Rule two: Omerta is a code of silence you must follow.
Rule three: You do whatever you’re told or asked to do.
Rule four: All soldiers and Capos must kick up twenty-five percent of their income to their boss.
Now, if you wanted to be a hero and take down the entire operation, well… you’d have to wipe out the heads of the families: AKA the Commission. Only an insider could accomplish something like that, but nobody would be so stupid to attempt it.
It’s a death wish.
By the end of that kind of reign of terror, so much blood would be shed that oceans would be tinged crimson forever.
Now maybe you already know how thesefamiliesoperate (And I use that term loosely, because really, what kind of family would put a hit out on their own mother, father, son, ordaughter?)But I’ll give you an example flow chart on the off-chance that perhaps you aren’t familiar with the life.
One last thing to make clear. These four families don’t like each other much. Hell, some of the families don’t even like theirownfamily members. What these people are loyal to is money and assets. Whoever has the most is the most powerful. So, as you can imagine, the head of the Testa family, the wealthiest family, went to painstaking measures to secure their family’s wealth. To ensure that money stayed in the family.
He became paranoid about it. And paranoia is a chink in the armor. Success can be as dangerous as failure. He created fail-safes around his assets to keep the Testa name at the top of the food chain, so long as that food chain existed.
Painstaking measures.
2
Past
My room is sweltering. I sit up and wipe the sweat from my upper lip. The air is thick and oppressive already. Tossing the sheet aside, I relish the feel of the cool wood floor against my feet before I stand. I close the bedroom window to keep the heat out until it cools down tonight.
I drag a brush through my midnight hair, then pull it up into a sloppy bun. This summer feels like it has edges—unforgiving, jagged ones. Perhaps it’s because I’m on the cusp of turning eighteen, teetering on the brink of adulthood. Or maybe it’s that I want so desperately to see more of the world or meet friends or even a boy. Yet, each day cuts with the precision of a finely honed blade.
“Morning, Papa,” I say when I round the corner to the kitchen. No doubt he’s been up for hours already.
“Kid.” He nods.
I pour a tumbler full of coffee before adding ten ice cubes and cream. I don’t know how he drinks hot coffee on days like this. When I take my seat next to him, he pushes the basket of muffins toward me and gives me a rare grin.
“Do you have the grocery list ready for me?” I ask.
He lifts his chin. “On the fridge.”
Mornings are always quiet. Hell, most days are. Papa is a man of few words. His actions are what speak. It’s a quiet comfort if I’m honest. He’s not overly affectionate, although, I have nothing to compare him too, he’s all I know. All I have.
While I’m in the shower, I hear the front door snap shut as Papa heads out to the small barn to milk the goats and tend to our vegetable garden. The cool water feels good against my skin.
In a couple months, the temperature will drop, and the cool water will be irritating. We live in a cabinwayoff the beaten path, away from a small mountain town. Papa home schools me, which to be honest, is getting old. I’m almost eighteen and crave interaction with people my own age. The only time I get away from him is when he sends me into town to run errands.
I relish the moments of freedom.
Toweling dry, which doesn’t take long in this heat, I finish up and dress. I holler to Papa as I pass the barn on my half-mile walk to his truck.
As always, he hollers back, “Be safe and stay alert.” I roll my eyes, thankful he can’t see me.
Papa’s always saying stuff like that. Always harping on me about training, survival skills, and being alert. In a town of eight hundred people, I doubt anyone’s exactly worried about crime.
The town of Moffitt isn’t exactly riveting. It boasts a feed store, a grocery store, a gas station, and three small restaurants. Oh and an ice cream stand. The kids who live here are bussed to the neighboring larger town for school.
But on a day like today, where the heat is stifling and the sun is scorching, all the kids are clustered at the bridge. They jump off into the river below.
I long to try it, but I’m not allowed to fraternize. I must be polite but nottoofriendly. Papa likes our quiet life, and I’m not to mess up the anonymity he’s worked so hard for over the years.
Not that I would.
