. Gravity won. He fell face first onto the scorching tarmac. I suddenly found myself on my knees, the crumbling asphalt below my hands indenting my palms.
“This is your fault,” he muttered as he turned himself over to face me. “You and that slut mother a yours.” With his last bit of physical energy he reached up and backhanded me on the left cheek. His diamond pinky ring sliced my cheek open. The blow left a tingling sensation on the cheek that quickly turned into a stinging scarlet mark.
“Your Fault,” he again muttered as he spat in my face. With that my father was dead. His lifeless body spread out on the street. A large pool of warm, deep crimson, blood seeped from under him, just nearly missing my outstretched fingers.
The crowd that had once gathered in the street had dissipated, leaving only emergency vehicles in my line of view. The night slowly crept upon me as I stared at the monster that had terrorized my siblings and me daily. He was now quiet, almost infantile. I rocked back and forth on my knees nervously, not knowing what would happen next.
“He’s dead,” a familiar voice whispered. “No more gettin’ the shit beat outta ya.” Lenny gently ran his hand across my shoulder blades. “No use watchin’ ‘em no more. Come on little guy.” Lenny lifted me into his thin arms. I stared at my oldest brother innocently, not understanding what was going on. His pale white complexion made my light olive skin tone look all that much darker. Lenny placed me inside of a yellow taxi and walked away to find my other siblings.
“You alright Joey?” The voice came from the driver’s seat. I immediately recognized it as that of my Godfather Vin Verrapattalli; a short, bulky man with oily black hair and warm brown eyes. Next to him, in the passenger seat, was my soon to be brother Paul.
Shortly after my father’s death, I was adopted by my godfather Vin Verrapattalli. As were my siblings. We added the Angenelo name to ours, thus creating the Verrapattalli-Angenelo union. We resided in our Godfather’s home in East Brooklyn, New York for the remainder of our childhood and into much of our adulthood. I called him pop as did the others. Vin Verrapattalli was the only father I had ever considered my father.
My mother had died upon giving birth to me.