Page 13 of The New Godfather

From a young orphan beaten black and blue by an uncle who hated the sight of me. His fists landed like hammers on my ribs, my stomach, my back. I learned to curl up real small and wait for it to end. Thank God, he finally gave me up when I was nine years old and dumped me into a heartless corporation masquerading as Child Protective Services. They bounced me from one uncaring foster home to another until I ran away at fourteen and learned to survive on the streets of Brooklyn. Every night I had to protect myself from being robbed, raped, or killed.

I remember that time like a movie reel. Unreal. Fights in alleys that left me bloody and bruised, nights curled up in doorways with a stolen switchblade in my hand and my back to the wall. Then one evening I saw a long black limo arrive outside a fruit shop called The Store, and the sharp-suited man that stepped out of it. I saw how his men gathered around him to protect him, and I decided there and then: I wanted to be him.

That became my sole ambition in life.

I found out he was the boss of the Greco Mafia family. I didn’t have a drop of Italian blood in me, but I knew a boy called Leonardo and could imitate his ways and pretend to have Italian ancestry. Plus, I had watched Gomorrah, and I believed I could pull it off. So… I changed my name from Nicholas to Ricci and approached Don Salvatore. I pledged my allegiance to him, swearing to be his shadow and his most feared weapon. Salvatore was nobody’s fool. He wasn’t going to say no to free labor. He took me on and worked me day and night on a food and board basis. I didn’t care. Sure, he was getting a great deal, but I was learning the ropes. One day, I was taking over. I rose up the ranks very quickly and became indispensable to him and the family. Soon other families began to notice me.

Everything was going swimmingly well… until Salvatore took a bride. I will never forget the first time I saw her at the wedding. Poor thing. She was so young and so unhappy. Her hands were trembling as Salvatore slipped the ring on her finger. I felt something shift inside me at that moment. That girl is mine. And I will have her. The need burned inside me brighter than anything else I had ever known.

And now… finally… I have become the man who stepped out of the long black limo. I’m also going to marry his wife. The thought settles like good warm bread in my stomach. Satisfying.

I pull out my phone and call Leonardo. He picks up on the second ring. “Ricci? You good, brother?”

“I’m heading to the restaurant,” I tell him. “Are you there?”

“Where else would I be? Of course I am,” he laughs, the sound easy and genuine. “What do you want to eat?”

Food is the last thing on my mind right now. “Whatever’s available.”

“We’ve just received a fresh box of black truffles from Italy. Out of season, but worth its weight in gold. Interested?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Bravo, you won’t regret it. I’ll keep your table for you.”

“See you soon.”

I hang up and lean back, watching the city lights blur past the tinted windows, the familiar neon signs, the streetlights, the endless river of traffic, but today everything feels different.

She said yes.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Leonardo’s Michelin-starred restaurant tucked in a quiet corner of SoHo. Soft golden lighting spills onto the sidewalk from its elegant stone façade. The faint scent of garlic and rosemary drifts out when the door to the private entrance opens. Leonardo comes out to meet me personally, arms open wide. We hug hard. We are bound with a bond that is deeper than blood. We are survivors of the streets. We made it out alive.

He leads me to the back booth next to a narrow window that overlooks the back alley. We call it my table. It’s our little joke. No one else would appreciate this table, but I do. I used to sleep in a dark alley just like this. Candlelight flickers over the crisp white linen as a bottle of open Barolo that costs more than most people’s rent is placed in the middle of the table. Leonardo slides into the seat across from me, pouring us both a generous glass.

“How was the funeral?” he asks, swirling the deep ruby wine.

“The way I like it. Uneventful,” I say, taking a slow sip. The rich, earthy flavor coats my tongue, dark cherries and leather.

He studies me over the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing the way they always do when he knows I’m holding back. “Can’t lie, I was expecting something juicier to happen.”

A waiter brings fresh focaccia still warm from the oven. The crust will crackle when I break it.

He studies me closely. “But something for sure did happen. Something good. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t even try to deny it. What happened?”

I set the wine glass down. “You’re right. I dropped by to ask you for a favor.”

Leonardo’s eyebrows shoot up, genuinely surprised. “You’ve never asked me for anything, ever. This should be interesting.”

Two plates of steaming, deliciously fragrant creamy risotto are put before us. The waiter shaves a generous portion of black truffles on top of them.

“Buon Appetito,” he says and leaves.

I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I want you to be my best man. I’m getting married in a couple of days.”

Leonardo freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth, risotto forgotten. “Married? How the hell can you be getting married? When were you even in a relationship?”

“I’m marrying Viola,” I say simply.